insomnia haiku

When life hands you a bad week, make bad-week lemonade

I've had a fantastically shitty week, one of the worst I can remember having (and by shitty I don't mean that I've suffered great tragedy or loss, so I apologize if I sound like I'm being overdramatic ... but really it's been pretty lousy) -- but rather than dwell on the negative, I'm going to try to remember the highest points of the week. Here goes nothing:

1. If I'm counting Sunday, the Mad Men finale was so good. SO. GOOD. I had been a little anxious when the episode approached, not just because the season was ending but also because ... well, what if it wasn't as good as I wanted it to be? But I shouldn't have feared. By the end of the night I had watched some scenes three times, including every scene in which Joan appears. When Roger said, "Let me make a phone call," I squealed. Out loud. Alone in my living room. And I was only embarrassed for about half a second.

2. The Glee interviews I did came in, yay! They didn't turn out as well as I'd hoped -- they cut out the part where the cast members all went, "What? Beyonce?!" and clutched at their chairs -- but still, kind of a thrill, knowing I was the one they were looking at off-camera. The first video's below, and both together are here.

3. I finally had the famed BLT at Char No. 4. And it was excellent.

4. The bouncer at a bar made me smile when he looked at my license and joked that I was 22.

5. This video of Tori Spelling in a Lifetime movie, stripping to Chopin, made me laugh:

6. At midnight tonight, at the end (or near the end) of my fantastically shitty week, I found myself unexpectedly in the tiny basement of Union Hall, watching a band called Boat and throwing confetti at the band members as they rocked out with looks of bliss on their faces. And in that one moment ... I felt lucky.

So, you see, me? That's six good things. There are worse weeks to have.

Full of Glee

Things have been kind of hairy at work, but every once in a while you get to do something fun.

Today, I got to interview the kids from Glee -- a show that I love. They were adorable. The geek kids, whom I interviewed in one group, are obviously friends and have a great time together; the "popular" kids, whom I interviewed in a second group, were a little more polished and seasoned, but my favorite moment was before the cameras rolled when the guys were burping and Cory (who plays Finn) looked straight at me and said, "Long night. Loooong night." A-HA. Well, I guess they aren't actually teenagers.

And I almost got the geek kids to do the "Single Ladies" dance, once they found out that Beyonce had done that very dance in this very studio -- but alas, no one had the song ready to play. Stupid, stupid! Fire someone! A crew member started playing it on his iPhone, and they were practically ready to bust a move when they heard it, but then they realized it was only someone's phone, and ... no dice. Oh well.

Hardest part for me was keeping silent in between questions, since I wasn't on camera and I'll be edited out of the video -- and anything I said during the answers would come off as this weird disembodied voice out of nowhere. It's just not natural for me not to talk back. Instead, I was reduced to making faces at them and nodding vigorously, or mouthing words at them. So strange. Is this what they teach you at journalism school?

Oh. And I have the biggest crush on the guy who plays Puck. He is even hotter in person, if you can believe that. He doesn't have a mohawk anymore -- he's got sort of a buzz cut-shaved head thing going on -- and man, I couldn't even look at him. I wonder if they teach you about THAT in journalism school.

Will post the video when it's done next week. In the meantime, in honor of the day ... "Single Ladies."

This is all my brain is capable of right now

Have you ever had one of those days where you got home from work at 10 pm and realized you hadn't peed in 13 hours?

Just wondering.

One of my writers sent me this video. Random! He sent it to explain what "betch" means, because I'd never heard it before, signifying that I am even more unfathomably old than I thought. (And he has two kids!) Apparently it's not the same thing as "fetch" (as in, "that is so," see: Mean Girls ... wait, was that actually a thing, or just a movie quote?) or "beeyotch" (I take it the kids don't say this anymore?). I have so much to learn.

Killing two birds (podcasts and vacation pics) with one post

Finally uploaded my pictures from vacation, and this time I decided to use Picasa instead of Flickr, mostly because Flickr was taking too long. I haven't decided which I like better yet, though one advantage Flickr has is that it's able to recognize what kind of camera I have, whereas Picasa cannot.

Anyway, they are here as well as below (though go to the link itself if you want to see the pictures all nice and big and purty, and with captions).

And here's this week's Film Fixation podcast, which was a lot of fun, since we had our very first guest -- all the way from MSN Movies in Cal-i-for-ni-yay! He was cool. I dig this episode (we talk about Where the Wild Things Are, of course, plus the new Coen brothers movie A Serious Man, and the amount of weight that Gerard Butler seems to have gained -- or is it all in his face?).

Oh but wait, THERE'S MORE! We started a new TV podcast last week, called Drama Queens (original title: TV Snobs), in which my friend Kelly and I talk about all the shows we love, like Mad Men and Top Chef and How I Met Your Mother. This week, we also engage in Trashy TV Corner, because God help me, I am still watching The Hills. Check it out here. With these two plus guesting on another one, I taped three podcasts this week. That shit is exhausting, yo.

I think that's enough self-promotion for one day. And now I'm off to scrutinize the ESPN Game Tracker and see how Cal's doing against UCLA. Either that, or laundry.

Imagining a world without meetings (aaaaah)

I've decided I'm starting a new company. I don't know what this company will do, sell or produce, but its motto will be: No More Meetings.

Of course, it's impossible not to have any meetings. So I'm instituting a few simple ground rules:

- If you do set up a meeting, it has to be value-added. This means whoever calls the meeting has to provide food, alcohol, or some other form of entertainment.

- Employees will be encouraged to keep meetings to 30 minutes. In fact, they'll be offered incentives to do so. (Note: I don't actually know what those incentives would be yet. I'm working on it.)

- No two-hour meetings. None. Verboten!

- No last-minute mandatory in-person meetings.

- No more than one meeting a day.

- There will be at least two days per week on which there are no meetings whatsoever. Maybe three.

So who wants to join my company? Do you think it would help with recruitment if I named my company NoMoreMeetings.com?

Paradise lost

Have you ever felt, looking in the mirror, that you're seeing your face as you could have looked a thousand years ago? That happened just now. Bleary-eyed after two flights, no makeup, face lined after a week in the sun, hair straggly after I took it out of its wet ponytail, exhaustion oozing out of every pore -- I looked straight ahead and saw, in me, some dull-eye peasant girl who knew nothing of the life I now have. One who looked tired and plain and slow. Me, in another life. One difference: the electronic toothbrush in my hand. I'll hazard a guess they didn't have those a thousand years ago.

Home now from paradise, which makes me sad, but it had to end sometime. I spent achingly beautiful days on the beach, in that clear waveless perfect water, floating with my face to the sun. On the beach I consumed burgers (2), hot dogs (1)  steak (1, ribeye), slice of sausage pizza (1), pina coladas (2), bloody Marys (2) and rum punch (1). Oh, and many many beers. I learned the names and life stories of many of the locals, and the others I knew well enough to wave to; I finally (after some 10-odd attempts) managed to drive my way around the island in a little electric golf cart-like car without getting lost or tipping over. I read three books (Catch-22, Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, Frank Bruni's Born Round), all excellent. I went to bed before midnight every night, except the day in which I read all of Moore's novel, when I barely blinked at midnight and read straight on until I was done.

I took ferries, small boats, bigger boats. Off of our little island, I snorkeled, bought expensive jewelry (I would have regretted it had I walked away), visited the same restaurant twice to satisfy a mango colada craving and got the bartender to teach us how to make it. I ate fresh saltwater lobster and a pineapple upside-down cake so good, I can't get the taste out of my head. (The mushroom and asparagus risotto was pretty dreamy, too.)

I unplugged. I did not watch TV. I did not surf the Internet. I had my iPhone so I could get emails and texts and do some light research, but that was it. (I couldn't even update my fantasy baseball team.) I lackadaisically checked work emails on my Blackberry once a day, then promptly forgot about them. When I told Wendy at the grill that the iPhone had been a lifesaver for its access to the outside world, she gave a short laugh. "The outside world is overrated."

And now, home, to a couch piled high with laundry, to a DVR that's nearly full of all the programs I missed, to a new work week that threatens to bring with it a heavy dose of drama. Vacation, it seems, is over. I will wake up in the morning and wonder if it was all a dream, as if the world we inhabited this past week was imaginary, magical, needing protection -- rather like Narnia, or the island on Lost.

But this week, at least, I will try to keep the island with me. I will try not to stress. And what will keep me going is the feel of the water on my body, the sight of those white, wide, sandy beaches, and the sound of the locals saying goodbye to us with the words, "Hope to see you again real soon."

Beach Day

Last day of vacation! This makes me sad. L and P went to St. Thomas to do some shopping and run some other errands, so I dropped them off at the ferry and hit Honeymoon Beach instead. I hope they don't think I'm being antisocial. It's just that, when I have this gorgeous beach at my disposal, and nothing to do but lie there and jump in the incredible water and listen to the locals chit-chat and read, then I would rather just do that.

Speaking of reading, I had, as mentioned, ambitiously brought five books, which was starting to seem foolish when it was taking me more than half the trip to read the first, Catch-22. I wasn't loving it at first, and it's not the quickest and easiest read in the world -- very much a boy book, I think, all about men in the military and the madness if war -- but I ended up liking it very much. It sticks with you. Finished it yesterday (Friday) morning and then raced through the new Lorrie Moore novel (A Gate at the Stairs) like a house afire, stopping only to make dinner and eat. I even powered through the Ambien I took at 1 am to keep reading (I guess if I just concentrate and focus on something else, the drug has no effect). I felt like I was a kid again, reading under the covers at night, unwilling to put the book down for anything in the world.

Today: sloppy Joe and Red Stripe on the beach, perfect day. The woman at the grill, Ashley, remembered my name without my having to give it to her, which I consider a minor point of pride. I'm kind of proud in general of my minor attempts to ingratiate myself here with the locals; it's not as if I'm considered one of them, but at least they know who I am, giving me friendly waves as I drive past or nodding to me as I walk up to Heidi's Grill. And I'm fascinated by people's stories of how they ended up here; one guy told me he'd moved to the Virgin Islands from Houston after getting a divorce. Now he does landscaping. They're all as friendly as can be, and I'd like to think it's because we're not being typical ugly tourists, but polite and sociable and respectful of what they have down here.

Tonight, dinner at Craig and Sally's in Frenchtown on St. Thomas.

At long last, the pizza boat

We had heard tales of this legendary pizza boat. Every local we asked got this faraway look and said, "Yeah, I don't know what happened to it! I think it got sold." We mourned and thought of the pizza boat we never knew.

And then yesterday... There it was, docked by Joe's Beach Bar. Miraculously, as though we had summoned it just by wishing. We walked toward it in a daze. Apparently, according to a man standing nearby, it had been sold -- he had sold it to them -- and this was the boat's re-maiden voyage.

The woman who took orders was snappish and rude, dampening our excitement somewhat. But the guy making the pies was cheerful ("yes, if you want sausages it'll be ten minutes, but a short ten minutes!") and when we took shelter at the nearby covered stage as it started to rain, he climbed out of the boat and carried our slices over to us, grinning.

And it was good.

If you like mango coladas

Ugh, another whole post eaten by this typepad app. That's it, no more pictures, sorry.

The plain, shorthand version of the terrifyingly brilliant post I had just written:

Yesterday: two ferries to St. John, snorkeling in Trunk Bay, amazing fishes the color of lilac and jade. Back to St. Thomas, third mango colada at Gladys', where a regular at the bar took a picture of our drinks to post on Facebook, and where Pauline, the bartender and our waitress of the day before, patiently explained to us (multiple times) how to create a mango colada on our very own. ("I got the recipe off the Food Network!" laughed Gladys.)

Dinner at Bella Blu (we all had the snapper provencal), wine and conversation on the patio outside, late ferry back to Water Island, the ferry this time being the ferry guy's own smaller boat, which he told us was named Six-Pack. Driving back to the house, it's possible I may have been guilty if DEVUI -- Driving an Electric Vehicle while Under the Influence -- but given that I wasn't more than buzzed, there are no cops or speed limits, and in our entire time here we've seen two other cars on the road ... No harm, no foul. At the house, pool, more wine, more conversation.

Today L and P have gone to St. Thomas to run some errands, leaving me here on Honeymoon Beach with the place gloriously to myself all morning. But Heidi's is here now, and locals to boot; after an hour of solitude I am now hearing lots of cheery greetings. So, time to rouse myself for a beer and a burger and another dip in the ocean, methinks, though not necessarily in that order.

When vacation bites

Lest you get too jealous of my idyllic vacation, please know that I am covered in painful mosquito bites, from head to toe. Many of you already know that I am allergic to mosquito bites, or if that isn't the exact medical term -- seeing as how I don't have to be rushed to the hospital in a coma -- then I simply have a very, very bad and alarming reaction to them. (Mosquitos also seem to like me a great deal more than I like them.)

For example, of the eight bites on my left arm, two have swelled to an angry red mass about six inches in diameter; three have formed bulbous, oozing blisters that could frighten away children; the other three are just annoying. There are three especially vexing and painful splotchy ones on my left back, right under my arm. On my right leg it looks like I have chicken pox, except for the big red mass near my ankle. The bites do not itch. They hurt, and they throb and swell. I would document this with pictures, but then I feel this blog would qualify for horror movie status, and it'd have to be rated R. Also you would faint.

Well, such is the price you pay for paradise, and I guess I'll never be able to live here. Tonight, I sleep with the Ambien.

Of mangoes and locals

Monday: Ferry to St. Thomas, lunch at Gladys' Cafe in Charlotte Amalie. I was persuaded to have the house specialty, a mango colada, even though I don't particularly like mangoes. And GODDAMN. You know how I like making top five lists of foods? This drink shot straight to the head of my new top five drinks list. Fresh mango, blended, some kind of sweet rum on top, presumably some other kind of rum within. I sucked one down well before my food (a delicious plate of oxtail stew) arrived, then had another. What I wouldn't give to have a third right at this very moment.

Today (Tuesday): We hit Honeymoon Beach before noon and spent a lovely, lazy day there. I finally partook of Heidi's famed burger, accompanied by a couple beers and a bag of crunchy Cheetos. The water, once again, was blissful. I went in at least three times and didn't want to get out.

Got in some good conversation with the locals. One guy said he used to live in New York and did computer tech stuff; he now works on boats. When we retired to Joe's Beach Bar for piña coladas and margaritas, we chatted with the bartender, who was from Michigan orginally and moved here with two of her kids when she fell in love with Joe himself. Those kids, whom she homeschools, ran around cheerily while her youngest, a tow-headed two-year-old, wrapped herself up in a rope swing, buck naked. We grilled the bartender on how often she has to travel to St. Thomas (every day, she said with a grimace), whether there's any sort of mayor (nope), how many people live on the island (75 year-round, 200 in the winter), what people do for medical care (there's a woman who helps with newborn care, and there's a retired veterinarian). There's no police force really, but there is one guy who, if there's any sign of trouble, calls up "all the big guys" and they go take care of it. I told Mary, the caretaker, who was hanging out at Heidi's Honeymoon Grill with some other locals, that if I lived there I would worry that I'd start taking it all for granted. All three locals shook their heads. "Every time we start," she said, "people like you guys come down, and then we remember."

On this island, the biggest emergencies are beer emergencies

Today: Slumbered til 10 (sleep was hindered by the inevitable bug bites, as yesterday's dinner on the beach meant that I, too, was someone's -- something's, rather -- dinner on the beach), breakfast of eggs and bacon, then a short trek down to Sprat Bay beach, a private little nook we had all to ourselves but for the pelicans dive-bombing fish. Eventually some folks rowed in on a boat, doing what we were not sure. They had a net, so perhaps fishing?

We thought of taking the ferry to St. Thomas to have lunch and stock up on provisions, but we'd missed the 12:15 and the next wasn't until 3:15. So it was back to Honeymoon Beach -- more driving in the Gem car, whee! though lack of power steering and scant turning circle made all-too-frequent three-point turnabouts more like 17-point turnabouts -- for burgers and hot dogs on the beach courtesy of Heidi's Grill. Cooled off with a Caribe beer (my new fave) plus two dips in the ocean. The water was incredible. Warm as bathwater and just as tranquil; perfect for floating on your back, undisturbed, for long stretches of time. A group of Brits nearby was having a birthday fête; they sang Happy Birthday complete with ending "Hip hip ... Hooray!"s. People wandered into the ocean with drinks held aloft. Most of the small crowd seemed to be local and thoroughly convivial; it was, in short, the perfect beach.

Time for a drink at the adjacent rum shack, name unknown. (I think it's Joe's.) A middle aged man spun 70s and 80s tunes (wow, it's been a while since I heard Heart's "These Dreams"), I snapped a few pictures of a visiting iguana, and a woman came over to offer us some chili she'd cooked up. We waved hello to Mary, the caretaker. On our way out, a man barbecuing nudged me to point out, with pride, the largest steak I'd ever seen. "It's gonna be good," he insisted. I never had a doubt.

Home to make a dinner of Cornish game hens, potatoes, broccoli and wine. Then I fell asleep outside, waking up at 10:30 to wonder if I dared climb into bed and call it a night right then and there. Apparently the others have done so, and therefore, having occupied myself for a respectable hour, I shall now do the same.

Tomorrow: lunch on St. Thomas, possible wandering around, plus quest for non-gouging grocery or drugstore where we can buy Advil, bottled water and good cheese. I asked the woman manning the grill at Heidi's today where people went if they needed cash (there is no ATM on the island) or had some kind of emergency and needed to buy something. "What kind of emergency? You run out of beer?" her cohort said. Her follow-up response: "We just don't have emergencies." Ah, island life. Below: Honeymoon Beach. Better pictures (taken on real camera) shall follow, but not until I get back.