Welcome to Mee-am-mee

I actually wrote this on a piece of paper (I know, who uses paper anymore?) in the Miami airport while waiting for my flight back to NY.

It seems weird to be writing about my trip and first impression of Miami as I’m sitting at the airport getting ready to leave. The flight to Mee-am-mee, as the locals say it, was uneventful despite intermittent bumpiness and the woman who kept kicking my seat. Past the age of five, the seat kicking thing is unacceptable as the dirty look I tossed her way expressed, ineffectively I must admit.

While still sitting on the Newark tarmac, I noticed three very tan, metrosexual guys boarding the plane with their perfectly coiffed, flammable hair and their shiny Ray-Ban sunglasses that glistened like the rest of them. Dressed in fitted jeans with brightly colored polos that popped against their bronzed skin, they didn’t look over the top which is why I assumed they were not of the Jersey contingency. They were clearly headed home to South Beach, which is exactly when I realized that I dressed like Morticia Addams on a casual day was not going to fit into the SoBe lifestyle.

First impressions…Miami is hot, from the weather to the beautiful people that bare it all, it’s a steamy city. I was sent down to South Beach on business and while I was actually resistant to going, I’m glad I finally got to see a snap shot of this very distinct cultural mecca, strewn with art deco. As I assumed, Miami has a heavily infused Latin flavor, but there’s also a clear European influence where they make a life of leisure look incredibly chic. And the people are confident, in a nutshell. From the bare-chested homeless man playing on his bongos while showing off his toothless grin to passersby, to the women walking around in their bikinis down in the shopping district, relying solely on the humidity to keep their bathing suits glued to their bodies, the people in Miami are comfortable in their skin. And even though there were some you wished had chosen a cover up before stepping out that day, that kind of confidence is admirable.

Miami is a sensory experience, much like NYC, but what your senses pick up sound, smell and feel completely different. If I think of Manhattan, I can smell dirty (hot) dogs in a second. Miami smelled like an open bottle of Banana Boat suntan lotion. In NYC you can hear the nonstop energy of people constantly moving and doing. The traffic, the footsteps, the subways, you hear constant momentum. In Miami, you hear music and the sound of leisure, be it laughter, ice cubes rolling around in a glass or rollerblades hitting the pavement by the beach. NYC is not without these sounds but what your senses predominantly pick up is often indicative of the kind of lifestyle that surrounds you.

South Beach was certainly a change of pace with a different kind of energy that exudes a love of life and a good time. Why wouldn’t I want to be part of this all the time? Truthfully, the girl that embraces black, is far from being a sun bunny and hates humidity (did I mention how hot it was?), enjoyed the snap shot but would happily take the smell of dirty dogs to sun tan lotion any day.

PS, if you've never been, one should stop by Mangos in SoBe. It's a bar with a dedicated tropical theme. There's dancing on the bar...even the men...without shirts! It's fun for everyone!

It always happens in three’s

FIRST
It began on Saturday when I was sitting on the toilet lid and leaned over to the pet Miss Kitty. I went forward while the lid slid back in an unnatural way. Hal witnessed the whole thing and we both realized that I had broken it. But when he asked me, did you just break our toilet? I looked him square in the chest and said, no. Yet, when I went to stand up and had to push the lid back into place, I succumbed to the guilt even while repeating, it’s fine, it’s fine. I guess a trip to Home Depot is in order.


SECOND
Anticipating a hot weekend, Hal put in all of our air conditioners last Thursday. The mother of all our ACs sits in a large living room window, is 12,000 btu’s (I really don’t know what this means but I know it’s a good thing) and has been effective at cooling off our entire area. So Sunday, when it was disgustingly humid and everything felt sticky and damp, Hal went to plug in the air conditioner. But the reset button wouldn’t reset making our relatively new AC defunct. Understandably, Hal was frustrated since it’s only two years old and trying to get it serviced is as convenient and cost effective as purchasing a brand new one. He of course took the machine apart (because why wouldn’t you?) but there was no blinking light signaling “I’m the broken part”. I guess a trip to Sears or Costco is in order.


THIRD
I needed to print out something for the wedding, a piece that required Hal’s pagination* skills. We struggled with this piece between laying it out, printing it straight and cutting it to size. During the process, I was getting more and more frustrated but my very patient fiancé managed to talk me down from the ledge long enough to remind me that we’re only going to do this once so we should enjoy this time. Just as we hit our groove and like a well-oiled machine things were progressing smoothly, our printer stopped working. As Hal put it, there’s no power going to it. All I heard was it’s broken. At that point I just wanted to yell, Nooo, not the printer tooo. I guess a trip to Staples is in order?? Nope! Fortunately, Hal managed to use his wits and talent to fix our finicky printer and half past midnight we were back on track. Thank goodness for levelheaded fiancés who know how to rally when their brides-to-be are not feeling this special, special time.

And at the end of the day, after everything seemed like it was breaking and technology and toilet lids wouldn’t cooperate, Hal sat me outside to stargaze for a moment. And that’s when we saw a red moon! It was very low in the sky and gorgeous. I’ve never seen that before. After this frustrating trifecta of mishaps, this crescent of a fireball in the sky was like being given the cherry on top of a melting sundae. And I thoroughly enjoyed it.


*Pagination is the system by which the information on a newspaper, bookpage, manuscript, or otherwise handwritten, printed or displayed document is laid out. I know, there’s really an official name for this, and it’s considered a system!

And then there was that time...

I was shopping in Urban Outfitters back during the Beantown days of college when the 20 bucks in my pocket was for lunch, dinner, and a shopping “spree”. It had to be the end of winter since most of the warmer clothing was on sale. I pulled out this soft, very thick furry piece of clothing whose purpose was indeterminable at the time. On the hanger, it looked like a very short skirt made out of the fur of a blond bear. The top opening was slightly narrower than the bottom, it had no visible zippers, and while it was definitely mini-sized I figured with thick tights, it could pass for cute. Did I mention how incredibly soft it was?!

I waited in a very long line to try this on, like Disney World long. I noticed a couple of people including the Outfitters peeps eyeing my find skeptically. It’s not a good sign when the people at the store look unsure about their merchandise. In the dressing room, I confirmed there were no zippers so I just pulled it on up to my waist. I felt silly immediately, and if it weren’t for my utter, overriding curiosity for answers about this bear hide, I wouldn’t have stepped out of the dressing room to show my friend and the rest of the Urban world my “outfit”.

My friend just kind of stared at me. Neither of us could really find the words to express the ridiculousness of it. But one of the Outfitter’s salespeople managed to speak after looking at me up and down.

“Um, sweetie, that’s supposed to be a tube top”.

Oh. So I guess I’ll have to wear more than thick tights to pull this look off…I actually wasn’t as mortified as I probably should’ve been. It was more of an “ah ha” moment, riddled solved, I now feel closure about this furry apparel. All is well with the world again.

Nowadays, the only soft, fur-like pieces I own are blankets but I occasionally think back to that "skirt" and wonder if I could've rocked it anyway.

Hair! Flow it, Show it

I went to get my hair trimmed yesterday. It needed it as the ends were getting a bit tired and worn. When I told my hair dresser I only wanted an inch cut off, she looked displeased. “Alright…” she said in a tone I found rather judgmental to be honest. It was like she was channeling my mother who always wants me to get my hair chopped off short, like a cut I had circa 1991, and my requested proverbial inch was such a disappointment.

And then the hairdresser asked me, “does Hal like it long?” as if that was the reason I’ve been keeping it this length since 2003 (four years before I even met Hal). When I said yes, because he actually does like it long, she nodded her head knowingly, that’s what I expected. I wanted to explain that Hal’s opinion really doesn’t influence what I do with my hair. The only opinion that matters is mine quite frankly, and I love it long. Please let me repeat, I love it long.

If Hal told me tomorrow that he would love to see my hair short, I would say so would my hairdresser and my mother but it’s not going to happen.

It’s funny how people will provide their opinions on everything especially when they’re unsolicited. And when you don’t agree, they get miffed. I don’t get that. Why is it people feel that their opinion of your appearance (or job, or lifestyle, or life choices) is more important than your own? As if they know better.

It makes me wonder if people, by sharing their opinions and suggestions and judgments, are really seeking validation, and even in the most innocuous, inconsequential situations. If I suddenly decided to cut my hair short, would my hairdresser feel more influential and therefore more empowered, at least at that moment because that’s what she wanted? What does it matter? Ultimately, the length and shape of my hair has no real impact on anyone else’s life but my own.

Maybe the roots (pun intended) of this issue do not run so psychologically deep at all and people are not that complicated. Maybe it’s just about being able to say, “See, I was right.”

So at the end of the trim, when she said, “Alright Jennifer, we didn’t cut much off but it does look beautiful,” I thought to myself, See, I was right.

The mouse

It was after midnight when we arrived at the beach house in Virginia on Sunday (well technically Monday I guess). It’s located at the end of a dark, desolate road that Hal’s grandmother aptly describes as spooky, especially at night. The house itself was lit up, a comforting welcome at the end of a long trip.

When Ariel, Hal’s aunt, is there we’re usually greeted by her dogs, but this time we were met with just the sound of the waves hitting the beach. That alone seemed to make the drive worth it.

The house had been vacant for a while and it was somewhat evident of that, but we didn’t care. There were beds waiting for us, and the beach was a stone’s throw away. What more could we need?

We were just about to head up to bed when I saw it, a small mouse that had gotten stuck to one of those sticky pad traps (the worst kind by the way). The poor little mouse with its huge terrified eyes was helplessly scrambling to get his two back feet free from this torture trap. Hal and I looked at each other and we both knew we needed to help it. They say there’s no rest for the weary; well, there’s also no rest for the guilt stricken.

A few months ago, Hal had actually researched how to remove a mouse from a sticky pad after this very situation occurred at my office. Unfortunately, that mouse’s fate was doomed at the time, since none of us thought to Google how to save a mouse from the most inhumane trap in existence. But this time, Hal and I were armed with a solution.

Canola oil. Hal had read that cooking oil would release the mouse from the trap so we carried everything outside and I attempted to dab his little feet with the oil. Even though his feet managed to become unstuck, he started to scramble rapidly causing other parts of his body to stick to the pad. What an unfortunate sight. Eventually, we just poured the oil onto the pad in hopes that the underside of his body would become so coated he’d just slip right off. And indeed, this tiny fur ball broke free! I “Yay-ed” with glee and much relief. Of course, after all that the first thing the mouse tried to do was run back inside the house, unsuccessfully. Crisis (and guilt) averted.

The next morning, we awoke to a cool breeze and the serenity of the beach, and the hope that the little mouse was also enjoying another day of scurrying about along the sand.

And then there was that time…

Hal decided he’d practice his karate moves on me. In an effort to swing his leg over my head, his foot caught the side of my head and hit me with a thwack. While the force didn’t render me unconscious, we definitely both looked at each other like, did that really just happen?

That may or may not have also been the time Hal put on all his black Under Armour gear which is skin tight, including the head gear, and pranced around our house like a ninja. Do ninja’s prance? I know there were attempts to leap out and scare me as well as spontaneous kicking.

How is it we don't have our own show on Bravo yet...