Ring the Alarm

No, not a dancing sequel.

It’s been a week of close calls. By close I mean not close at all but the alarms didn’t know any better. Really, I think it was professional emergency drill week and our employers just didn’t want “hint” at the practice run.

Monday the fire alarms start. We’ve heard them all before. “Please walk to the nearest stairwell”. We all know what we are supposed to do in these situations, follow the automated voice. That robot coming from the walls must know more about the situation than we humans possibly could. Our elementary educations tell us to exit the building in a calm, orderly fashion.

Rewind to my favorite fire drill. Somehow my broke ass high school had a pool. Because we owned that pool, every student in the body had to swim in that pool. Or at least wade in the shallow end of that pool. Bubbles and bobs, bubbles and bobs. Wet, in a swimsuit during puberty, you would think the swim instructors would cut us a little slack with the knowledge of an incoming drill. No, never. The alarms start ringing once the suits are on and the bodies are soaked. Out of the pool we go on a November afternoon and into the parking lot in orderly fashion. Our single file line of embarrassment. Running out into the cold weather, the nipples on our half-developed breasts remain in a perpetually erect state. Sure, maybe that would have gotten the attention of the boy we were crushing on at moment. But as soon as the gaze directed itself upward, we were bound to kill any attraction our breast had inspired. Ah, the swimcap.

Freezing, embarrassed, wet, and awkward - I will never forget that fire drill.

These rehearsals have just trained us to believe that nothing is really happening. Hearing those sirens wail literally makes my body slow down. We all move in half tie and wait for the noise to stop because that’s what it always does. That is what it did on Monday at least.

Wednesday was another story. Tornado alarms filled the sky. Being hump day, I glanced at my watch to see if this was the monthly test. 2:30pm. Nope, this one is real. The second one was real too. So real for Minneapolis, the glass that makes up the skyline was getting blown to hell. The staff sat in the Music Room for a good hour and half that day waiting for the systems to blow through. I played ping-pong. This is our emergency procedure.

But I got to thinking … what if a tornado hit on the first Wednesday of the month at 1:00pm. I’m pretty sure we’d all be fucked.

A Technical Regression

My television consumption has dropped to dangerously low levels. My digital receiver hasn’t received its own worth yet. Once a week I may hear the voices of the Simpson’s while I am creating a culinary masterpiece. Those episodes hardly need watching though. I see them in my mind (call it telepathic projection) from knowing them so well. I suppose I use the tube for the occasional movie, but my remotes have become tasteless décor more than anything else.

I don’t think I like TV.

What?

The last few weeks I’ve had unlimited access to the world of cable. I thought I would spend the two weeks house-sitting taking advantage of the big screen in the basement and catching up on all the shows my family talks about. I spent hours on end in that house and ended up watching one episode of shark week and Ghostbusters. That’s it! How did I end up on Ghostbusters when there is this roster of series I have been ignorant to and the rest of the world privy to? Well, I love Ghostbusters, that’s part of it. Mostly, though, I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with cable! I seriously don’t know how to operate it. My cable network television knowledge tapped out in the days when you had channels 2 through 96. I don’t understand the HD channels or the OnDemand features. The guide button used to be helpful, but is now overwhelming.

Here I sit, in another cable equipped house (this time with animal hair of all varieties clinging to my black shirt) and am stumped by the telly. I mean, I accidentally watched a half an episode of Reba because I forgot how to properly channel surf.

Is this what it feels like when old people can’t adapt to new technologies? Do they all just end up watching Reba?

Choking

It is a little piece of you that I know, but don't know, but think about, and then it all makes sense and I love it,

and you.

I hope my sister doesn’t kill me for quoting her.

I’ve had this blog for a couple years. Prior to this month, only a meager handful of writings made their way into the cyber world. Those writings were mostly results of crazy, weird days. The kinds of days that make you want to talk really, really fast about. Chances are I couldn’t get anyone on the line to tell anyone … so I wrote about them, somewhat discombobulatedly (I like it, don’t judge my word invention).

I took to the old school variety of pen and pad for a few trips and realized how much I missed words. My college education was words. I was good at words. I wondered if I still was. Travel seemed easy to write about, especially independent travel where my only company was the pen itself. But now my trips are done … so I am left with everyday nothingness that I am trying to make into something.

The point is, when I started writing routinely I received the e-mail above from my sister. With every posting I put up on this silly, unread site … I think about that e-mail. In a way, it was one of the nicest things anyone has said to me. I remember getting a little choked up when I read it and every once and while I go back to it to choke again. There is something about exposing yourself and hearing something like that when you’re standing there stripped. I learned that somehow this thing that matters to me matters to someone else. Weird.

I’m choking (I’ll play it off as on my own spit, that’s more my style).

Love you, Bri.

Cake Complex

I left the house with good intentions and came back with German Chocolate cake.

So begins my cake complex.

I stopped by a local café on my way home when the date I had planned for myself and my ego failed. So yes, it would be fair to call this rare occasion emotional eating but not very polite of you.

I ate the bottom two layers of that three layered cake. The top layer is sitting in my fridge and the thought of going home to it has kept me going all day. Simple pleasures. I have been up for eleven hours already – that’s a lot of cake dreams.

I got to crawl out from under the fluorescents at work with a quick lunch off campus. Mid soba noodles I yearned for that cake. So… we stopped to get more cake. This is getting ridiculous. I ate the same portion at my desk. I now have two cake tops in the fridge and a belly ache.

Why am I writing about cake? Really, it was just to share this conversation via text during consumption.

“Mmm… cake.”
“I ate too much of it. I have a cake belly.”
“Mmm… cake baby.”
“I think I want to eat my baby.”
“Good thing you have another half baby at home.”
“The top half too. Mmm… brains.”

I think I need to cool it with the cake.

And, I’m sorry I am so skinny.

Shorty got low.

I feel like something could come from the dance floor. I’m not really sure what that is, so I figure I will just talk around the dance floor and maybe something will come out. That kind of sounds like I’m going to puke on the Tilt-a-Whirl. Ready? Vomit.

The urge to shake your ass outside the privacy of your home can happen to the best of us. It happened to me this weekend. The funny thing is … I hate the idea of going dancing. I hate the atmosphere. I hate how hot and musty it is bound to get. I hate having my style cramped by a crowded dance floor. I need room for my genius. I hate having beer spilled on me. I hate the junk that is guaranteed to grind on me. I hate the one drunk girl that isn’t that hot and tries too hard. I hate the explicit voyeurism. Really, the whole ‘going out dancing’ thing kind of disgusts me … in theory. But somehow without fail, despite all that, the night will end up a good time. Man, I love to dip it down low.

Enter Wild Onion (I know, I know). Getting there early is the best way to avoid the dance floor drunken grind. The toughest part about an early arrival is you have to go big and balls out. No one else is on the dance floor. So it’s just you and your friends out there holding your own, with the rest of the bar watching and waiting for the night to start its boogie.

For someone who doesn’t like attention and for it being too early in the night for the liquid courage to take affect, I’ll have to admit to my self-consciousness. I’m there to dance and that’s just what I’ll do, but the track won’t jump from song to song without a hyper-awareness of my own body. Every time my hips get caught up on the beat, I notice it. Each time there’s a slightly ungraceful transition from one step to the next, I wonder if they notice it. Or when I catch myself making that stupid, concentrating face, well that I just laugh at.

Still, music bumping and booties following suit always equals a good time.



The male/female balance always interests me. Women go to the club to dance with their friends. I’m sure some women go to dance and finding men may be an added bonus, but I don’t know those women. I only know women that are there for the sole purpose of dancing. This night I was with a married woman and a lesbian, so it’s a valid statement to say they weren’t looking for dudes. It seems that dudes show up at the same venue, to hear the same music, and drink the same booze for a very different reason.

To make a generalizing, ridiculously sweeping statement – Dudes come to stare and hope for the occasion brush on the ass. For the most part, guys don’t dance, which is why I don’t believe they are there to get down (maybe dirty, but not down). They are too reserved in their bodies to let it fly off the handle. The irony there is women love a guy that’s cutting up the floor horrible style. To dudes, I say – embrace the disgrace! Your utter lack of suave doesn’t matter. What matters is the ladies will make you look damn good, no matter how terrible you are. Seriously! Let us make you look good! Every lady loves a man mad-dogging the face of humiliation and settling the score with a dance off!!!

Oh part of me really wants to categorize the type of men in a joint like this, but part of me thinks that’s horrible and people wouldn’t realize that I write for humor first and world view second (it may even be third or fourth). I will say this …

My male encounters for the night:

I fell in love with the Asian dude in his forties that never stopped dancing. He showed up alone and rocked the hardwood like a pro. Completely content in his solitude and letting the beat flow through him.

I was bothered by the middle aged men that fly solo and grab the benches at the counter surrounding the dance floor. They never talked to anyone. Never looked like they were having a good time. And never, ever looked away.

I found out later that a guy was dancing with me that I didn’t even know existed. He never addressed me, or got close enough for me to acknowledge him. Instead, I guess he just danced around me and made it look like were together. Weird.

Another guy took the direct approach and flung his arms around me and Jess. Jess likes girls. Jess’s body completely shut down at his advance and became very still, which made me laugh my ass off and made him mortified. He avoided that side of the dance floor for the rest of the night.

Another dude stopped me on my way to the bathroom, after hearing his southern drawl, I told him that I was sorry he was from Texas and went on my way.

The point is - that is a lot of dude action for a night when you aren’t looking for it. By the time we left, the place was packed and disgusting. It was a sausage fest (a term I recently said to my mom and it made her very uncomfortable which made me laugh very hard). The guys outnumbered the gals by 3-1, easy. If guys really come dancing for the ladies, the percentages aren’t in their favor.

Still, music bumping and booties following suit always equals a good time.

Funsies

How did Coffee News know? They seem to offer decent espresso and telepathy. The first of which I can’t enjoy a cup of given the potential hole in my stomach. Sitting here in the air-conditioning, at my laptop with my ears plugged with Glen Hansard, the placard I was given for my food order was “Funsies”. The defining caption exemplifies the term “Let’s pull funsies on those boys”.

I need some funsies. I would love to pull funsies on some boys. From the moment I woke up yesterday, that was the exact term I was looking for.

This place always delivers. Good coffee. Cute waitstaff. Good food. Good people watching. The only time it didn’t deliver was the first date I had here. They really failed me on that one. This spot offers plenty for the average conversation. A huge sampling of artwork decorates the wall. I even know one of the artists, so I have that going for openers. The crowd is always mixed and interesting. If the people indoors are all Macalester-ites and huddled on their computers (oh man, I hope I don’t look like one right now), the people outside are at least worth commentary. But that day, the first of the online dating e-mails that resulted in an actual date day, there was no conversation to be found. It was hiding under the table.

Back to the funsies. I need a night on the town with the people that make me the silliest. Don’t get me wrong, the trips outdoors have been great fun. A different kind of fun. An enjoyable fun, a satisfactory fun but not a doubled-over, giggle crazy fun time. I need the later. Hard to put yourself into stitches. I need a night of laughter and ridiculousness. In all honesty, I don’t know how my stomach would react to that kind of laughter. Last time it sent me spiraling down the pain cyclone. I’d rather risk it. I need a night to forget about the dumbness of these last few weeks. The dumbness of my doctor’s visits. The dumbness of my new diet. The dumbness that I just wrote “my diet” in all seriousness. The dumbness of my job at the moment. The dumbness of my continued selflessness. I feel a little tapped out of favors. I feel a little exhausted from being so damn nice. I feel a little unlike myself, out of my routine and away from the things I want to be doing.

Screw this melancholy shit … ITunes>Search>Dead Weather.

Belize - Day the Rest

All of the entries prior to this one were written longhand during my trip in April. It took me all these months to transfer the scribbles into typeface. I stopped writing on that 6th day. The island was the island and I must have been all tapped out on new material. Months and months later, when I write today, I can hardly offer you the riveting observations you have gotten used to in my writing. Ha. What I can tell you today about my trip is a little summary of my last days there and offer you the answers to the practical questions I was asked on my return. Questions I never thought to include in my journal.



The last night on the island was a fun one. After dinner we had a huge bonfire and learned some Belizean folklore and a few smooth moves. A group of men that were working on the nearby resort joined us for the dancing. Only they didn’t dance. They stood in a circle around us and watched a bunch of white Americans & Canadians butcher their culture’s traditional dances. Mostly, they laughed at us. And we laughed at us. A few of us took turns on the handmade drums and set the beat for the rest of the travelers who were light on their feet.







The ride back to Dangriga had one unfortunate passenger, me. The water was choppier on the way back to the mainland. I had the frightful seat where the boat broke the waves. My right side was drenched; my left side remained reasonably dry. I was a sight to be seen. When I was seen, I usually got that half smile, slightly amused, pity face from people. Our luggage was getting thrown about from boat to van and it wasn’t really possible to find some dry clothes. A few of us scrounged for wet-naps to at least rid the salt from our skin for the rest of our travel. We were running to catch a tiny charter to fly us back to Belize City where we’d spend our last night close to the airport. The country of Belize is tiny, but the highways are structured (mostly pointed inland, nothing running north/south along the water) in a way that people will opt to hop on these charter flights to skip north or south.

People always ask about the toilets on the island. For some reason this is what people always want to know. There was a two stall structure that leaned left from a previous hurricane. There was a whole bathroom process that happened in that little room. Basically, it was an outhouse complete with composting toilets. The idea was every time you added your own waste, you would put a cup of cedar chips down the well too. Honestly, I wish all campgrounds used this method, rather than chemically treated. It smelled a lot better and was reusable for fertilizer. The trick was remembering to throw the paper goods in the trash, rather than down the hole. Then we all sterilized the seat after each sitting. It was a lot to think about , waking in the middle of the night with a sudden urge to pee.

Midnight runs to the bathroom followed this logic:

Crap I have to pee.
Find my shoes (our feet didn’t have the Belizean soles, we had to wear sandals at all times because of the coral mixed in with the sand, not to mention the hermit crabs).
Find my headlight (no electricity, remember?)
Relief.
Throw the paper in the TRASH.
Scoop a coconut cup worth of cedar chips in.
Sterilize the seat.
Lower the seat (this is an important one for the sake of bugs, I was on my way down one night and had a HUGE cockroach crawl out from under the seat, I had no choice I was on my way down and had to keep going, giant roach or no).
Lock the door from the outside.

Head to the wash bins. There was one bin full of clean water and one wash bin for the discarded soapy water, and one small bowl for the rinse process. So … Take the small bowl and fill it from the clean water bin, hit the soap, then move over to the discard bin. Pour the water from the bowl over your hands to rid them of the bubbles and let it fall into the soapy bin. That’s how we tried to be hygienic. I doubt this process.

The other question I got a lot was about the drinking water. Most places throughout our stay had filtered water. The island was also filtered, sort of. On a salt water island, if you dig a well a certain yardage from the waterfront you will have a self-filtered water reserve. There is a science to this; it has to be a certain distance from shore and a measured depth. A shallow well, the first few feet will be ‘fresh’ water, filtered from the surrounding sediment. Those few feet of water would be scooped out every few days and aged into our drinking water. It remained a little salty to the taste. Not a thirst quenching water, to be sure, but it kept us hydrated.

My it’s a small world story … One of the vacationers, Jen, was from Seattle, my sister’s city. The whole time we were on the island she kept talking about this fitness boot camp she was going to before we arrived in the Caribbean. When I got home, catching up with family, my sister started in on the same conversation. Turns out they were both in the same class. They later connected. Jen was surviving class with her sister. Since then, I’ve heard Jen has stopped going and now her sister and my sister have talked on occasion. Weird.

Lastly, people always ask if I’d do another REI adventure. My answer to that is yes but under specific circumstances. I would love to do it at the serious, crazy adventure level-scaling mountains and shit. My brain keeps circling the idea of backpacking the Grand Canyon. For something like that, I think it’s a great way to experience the outdoors. You have experienced guides, who are knowledgeable about the land, the gear is all there and waiting for your use, you don’t have to worry about food. For an adventure trip that is pushing your skill level, I think it’s a great way to do it. For leisure travel, I would say… not a chance. I would hate following a group through a city. All in all, this was a great way for someone who was traveling alone and for the first time beyond our borders (somehow Canada and Jamaica don’t count as international travel). At times I felt like I was giving up my own voice in my own vacation, but it was a compromise I was willing to make with my travel ignorance. I’m building my smarts. Really, now I just want to go everywhere and am learning more and more than I can do it - mentally, physically, and financially.

End of story.

Belize - Day 5 & 6

I realized I didn’t write about yesterday at all. We took a two hour kayak out to Middle Cay. The island is largely a research base and houses cute Brit’s that are studying the rays and sharks. I got a chance to snorkel with Karm. Karm is one of three guides; he’s amazing to watch under the water. He has a head full of the longest, neatest dreadlocks I have ever seen. Under the water, skinny in his wetsuit, his dreads float around majestically. Like Ursula underwater. I swam alongside a few barracuda. We spotted a nurse shark tucked under a rock. The shark stayed in hiding and that was quite alright with me. I saw a lobster that was my same size. We kayak sailed back to base over shallow water that housed sting rays few feet. Beautiful. Then a few of us sat around playing cards after dinner, the likely reason I didn’t feel like writing.





I got to taste coconut water and munched on raw coconut. After a hard battle, Ed and Mike cracked the nut open and we all got to see the monkey face under the husk.

It’s hard to keep writing when the time is standing still and blazing past. There aren’t defining events to our days on the island. One day rolls into the next … I feel like I am lacking in observation. I’ve got a sufficient amount of hammock time logged. But I have to say I am disappointed with the hammocks here. Instead of giving way and hugging your butt, the middle remains tight and the leisure activity becomes a balancing act.

Everyone else is burned and I feel like I am losing the race somehow. I need to crisp up tomorrow. Need some battle wounds to show off when I finally make it home. So far my limbs are toasted, not fried and my center is still white girl white. Maybe tomorrow I’ll dive without the rash guard. Why am I wishing for skin cancer?? I’m dumb.

This morning a group of us went fishing. I think it was my favorite thing on the trip so far. Weird, right, for a vegetarian? I caught a lot of large snapper, grouper and grunts. The whole boat was pulling them in minute after minute. It was beautiful to be further out on the water and luckily I brought my camera on board. Two of us even managed to pull in two huge barracudas. Using another fish we pulled on board, our driver filleted the meat into little tendrils for bait. Dragged behind a slow moving boat, the fillets look like jellyfish skimming along the water. Perfect for a barracuda dinner. I’m glad I saw those teeth up close the day AFTER I was swimming with them. I loved the opportunity to be out with just a couple of my travel mates. It’s a different dynamic than the full group. For that reason, I hung back again today in the afternoon.


I still haven’t made up my mind about this kind of travel … I think for the most part I don’t like playing by someone else’s rules. Still this place is amazing. The accommodations are unreal, the food outstanding, and the company is pleasant enough. I would still stay another week if I could. Being here alone (ok, with people but not with my people) does make me a little homesick for the laughter of my friends. It makes me ache to be sharing this with someone. I wish I had another person that could brew up this beautiful place again in rendezvous. I yearn for normal conversation, conversations about nothing instead of getting to know you conversations that say nothing about people. It’s funny that the real world doesn’t exist for us. Time is only told by the meal setting and the sun’s arch. Movies, politics, and work don’t get talked about here. Maybe for the better. We don’t have a clue to what is happening in the US right now. The island has a radio to the mainland that they use twice a day for weather reports, or in the off chance of an emergency. Who knows what’s going on out there?

The wind is ripping through my tent … I feel like I may take flight.

Everybody Poops

If you view me as a “girl”, the kind of girl that doesn’t have basic bodily functions… Stop! Look away! Alt + Back Arrow! ALT + BACK ARROW!!!

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Cause what I have to say isn’t dainty or pretty. Or any other adorable feminine adjective.

I feel weird about splicing this in with my travel writings, but today is today and I feel like writing about now.

The online world has made our medical records immediately accessible. Getting blood work on Friday filled my inbox with results on Saturday and left me wondering ‘what the heck do these mean’ until today, when I heard from my doctor. Reading my own charts … I could tell a few things. Simple math showed me that the test on my liver fell within the standard range. Same for the gallbladder. It was the third test that was most important in this ‘threat of an ulcer’ business. The third test for the H. Pylori bacteria (common cause of Peptic Ulcers) result said … Inconclusive.

I understand the human language pretty well. I can confidently say I have a decent knack for words - can offer spellings, definitions and synonyms to people in need. But… what the hell does Inconclusive mean?

I learned today what Inconclusive meant. Inconclusive means more tests. The subtext on the test results said another specimen was needed. "Bummer," I thought to myself, "I have to go back into the clinic to give more blood”. I couldn’t have been more wrong. My doctor told me the bacteria reading in my blood was right on the border and that the specimen they needed was of the fecal variety.

I can’t poop in a jar! I can’t do it. This is when I become completely immature about my ailments. I don’t even know how to poop in jar. Seriously, how does one poop in a jar? They probably don’t need the whole shooting match, right? Just a sample? A sample seems worse! Does that mean I’m going to have to cut up a piece of my own poop? Like a sausage? Oh god, I don’t do sausage!

The lunch table got a little poop talk. I gave warning and it was addressed pre-consumption. Appropriate microwave talk, no? Hypothetical talk of the most comfortable way to contain your own poop came up. I realized there is only one way that would distract me from my own reality. That way is to take a mental camping vacation - go out into nature, dig a hole, place the container in the hole, etcetera. I can do that. I’ve done that. Hmmm … the square of grass behind my building isn’t really a viable option with apartment complexes towering on both sides of my squat. The house I am sitting for on the other hand…

The thing is - this isn’t going to be a hypothetical situation for very long.

Talking over my poop complex over a sociable G-Chat, a friend put things into perspective for me. “Aren’t you glad they are letting you surrender your own poop? I mean, at least they aren’t coming into claim it themselves.” That was actually a pretty comforting thought. Well, as comforting as poop talk can get.

Ha, I was so excited to write about my poop.

Don’t worry. This is something I will figure out on my own and won’t report back with details (unless there is comic value, anything for that).

Belize - Day 4 I think...

The overcast skies are getting a little old. Yes, it’s beautiful to see a sudden downpour roll in over the Caribbean, but I think we are all ready to roast in the sun.

The Schedule (I think I have a hard time playing by someone else’s schedule):

I tend to wake up with the sun each day around 5:30.
7:30 is breakfast.
First activity of the day by 9:30.
Back to the island by noon.
Lunch.
Second activity of the day.
Back to the island by 5:30.
Dinner promptly at 6:30.
By then it’s dark and we sit around talking for a bit.
Most people head towards by 8pm.
As tired as I am, I can’t do the eight o’clock bed time. I refuse to fall asleep any earlier than 10:30. If I can’t convince someone to stay up and play spoons with me, I usually retire to my bed to write or read. The on/off rain has left us all in constant tent-window madness. Up and down and up. As I write this, it is rather stuffy in my tent, but I chose the murky air over the midnight rise to rain and the need to go out of the tent to let secure the window flaps.

This morning we kayaked to a nearby shallow bay for some snorkeling. I wish I would have practiced at home. Me fighting my bathtub with my mask on seemed ridiculous at the time. Now I wish I would have committed to the self-embarrassment. It’s going to take some time to get used to that feeling. But hell, I’ve got nothing but time on this island a handful more opportunities to figure it out. I’m going to do it. Get over the anxiety of distorted breathing. I took my time heading out but made it out to the seahorse eventually. The second half of the day, I hung back to do my own thing. I don’t think I like traveling with the pack 24 hours a day. It was nice to explore the island and get my camera out for what felt like the first time.

I keep being bothered by the lack of music here. I haven’t heard music since the airport in Atlanta. My ipod is still fully charged ... I just haven’t gotten it out. Even though I completely miss my music … I would hate to plug my ears, since I will undoubtedly miss the sound of the tide as soon as I leave this place.

I can’t say that I’ve learned anything fascinating today. Maybe how to calculate a nautical mile.

Even with all these clouds, the group came back before dinner with a reddish hue. Burns through the stormiest of rain clouds. I’m starting to wonder how toxic my skin has become. The slathering process is outrageous. Sun block in the morning and throughout the day. Come 3pm it’s a good time to add a layer or bug spray to deter the sand fleas. Night time I try to wipe down with a cleansing cloth and then add a layer of lotion to get some moisture back into my salt-ridden skin. My toxic derma has stripped the painted labels off my camera. I’ve hardly even used my camera. One day with my fingers of toxic death and suddenly I just have to remember what all the buttons do. Remember?

I haven’t showered since Banana Bank. My hair is a new kind of crazy. I should have taken pictures and made a hair log. I had no idea my hair could do the things it’s doing.

That’s all I’ve got. Everyone is getting more social by the day. AND my swimsuit strap broke … again! These giant jugs just can't be contained, I guess. Glad I brought two suits.