Bastard! *Snap Straight Up*

As I type, and slurp my coffee, and as I allow the weight of my scrambled egg sandwich to settle into my stomach, and attempt to take my mind off of a good deal of drama that always seems to arise in my everyday life - a good friend, and an even better partner in crime is en route from Phoenix to her new home in Los Angeles. Another one bites the dust.

Most of you don't know Lizzy, so I suppose now is as good a time as ever to give her a little ink. Oddly enough, when I met her over three years ago, I was her unpaid intern. We didn't not converse, but we really didn't communicate one-on-one. I was the intern whose "office" was in the copier room, so it made sense. After the internship, I became her coworker, and we worked side-by-side on one of the agency's largest accounts. We started doing happy hours, and happy hours turned into Wednesday night dinners. Wednesday night dinners brought forth wine, Modern Family and Cougar Town, and wine brought forth a confession that I irrationally missed my hamburger phone. It wasn't long after that Wednesday, that Lizzy came into my office holding my very own - modern hamburger phone (see photo). And only a few months later after that, I accepted a job which would make me her client. As a parting gift, she gave me her childhood koosh ball, which really spoke for itself.

Not all that surprisingly, we made the new client/agency arrangement work. I remember when I was serving jury duty, I was parking at the agency, since it was close to the courthouse. Every day I would walk by her office window - always late, somehow - and I'd slap a post-it to the glass as I shuffled by, almost always alarming her and certainly always with a snide message. Some days she waited, her keen eye on the window to catch me in the act, and most days, I returned from court to find a note of my own, stuck to the inside of the window and facing out towards the street.

But label as we did those sticky-note months, it's actually quite complicated to attempt a sticky-note-esque label on Lizzy. In fact, it might be easier to describe her by the things she dislikes, than what she really likes. Allow me to begin: The iPhone; people who wear heels at sporting events; people who wear the wrong jerseys to sporting events (insert Phoenix Suns jersey at an Arizona Diamondbacks game); dogs in baskets; people in costumes (yikes, mascots); parking (this is a BIG one); loud noises (like a firework); drivers who dramatically slow down for cops; LOL; odd volume levels (She likes to stick to the evens, while I insist on multiples of five); slow texters (specifically not responding for hours to a simple text); and bastards.

I know the list will keep growing, and even as she drives further and further away as I type (turn around, damnit!), the good times do not plan to stop rolling. My fearless friend - snap straight up! (see photo) - I'm excited for you to open this new chapter in your life, and even more excited to be a part of it, a mere 300 miles east. Take a picture of those wallscapes, and keep your eye on the mailbox for you may soon be receiving you very own... Big Carl.

Bastard!

Heidi, the Cross Eyed... OMG

When news hit the US of a cross-eyed possum named Heidi, dubbed Germany's latest star, it's no surprise that the floodgates opened wide and headed right for my inbox. Emails, phone calls - the works, all making sure I was aware of this varmint in the Leipzig Zoo. In fact, there were two separate newpaper articles, hand clipped and waiting for me on my desk when I returned from Costa Rica. 

So, as I read on to find out what the German fuss was about, I found myself aghast. See for yourself, why don't you?

While I enjoy a freak-show as much as the next guy,  this Heidi character really bothered me. The crossed-eye charm, they're saying, is due to her being so overweight... which, only makes Heidi look even more petrifying if you ask me -  what with her PROTRUDING eyes and portly, unsteady carcass. OMG. The fact that millions of individuals have banded together under the notion that this beast is somewhat cute... is causing me anxiety.

Crazy Germans.

The Little Sloth That Could

As opposed to the frequency in which I have appeared as a bridesmaid over the course of the last year, it's not every day that one of your good friends decides to get married. So, when the invitation to celebrate my dear friend Larson's union in Costa Rica was extended, I was happy to oblige. Eight days in Manuel Antonio proved to be quite the blissful getaway.

It all began with a direct flight from Phoenix to San Jose.  And while it was a seamless five-hour jaunt, US Airways did nothing to facilitate that ease. Let me just say, BOOOOO US Air. You don't even offer peanuts or more than one beverage on an international flight. You don't offer in-flight movies or programming. And you charged me to check my bag on an international flight, a fee that most airlines wave for long-haul travel. Your stewardess was arguably one of the rudest individuals ever. And yet, we were determined to not let it rain on our Central American parade. A few minutes after deplaning in San Jose, and our smiling Costa Rican driver named Ugo was awaiting us with a smile and a piece of paper reading "ANDY."

Our two and a half hour drive to Manuel Antonio was not shy of thrills. One hour in, as our red taxivan trudged along the dark and curvy roads alongside crazed Central American drivers, Good Old Ugo reached his index finger backwards and clicked a button releasing the flatscreen TV we didn't know existed. Proudly, he hit the play button for us. And for that remaining hour and a half, we feasted our eyes in disbelief and joy on what appeared to be a homemade tape of John Travolta dance sequences. If this was a preview of the week to come, we were in luck.

We arrived at our destination late that night, greeted by a sweet looking Costa Rican groundskeeper named Efron. He spoke no English, and therefore gestured us to hop aboard his mini golf cart for the remainder of the way to our jungle abode.  Happy to have arrived, we had no idea until the morning just how deep into the rainforest our quaint cabin really was. (See accompanying image of our road.) Twenty minutes on this pot-holed dirt road introduced us to what we called the real side of Costa Rica: locals traveling on foot at all times of the day, truly atrocious road conditions (if you didn't have four wheeled drive, you might as well not try) and what seemed like a close-knit community of Costa Ricans. Somebody told us that in any Costa Rican town, you would be sure to find four things - a soccer field, a catholic church, a bar and a school. Our remote dirt road had what appeared to be all four ingredients.


The week that followed offered parasailing, private beaches, zip lining, a trip to the National Rainforest and in general, a remarkable society that embraced the practice of enjoying life to its fullest. "Pura Vida" has more meaning to me now having actually seen firsthand the pureness and passion these "Ticos" put forth every day amongst the backdrop of some of the most marvelous landscape (and foliage, that's for you sweetness) I've ever been fortunate enough to experience.

The rainforest venture offered sloth, mean monkeys, neon crab, frog and tucan sightings, all of which were pointed out to us by our expressive personal guide. The sloth pictured to the right was a two-toed sloth, and had actually fallen from her slumber and was slowly making the journey back to the canopy of rainforest high above us. The two-toed guys are as big as a small bear, and their wirey coat resembled that of an elderly woman. Note the death grip the baby sloth has on its mother despite the grueling speed achieved.

And while the private beach was out of this world in terms of sheer beauty, unfortunately, so was the jellyfish attack that ensued. Ouch, ouch, ouchy - the little bastard got me three times before I processed the situation and ran screaming out of the ocean. BUT, I'd be boldface lying if I said I didn't now feel like a total badass having survived it.

And oh, the wedding - the whole reason we were in this euphoric country in the first place. It was almost so picturesque, and so intimate, and so amazing, that it felt surreal. I was there for my homegirl Larson, and she looked exactly as I had imagined a good Southern girl would on the day she gets married to the man of her dreams. In a victorian-esque, romantic lace dress, she was breathtaking, and glowing from head to toe. I was so proud to see her commit her life to Spencer, and I can't be more happy for these two for the journey to come.

In true Arkansas fashion, there can't be a wedding without the Razorbacks. There were two cakes. The one of note, was a hog cake, and you better believe the whole gang rallied together as we called those razorbacks in the middle of the jungle that night. "Take that, howler monkeys!" Larson's dad shouted as he proudly shook his fist towards the rainforest that surrounded us.

We had made our mark, and came back with many more memories to speak of. Ticos, Costa Rica - you're more than we had hoped for. We will be back.

Pura Vida!

Marcus and The North Pole at Christmastime

When you haven't seen a dear friend for six months, one of the awesome things that happens is the effortless ability to pick right back up from where the two of you had last left off. When you haven't seen your nephew for six months - then three months old -  one of the awesome things that happens is the complete transformation that short amount of time facilitated. What I found this Christmas, was a nine-and-a-half-month-old redheaded baby who I could not physically stop myself from kissing, and despite efforts by equally determined family members, could not take my hands off of him.

As I said, he's changed. He's not quite crawling, but he's intensely mobile. He's reached the babbling stage, and although his mother and father don't quite agree, has been heard chanting "Reee...be...kah." He loves to dance - especially ballet (again, don't know that his parents would agree), and especially in the mornings. Despite one screaming fit in the tub when his mother and I attempted to give his red hair a trim (see enclosed photo - woops), I'm confident in saying he's the happiest, most glorious and elite baby...in the world. If he was a fabric, he'd be cashmere. If he was a beer, he'd be Estrella. If he was a team, he'd be the Razorbacks. 

I'm not partial at all. And I'm also not partial to Arizona weather, or hyperbolizing when I say this Christmas was finally spent at The North Pole (at times also referred to as Columbus, Ohio). Snow fell each day and the wind blew colder than I had ever fathomed. Somehow in spite of all of that, it appeared people were actually spending time outside: scooping their driveways, going for long jogs, playing catch with their Eskimo dogs, rearranging their frozen garages. I decided to try and blend in, and after layering as best I could, braved the icy driveway with a large plastic snow scooper. Several hours later, the total cost of that endeavor was multiple hours of defrosting by the fire, two days of sore biceps and a newfound hatred for The North Pole in the winter time. 

   

The Middle Seat Traveler - 21B

Traveling for the holidays is like a circus. It's when the rookie travelers (weird and creepy, geriatrics, foreign, for example) come out in droves and often times, are seated right next to you on your flight.

For some karmic reason, I was the lucky recipient of the middle seat on a flight from Phoenix to Minneapolis yesterday. When I approached the said seat, which from here on out will be known as Old Sparky, an odd looking man with a bowl cut was seated next to it already. Vibrant redt hair, middle aged, thin and with impeccable posture, I thought I had struck gold as he rose politely to let me in. He was very well manicured, with a spotless Eddie Bauer-esque jacket zipped all the way to his chin. And his pale chin was very pronounced. I labeled him either a male ballerina or some sort of equestrian, both of which I felt honored to be seated next to on this particular day.

Without saying anything to one another, Mr. Ballerina and I awaited the last piece to our Row 21 puzzle; the window seat was still open, and the plane doors were about to close. Inevitably, you're always hopeful that you'll end up without a full row, however unlikely the odds may be. And then just like that  - in walked our final puzzle piece - Missy Trailer Trash. Instead of the common "excuse me, that's my seat," without skipping a beat, ole girl climbed directly over Mr. Ballerina and then myself, and settled into her spot. Within seconds, milliseconds even, the stench drifted into my bubble. It was rancid. Part stale smoke (picture Virginia Slims and Jack Daniels in a house with no doors or windows...for a decade), part cheap perfume and part moth balls. I sat there, half panicked and half focused on my next move to escape the smell. And she couldn't sit still, pulling things out of her purse, applying makeup, taking pictures of the air (the AIR), each time wafting the smell back and forth into my bubble like a wave of death. I started breathing through my mouth, but it wasn't enough. It was time for the scarf barrier.  No shame, the smell was starting to take over.

The beverage cart started its way down the aisle and I focused my efforts away from Missy Trailer Trash and towards one of my favorite airplane games: predict the beverage order. I already had my two Row 21 fellows pegged. Mr. Ballerina would order a juice of some sort, maybe apple. Trashy Smokey Face would order a black coffee. Or perhaps even a Pepsi, only to realize the sodas are coke products, which she'd then refuse. The loud Minnesota man might order a sprite. The businessman who resembled Sean Connery across the way - a beer. And the Businesswoman two rows up will brave a Bloody Mary.

I hate to brag when I'm right, but let it be known I was 4 for 5 this time. Mr. Ballerina split an apple juice. The odor that had me discombobulated.

I actually managed to survive the two hour flight. As we touched down in Minneapolis, the woman exited the same way she entered, and even more, proceeded to climb back against the crowds seven rows to get her bag. I was never more relieved to see anybody go. A few beers, and a few hours later, I found myself in Columbus, Ohio. Land of the North Pole, SNOW and most importantly, the redheaded nephew who we call Marcus Deacon.  

Finally, let the holidays begin. Something tells me Marcus will be worth the trip.