I am Irish

My friend, Sarah, who lives in Turkey, keeps this fascinating, smart, funny blog that I read religiously.  Her brilliant thoughts, openness, courage and irreverence brings me joy, and makes me think.  One of the many things it brought to mind this week, is why don't I blog more often!   Perhaps she would have given ME an award (sorry, go read her blog to get the full story).  http://istanbuls-stranger.blogspot.com/

One thing I have to admit, however, is that I am not nearly as smart, open or courageous as Sarah.  I just have all these crazy random thoughts about what I see and experience in life and find pleasure in writing them down.  My personal journal may be a better choice for writing them down, but that would fit my personality type.  (Someday I will ramble on a bit about my therapist and my love for him.)

Earlier this year, I decided to quit coloring my hair.  I am pretty sure my first "frost" was in Jr. High, to highlight my blonde locks.  Keeping with the style of the 80s, 90s, 2000s, I kept going with color, weaves, highlights, etc.  (oh, if I had only invested all the money I spent on my hair back in the day.)   So, when I decided to quit coloring, I was very surprised to learn my hair isn't blonde at all.  It isn't even dishwater blonde. 

 (I need to pause a moment to comment on my hatred of the dishwater-blonde description.  When you tell a girl of 13 or 14 that her hair is dishwater blonde, this does not build her self esteem.  It brings about memories spent after dinner washing dishes while your little sister has to "use the bathroom",  and the chunky brown water you have to reach into to let the water drain.  This isn't a pretty color, nor a pleasant memory.  Dishwater is not something girls want to look like.  As that girl, I beseech you to strike this description from your vocabulary.  Being called a dishwater-blonde makes you feel about as pretty as when your mother says, "too bad you weren't born a boy, you would make a great football player with those shoulders".  True story.)

It turns out, after 10 months of growth, I have auburn-ish hair.  That is the same as saying RED, though I am not really red, just reddish.  It has this red undertone that took me quite by surprise!.  My mother was a natural brunette, as is my non-dishwashing sister.  My maternal grandmother was blonde *wink*, as far as I knew.  This new look has taken me a while to get comfortable with, but it is growing on me.  

(this is what I look like in my own mind.)

Fast forward a few months and I am at the dermatologist.    He is giving me a full body skin exam (yeah, that is about as much fun as the yearly gyno visit) and he exclaims, more than once....."you are Irish!".  HUH??  He points out these cute little bright red freckly things I have and tells me that this is only found on Irish skin.  I remember  my mother used to say she thought she was English/Irish, but then always fell back to we are Heinz 57's.  

(Again, I want to point out, this does not give a young girl a strong sense of self worth and beauty.....have you seen Heinz 57?  or tasted it?  Is this what you want to BE?)  

And come to think of it, I am pretty confident that my blonde grandmother's hair was more of an auburn in those first color photos from the 60s, before she met Miss Clairol.

Consider this your forewarning;  I now OWN St. Patrick's Day.   As my daughter recently said, "of course, it is now a family holiday".  I shall party like the true Irish girl I am.  I will wear a shirt that says "Kiss me, I am Irish".  I will drink Irish Car Bombs and cook Corned Beef.  I will call my house "my castle" and proclaim I am from The Emerald 'Isle.   I will sing Oh Danny Boy as loudly as possible, and  swear my undying love and allegiance to the Patron St of Ireland! I will become Lori O'Hallihan.  Someday I may even make my pilgrimage to Dublin for the celebration

All of you are invited to join me.

Just another Tuesday

Being at home in my messy Tuesday morning living room, unemployed, back from my world travels....has me feeling challenged to change things up in my life.

How you ask? I wish I knew.

Losing my job in late October was tough on my tender ego. It was a first for me. In the past I have left jobs for new ones, to stay home and have babies, to be home with teens, to move....but never ever ever let go!! (for the record, they said I was "laid off" due to a turn in the direction of the company, but I know in my gut that they fired me. I don't know why, but pretty sure they wanted me outta there.)
It took a couple of weeks of licking my wounds to get over my hurt feelings. (I mean seriously, they didn't LIKE ME???) before realizing it really was a bad fit. I cannot spend 9 hours a day at a desk, on the phone, staring at a computer screen. I will chew off my own hand.

Now I have to figure out what is next:

Another office job? Note above reference to missing hand.

Go back to school? Hahahaha, coffee with college kids at study group. May be worth trying just for the pure irony of it. And it would include new pens and a cool book bag.

Starbucks? Benefits at 24 hours a week. +2 points. Working for minimum wage at age 47. -1 point. 4am shifts. -1 point. Free coffee +3 points. Working part time. +1 point. Wear an apron daily -1. Working with lots of people +2. Working with 20somethings -2. Trying to maintain my self esteem while working at Starbucks at age 47. -47 points.

Blog for a living? That is funny right there.

This my my blogging hero and worth an hour of your time. Pure genius: hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

Rent out my home and travel for a year? If I didn't feel like this was running away from a real life, I would be tempted.

ok ok ok. Onto other things.....

I posted this on Facebook today and I am still basking in the glory of the feeling. After showering, I put on my "cleaning the house sweats", pulled my hair back and looked in the mirror. ICKKkkk. This is what day 4 of the swine flu must look like. So, I grabbed the red lip stain (tell me that lip stain doesn't sound a zillion times more decadent than lipstick) and slathered up my pale lips. I stood there, staring at the transformation, and thought how much sexier it is to be unemployed and clean house in red lip stick/stain than to have a job. I wouldn't dare walk into a J O B in red lipstick! OH, I have seriously stuck it to the man this morning.

6 days on a yacht?

Let me go back to, what we have dubbed "The Best President's Day Ever". Seriously, it was the best. Ever.
I had returned from my Mexican adventure over the weekend. It was about 10:30am on Monday when the girls rolled up out front and invited me to lunch at the Roadhouse. (ok, so maybe they said "come drink with us at the Roadhouse", I don't clearly recall.) So, off we went to have some tots and a beer.
Well, we decided on a 2nd beer and some hummus, then a Maker's Mark...or two. The bartender brought over a 30 year old bottle of scotch and convinced us that we needed a glass of that too! Why not!! After another drink or three, we headed for the nail salon and pedicures, then back to the Roadhouse for another beer. It was President's Day, we were celebrating!
Sometime in the middle of our party, Mary got a text from her friend Lars saying he couldn't make their planned trip to the Bahamas in a couple of weeks. He was very sorry. (shout out to Lars....I love you!) I would say it took Carla and I about 17 seconds to agree to taking his spot on the trip. Not only is this a trip to the Bahamas, but it is 5 days on a 66 ft private yacht that Mary's friend owns. (notice that Mary has some incredible friends, other than the Orenco girls.) The yacht is moored at a very small remote island. It really didn't take much convincing us! This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.

So, this afternoon I will board a plane with my 3 besties and head out on our next adventure. It is an all night flight into Maimi so we can catch the commuter plane to Eleuthera Island, where we catch a water taxi to our little piece of paradise, Harbour Island....home of the world famous pink sand beach.

Photos and stories upon my return!

I am old

In thought, blogging while on vacation sounded like a brilliant idea. However, the computer situation at the resort didn’t cooperate with my brilliance. With only two computers on the property with internet and a 15 minute time limit per guest, it wasn’t feasible.

Something happened on the trip home yesterday that has changed me. I got old.

The flight from Cancun to Denver is 4 hours, give or take. It started out beautifully, with window seat 20A and gray clouds over Cancun (which made it easier to leave. Who wants to leave when it is 85 and sunny?). There were only 3 or 4 open seats on the flight. The gods of the Friendly Skies smiled on me and one of the vacant seats was 20B. Mister 20C was pleasant, but not chatty, I had a good book, a nutrition bar and 4 hours to nap or read or watch a movie…this was a perfect flight.
Let me point out that just 8 days earlier I had this in reverse….except I was sitting in first class, sipping my “free” wine, eating giant shrimp on a bed of greens off of a real china plate and wiping my hands with the hot washcloths they hand you with little silver tongs. So perhaps the flight home wasn’t PERFECT, but it was as good as one can when having to travel as the working class does.
Approximately two-thirds through the flight, after a nice nap, I realized my legs felt very strange. Rotating my feet and stomping them a bit, it becomes quite clear they weren’t asleep. Well, I looked down and there attached to my leg, below my knee; someone had replaced my own leg with that of an elephant! You know that look, just one diameter from knee to foot?! I kid you not….my ankles had swollen to like twice their normal size! You have seen the old woman whose purple bulging ankles hang over the sides of her pink Keds? Well that was me…..except nicely tanned, in flip flops with a great pedicure. The whole thing freaked me out a bit. I spent the next hour of the flight appearing to have a serious tic, as I moved my legs and spelled the alphabet with my feet to get the blood flowing again. I am sure my seat mate was pretending to take a nap to keep from smacking me. Thank God 20B didn’t make the flight.
In Denver, I had 80 minutes between flights. It sounds like a luxurious amount of time. You would think there was plenty of time for a glass of wine, some shopping, and a trip to the ladies room? OH no. First off all, I decided to hell with those moving sidewalks, I was going to walk briskly and get my real legs back….no one told me it was 4 miles, but I walked every step. I was not going to succumb to a day of living with cankles. So, in my rubber flip flops (those black and clear ones that are $3.78 at the ABC stores in Hawaii….only the most awesome flip flops known to woman kind. If you are heading to Hawaii, please let me know, cuz I need a new pair.), I took off for customs. When I arrived, there was no line! Sweet! I breezed on up to the counter, smiled at the agent, glanced at his nametag and said, “Well, hello Mr. Brown, how are you today?” I am not sure how in all of my travel preparations I failed to read that chapter on DO NOT SPEAK TO THE CUSTOMS AGENT UNLESS SPOKEN TO. Mister Brown was not happy nor the least bit friendly. (I honestly stood there wondering if he even laughed at The Hangover.) He asked me a bunch of questions about where I was, what I brought back and if I had been there with anyone. (yikes, do I look like I have a Mexican lover?) When I answered “No”, he looked and me and replied, I swear this is a quote, “That didn’t really sound like a NO”. I was sure he knew that I had one Cuban cigar in my sunglasses case at that point and was trying to break me. Sweating, I explained that I met a group down there for my sister’s wedding, but was traveling alone (in my mind screaming………..YES, I have an outlawed Cuban cigar hiding behind the 60 pesos, 7 receipts and my new killer Diane Von Furstenberg sunglasses. Please don’t send me to prison!). He glared right through my soul and without a trace of emotion said “welcome back to the US”. Whew.
I grabbed my bag and headed to security where I encountered half of the US and part of Europe trying to get through security. This is President’s Day weekend, I understand, but come on! This was worse than trying to get onto The Matterhorn in July. It took me a good 30 minutes to get to the front of the line. There was a sign there that shows how to be prepared for security. I want you to note that I fell into “Traveling Expert”. HA. Ready….liquids in ziplock, items laid flat in bin, shoes off, pockets empty, even remembered to take my bracelets off since they set off the beeper door thingy. I had 4 minutes until boarding, but things were moving along. My bag disappeared into the x-ray machine and stopped. The man, who was a dead ringer for the man behind the curtain in the Wizard of Oz, smiled at me and asked me to step to the table, as I have been randomly chosen to be searched. Great. 3 minutes. He was pleasant and kept calling me “dear” and explained every step of what he needed to do. Luckily they found no random traces of explosives on my bag. When he finished I ran to the shuttle train to take the short ride to Concourse B.
Having barely recovered from the shock of elephant leg, I walked onto the shuttle leaned against the rail near the back of the train. There was a young couple sitting in the back seats who smiled at me, and a handsome, slightly graying man standing across from me. I saw the young couple whispering, and in my naivety was thinking how cute young love is. Until they looked at me and OFFERED ME THEIR SEATS! The man across from me smiled and asked if I wanted to sit. Like they are were in agreement that the winded OLD LADY with the freakishly large ankles needs to sit.

I hate Denver.

the final quest!

Well, today was the trek to Seattle to secure my passport. I drove up from Portland last night, so I would have to fight traffic this morning. It was quite handy, as I found a reasonably priced hotel just about 4 blocks from the Federal building. It was late, about 10pm when I arrived. Thank goodness the valet was still available!
The room was small and whole place was a tad rundown, except for the gorgeous carpet they had recently put in. Seemed like the old "lipstick on a pig" trick, to be honest. It has been such a long day and I fell right into bed. Now, at that moment I started wondering why hotels put in mattresses that are comparable to a sheet of plywood. Seriously, the floor would have been softer with that new cushy carpet. If it is a matter of longevity for a softer mattress, charge like $5 a night more and then every couple of hundred nights, they could easily afford a nice new comfy mattress! It isn't rocket science.

As you can imagine, I didn't sleep well. Not only was I sleeping on concrete, but I forgot that downtown hotels have downtown noise. At 6:30am I was laying there wide awake listening to the sounds of the street below and wishing I was still asleep. No idea why I can't seem to drag my body out of bed on a work day, yet a morning I can sleep in for a few minutes, I am wired and ready to roll.

I got to the passport office at 9, checked in with Mr. Window One, then given a number and waited for B208 to be called. The whole process went very smooth! Especially when compared to last week. There was a point when Mr. Window 5 had all my documents spread out and said he would "be right back" and then he disappeared for like 10 minutes. I started sweating. But he came back, just like he said and finished up. All I had to do was pay $135 and come back at 3pm to pick it up.

As I did a week ago, I wandered up and did some shopping and then decided to have lunch down at Pike Street again. The lady at the information booth suggested a french place called Maxemilians (sp?). Yum. So I went down and got a table for one overlooking the sound. As I sat down, I noticed the fellows at the next table were obviously french. They were dressed casually, but were speaking french. There was this popular book out a couple of years ago called French Women Don't get Fat. As a side note I bought it and read it. If you eat cabbage soup every 3rd week and never have more than one bite of dessert...or anything fattening for that matter, you too will not get fat....or that is what the book said. Well, the french-er of the two men obviously did not read this book. Also, I learned today, French Men Don't Bathe. The aroma of them wafted over my table, but it took me a few minutes to realize it was them. It wasn't that fresh "I just left the gym" body odor. It wasn't even the "I stayed out too late and slept in my clothes" body odor. It was SOUR-stink body odor! Like "I rolled around with my filthy wet dog".....No, worse than that. It was a "I haven't bathed in over a week and am totally rank" type of body odor. I had to sit sideways, half facing the wall, to avoid it. I had a beautiful dungeness crab and mushroom omlette, which I imagine must have smelled heavenly if the aroma could have reached my nose over the stench of sour-stinky frenchmen. I only ate about half, because who wants to eat an omlette that smells like stinky frenchmen. The large of the frenchman chatted and ate and occasionally smiled at me. No doubt he was thinking, "I hope she doesn't notice that I smell of an old garbage can".

Well, I paid my bill, left the restaurant and started the hike back to the Federal Bldg. If you have been to San Francisco, you are constantly approached by homeless men and women asking for money. At times I have even gotten nervous from their aggressive "asking". In Seattle, it is the canvassers. I was approached to feed hungry children, help with poverty in the US, support doctors-without-borders and at least 3 others that as I drew near to them, pretended I was crying, so they wouldn't talk to me. This was quite easy because my allergies loved Seattle and came out in full force. From the minute I stepped outside in the morning I had to dab my eyes with a tissue every 32 seconds. Then all I had to do is add a quick blow of the nose and instantly looked like I had just put my dog down, or buried my favorite grandmother. The smiling girl in the raincoat and pink hair would see me and immediatley realize could not go another minute without rezipping her coat, or sort through the papers in her plastic binder.

I think I am a compassionate person, but this was nuts. Most downtown blocks had 3 sets of canvassers! You can only mock cry so many times in a block.

Well, I made it back to the Federal Bldg at 2:30 and this time checked in with Ms Window 7 who had my passport waiting for me! Finally!! I am now officially a US Passport holder. Watch out world!

one week prior to departure

On Tuesday, a co-worker and I were discussing how to handle the onslaught of new hires we will soon be faced with. Handling 100 new employees in the time frame of 2 months creates a unique set of problems, as I am sure you can imagine. In the middle of the conversation she looks at me and says, "your passport is expired". As much fun as it would be to think she is psychic, it isn't the case, she is just a very efficient HR manager. I happens she keeps a spreadsheet of all the employees and when their necessary documents expire. After all, we can't have a food handlers card expire and then face a surprise visit from the county or it could cause a problem. I didn't think it could possibly be true, since I secured my passport at the time of my divorce (note to self, have a drink tonight, today is the 4th anniversary of that day!), so this can't be the case! Passports are good for what....ten years....eight years? It has been only four! We ran to the back and pulled my employee file, which in fact held a photocopy of my EXPIRED passport. It was issued for just ONE year! (This now had me feeling ill, since the trip to Cancun was a mere 10 days away.)

A google search, a couple of phone calls and an incredibly helpful daughter later, I have my actual passport in hand. Page 24 had a cryptic code that even the US Passport help desk couldn't fully explain. It seems my "proof of citizenship is in question". I was born in Florida, lived in Washington state for 23 years and Oregon ever since. I have been to BC a few times and Tijuana twice. Now Tijuana is a crazy town, I admit, but I do not remember anything happening that would cost me my citizenship.

I dug out all of my pertinent paperwork, took Tuesday off work and headed to the regional passport office in Seattle. The traffic was light, parking easy and I arrived an hour early for my appointment. They said to go ahead and fill out the required form then check in at window One where I will have my forms reviewed and be assigned a number for my turn at the real window. In my head I am fist pumpin' in joy at how smooth this is all going so far! It takes but a couple of minutes and there I proudly stand in front of window One with my forms in order. No doubt she would tell me how nice and neat they were....and here is your shiny new passport for 10 years.....and have a wonderful trip! Ms. Window One takes my papers, smiles and asks for my new passport photos and itinerary for my upcoming trip. GULP. Really? Why can't they use the photo on my expired passport!? It was only taken FOUR years ago!! Not that I would want them to use it, to be quite frank, the photo looks like someone from the nightly news that was picked up for having 47 cats in her trailer, or for selling crack to an undercover cop. Seriously a bad photo. And itinerary? Do they really think I would take the day off work and drive all the way from Portland to sneakily obtain a passport in 1 week instead of the usual 6?

Soon I was hiking up the hill to the nearby Kinkos for a new passport photo. I called work and my dear co-worker was willing to dig through my desk, find my itinerary and fax it up to me as well. This time I remembered to smile for the passport photographer, no more psycho passport pic! Then back down the hill to the passport office, through the metal detectors, up the proper bank of elevators this time, smile at the guards and check in at window one. Ms. Window One has been replaced by Mr. Window One. He is relatively pleasant, which is saying a lot for him after seeing the family he had to help before me! I didnt' get the whole story, because I don't speak spanish, but I believe it had to do with her dropping him at the border and a van picking him up, then she and they kids will fly down and meet him there....and can he get back into the US with the kids? Hmmmmm. yet MY citizenship is in question! Well, Mr. Window One reviews my forms and gives me a number. The room is completely empty, so I wonder why I have to be given a number that they immediately will put up on the little board, since there are 3 workers at windows and I am the only one waiting. This is the US government, so who am I to argue.

Smiling I now hand my paperwork to window Ms C14. She isn't quite as friendly as the Window One folk, but I am sure I am going to win her over and be sympathetic to my problem here, after all, this is her job! She scanned my paperwork, but failed to compliment me on my neat penmanship. The looks at my expired passport, types a few things into her computer and slowly lifts my birth certificate to the light. This was the way it went: Peer at certificate....glare at me....examine it closer....evil eye at me.....feel embossment.....look at me warily.....turn it over and examine the back.....give me a look that says I am a terrorist just pretending to be a suburbanite from Orenco who is going to Cancun on vacation when really my sinister plans include explosives and the death of many innocent civilians....back to my obvious insufficient document. She passed it back to me and simply states, "your birth certificate isn't valid, we can't give you a passport". She must be joking....haha. Nope. My citenship is in question until I can provide a certified copy of my birth certificate. At this point I wasn't brave enough to look back at the 3 large,armed guards at the door, lest they think I am considering making a dash for it.

While wandering down to Pike Street market for a coffee and pastry to cheer me up, I called my office and my dear co-worker started researching what my next step would be. With coffee, croissant, pen in hand and a napkin to take notes on, I called the state of Florida. May I point out that I learned during that call that the government already knows everything about me for the past 46 years. They really didn't need a new birth certificate, why would they? What more could that piece of paper give them that they didn't already know? They knew every street I had lived on in my entire life, I kid you not. After many questions about places I had lived, names, maiden names, parents bloodtypes, cars I have driven, what kind of wallet I carry and the last time I had my teeth cleaned, the nice lady said my new birth certificate would be overnighted to me. That would be $45.

When I walked in the door after work on Friday, there it was....the official UPS express envelope that held proof that I was who I said I was all these years. I pulled that little tab that rips it open (one of those things in life I really love to do, like using floss-ums in bed or sharpening popsicle sticks on the sidewalk), reached inside and pulled out my brand new proof of citizenship! My mom, my dad and me right there on the paper, vision of the little family we were in June of 1963 in Dade/Miami, FL.

Now I have 6 days until I am scheduled to fly the friendly skies to paradise, but still with no passport. Wednesday I will drive back up to Federal Building on 2nd street in downtown Seattle, with said document in hand. Hopefully I will get Ms. C14 again and she will have to swallow her words as she hands me my passport.

Here we go....

This past week I was sharing with my very tolerant co-workers the interesting details of my upcoming trip to Cancun. (First, I must digress and say I share every detail of my life with my co-workers, so if you want to know anything at all about me, just call one of them.) The story of this trip, in my own mind, is so uniquely interesting I decided I should keep a blog about it. This got me thinking further about my Orenco gang and perhaps keeping a blog of our adventures. Of course, the girls may want a say in it.

Let me give a little background about this Cancun adventure I will soon embark upon: My sister, Denise, announced her engagement last June to her charming beau, Jesse. By fall they had decided it would be great fun to take the party to Cancun to witness the nuptials. Being her one and only sister, of course I am IN. (and honestly, when have I not been one to take part in a party....but that isn't the story here.) They start making plans and the party is on....

Keep in mind, I don't know anyone going on this trip except my sister, her beau and her 8 year old daughter....and I am the only single person going - despite my practical begging of every friend I have met in the past 15 years, who ALL have other plans or can't go for some reason or another (no judgment being passed here.....but let's leave it at this.....I would totally do it for each of YOU!). Yet she is my only sister and she is getting married and he will be my brother in law for the rest of my life, so I am in.

After the resort received our confirmed reservations, they advise my sister that the entire group must attend a 90-minute time share presentation while we are there. To Denise and Jesse’s credit, they gave everyone an “opt out” of the trip option at this point. I will go and attend the sales pitch. However, I will likely come up with an alter identity for them. If I do a good job, maybe they will dismiss me early from the presentation and I can go back to the beach and my margarita.

In preparation of this trip, I decided I need a new swimming suit (or 2) and a new cover-up....and a new dress (or 2) and some sandals....and maybe a new tote for the beach....and definitely a new pair of sunglasses (or 2). I am ignoring the cost of this part of the trip, because all of that can be used again, right? I may have failed to mention, I am the Maid of Honor, so these are necessities. The $123 for 2 weeks of tanning was definitely more than I expected, but if I don't tan in advance, I can't enjoy the trip!

Earlier this month we had a pre-Cancun get together out at the Mexican Restaurant in Rainier, OR. I had the pleasure of meeting 5 adults and one child that are going on this trip with us. (Denise, quit reading now.) I have nick named one woman Lady Elaine (from Mister Roger's). How do you describe someone who has no personality and complains constantly? On the positive side, she had a really nice puffy vest on that night. Her husband I haven’t pegged yet. (How would I, he wasn't allowed to speak much.)
Then there was Crazy Fan Lady and her husband, One-Beer Man. Crazy Fan Lady had hot flashes. She owns 30 personal sized fans to have at her beckon call when one hits, which is often. She gets this crazed look like something out of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, dives in her bag for a fan. She closes her eyes and rolls her head around while pointing the fan at her face and neck, then after about 5 minutes later she is back as if nothing awkward just took place.
Her husband, One Beer Man, adores her. It really was cute. He brags about her fans! He and Jesse, are close friends. Jesse calls him "Pa". No idea why since there isn't much difference in age (maybe Cancun will reveal that story). But it seems One Beer Man only allows himself one beer. Period. Wedding party in Cancun or not it is one beer. He ought to be a riot on this trip.

Now, all that said, the wedding party is flying out on February 5. I will be golden brown and have a suitcase full of new frocks for the festivities. A week in paradise in a hacienda of my own! It even has a semi-private pool (shared with about 4 other hacienda dwellers).

By the way.....Denise and Jesse got married at the courthouse last Tuesday afternoon. I guess their dachshund was there.

there better be Pool Boys.