Madame Beeyotch has been elegantly restrained lately except for an errant episode or two. Today, however, she wielded the POWER…
The day started out in an innocuous fashion. We woke up, had coffee–hubs had his portion controlled breakfast of homemade granola and low carb high protein flakes of some sort.
We went to the gym to take a Boot Camp/weight training class. So far, so good. On the way home, we ran a few errands–Trader Joe’s, Target, and stopped to get my glasses adjusted.
Still serene–planets in alignment–all is good. Madame Beeyotch, still restrained, is singing a sweet, calming, and repetitive tune in her head.
Then…Captain Dorko decided we he needed to do a surf check. Stupid ocean. Obviously the waves were looking pretty good as evidenced by the grunts and snorts and exhalations of pleasure that emanated from the driver’s side.
Standup Paddleboard
Hubs just got a standup paddleboard (SUP) and now that there’s no wave small enough to keep him out of the water, he’s gone ALL THE TIME, and right about now it’s kind of getting on my last nerve.
I know what you might be thinking–cut the poor guy some slack; he’s out to sea a lot and he deserves a little r & r. Blah, blah, blah. That’s what I think!
My inner beeyotch can be held back no longer.
I’m thinking of all kinds of painful tortures to inflict upon the surf-obsessed hubs when I realized that he had been talking for quite a while. I only picked up the last part of it.
Him: “… and it’s so cool, I paddled all the way from the power plant past Old Mans and Warm Waters past the jetty to Tamarack. The waves weren’t big, but with that SUP I can have a lot of fun anyway.”
Crickets-Silence-More crlckets.
I’m thinking to myself. He can’t be talking to me. He just couldn’t be sharing all that stupid surf stuff with me.
Him again: “Look” he said, pointing west as we were stopped at a light, “I caught a wave there, and there, and there and…”
Picture this. I’m sitting in the passenger seat. He’s driving. As he’s droning on and on and on AND on about the fun waves he’s been catching every damn day since he got that hateful SUP, I twist all the way around to look in the back seat. I look to the left-I look to the right– I stretch my body as far as it will go and look down with exaggerated movements to see the floor on the back seat.
Him: “What are you doing?”
Me: “I was looking for whoever you were talking to that must give a shit–’cos I don’t!”
(Whom/who–at that point I didn’t care to be correct.)
Him: {Laughing} “You’re really funny, you know that?”
(He honestly thinks I’m funny, he wasn’t kidding.)
Me: “I mean, I heard your lips flapping, waves, blah blah blah—fun, blah, blah, blah– and I thought to myself, he couldn’t possibly be talking to me because he should know that I don’t give a shit about his stupid surfing experiences!”
“You’re lucky I’m so agreeable to all the time you spend playing in the water and ignoring me.”
“But now that you mention it, you’re really getting on my last nerve, so you should prolly think about cutting back on your playtime in the water or I might just have to run up to South Coast Plaza and see what’s new for Spring. Chanel says tweed and feathers are trending right now.”
“Do we understand each other?”
Him: “Are you threatening me with shopping?”
Me: “How perceptive of you. You didn’t need a crystal ball to see where that was going…do we have a deal?”
Him: Arms folded, giving me that look of having tasted defeat…”Where do you want me to install those shelves?. Muttering half to himself as he walks in the garage, “I know when I’ve lost.”
However, it is now almost 5pm and he ran off to the beach with a surfboard this time for an evening glass off session.
He will pay. Oh yes. He will pay. The beeyotch has spoken. Meow.
So the question remains. Who won? Who lost? Surf widow or nice wife? I think you know the answer…
Finishing up three or four posts that aren’t cooperating. They’re not funny enough, they have no point, no denouement, no zing–nada. Instead of a rational thought process, I’ll offer up a scattered smorgasbord of tasty appetizers instead of a whole meal.
Remember these cats?
Our Bandit used to talk to us that way. After a while, I started answering her back. She’d say, “Meow“, I’d respond, “Meow”. She’d stroll into the kitchen and greet me with a head nod and a brief “Mew”. I’d imitate her head nod and answer her. She tried so hard to communicate with us! If we didn’t go to bed at the same time every night–if we stayed up a bit longer than usual–Bandit marched into the family room with an outraged sense of purpose-maintain eye contact–and kind of growly-meow, walk a few steps toward the bedroom, and then walk back to us. If we didn’t follow her, she’d leave in a huff and wait on the bed and if we didn’t move quick enough, one swipe of her her paw let us know she was pissed. She had the sharpest claws. They spoke volumes.
One day, the captain said something to me and I didn’t hear him. Instead of saying, “What did you say?” I said, “Meow?” He seemed to understand what I meant because he repeated himself. That one meow led to complete conversations in cat language. Angry meows, grunting meows, questioning meows, and mews in agreement. We just have to remember not to do it when anyone else is around. I’m not sure many people would understand. Meow?
We worked out at the gym this morning. Before we left, I asked the hubs to take a couple pictures of me. See the hairband with sparkles and the Hello Kitty slippers? Starfish?
Late this afternoon I heard a hawk in the eucalyptus tree across the street. It let me get really close for these pics! The colors were magnificent. I wish I took better photos. Chocolate cake was requested by my tugboat man; I whipped up an easy one bowl version. It was sooo good! It’s lowfat but really moist. The recipe is below.
3/4 cup milk ( I use half non-fat milk and half cold coffee)
1/4 cup cooking oil
1 teaspoon vanilla
1 egg 1. Preheat oven to 350 degree F. Grease and lightly flour a 9×1-1/2-inch round or 8x8x2-inch baking pan.2. In a large mixing bowl combine flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, baking powder, and salt. Add milk, oil, and vanilla. Beat with an electric mixer on low speed just until combined. Beat on medium speed for 2 minutes. Add egg and beat 2 minutes more. Pour batter into prepared pan.
3. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes or until a wooden toothpick comes out clean. Cool cake on a wire rack for 10 minutes. Remove cake from pan. Cool thoroughly on a wire rack. Spread with glaze.
Chocolate Glaze
2 tbsp. butter
1/4 cup cocoa
1 cup confectioners sugar
3 tbsp. water or coffee
1/2 tsp. vanilla
Melt butter in small saucepan over low heat. Stir in cocoa and water. Cook, stirring constantly, until mixture thickens; do not boil. Remove from heat. Stir in vanilla, gradually add confectioners sugar; beat with wire whisk until smooth.
Well…my tugboat man spent pretty much the entire day surfing. He came home at 2:00 p.m and said he had been trying to catch a wave in to shore for over an hour or he would have been back sooner. RIGHT.
Does he think I just fell off the turnip truck? Do I look stupid? I know that trick–the old “I couldn’t get in so I just had to stay surfing until the sun went down and the tide changed” lie.
I was so mad at him for abandoning me that I had to devise a painful retaliation to convey my displeasure. I decided that we were going to go walking in our little village of Carlsbad and go in and out of EVERY shop. That is absolute torture for my hubs, which meant it was perfect. And since I’ve gotten my Chanel, she hasn’t really had a good outing and begged to come along and see and be seen by all the tourists and locals in our little town.
We went to every single store including one where I bought some beautiful seashells, ‘cos, you know, I just don’t have enough seashells. I made him go into antique stores, sandal shops, shoe stores, clothing stores–up and down State Street and Grand Avenue without a moment to rest. When I felt he had been punished sufficiently, we went home and he installed a shelf that he made for my new shells and my seashell box we created together.
There’s more surf tomorrow, so I’ll be thinking of more ways to make his life miserable.
This was our first holiday together after I figuratively walked to the edge of the cliff and jumped off by telling my tugboat man I loved him the first time we shared a cup of coffee.
My son was with his dad for the day. The captain and I went to the gym in the morning for a little holiday workout before they closed at noon. The house was freezing when we got home. I remember going to the thermostat to turn on our central heating. It’s rare that we need the heat on continuously here in SoCal; we use it briefly to take the chill out of the air.
It was (like it still is) a sad home when my son’s not here.
On the way home from the gym we stopped at a liquor store and bought a small bottle of Jagermeister and a bottle of Rumpelmintz.
I was in the bathroom when I heard him. He very quietly said, “Rosebud, will you come into the family room? We need to talk.”
Oh NO, NOT the dreaded we need to talk. This did not sound good. Not good at all.
That’s breakup speak, I just knew it. But on Christmas DAY??? Who would do that? I know we had kind of fast tracked our relationship after that first cup of coffee–he even had been introduced to my son during a work-related event or two and things were moving along great-or so I thought. Maybe things were moving too fast and he was getting cold feet. All kinds of doomsday scenarios were floating around in my head. All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to come out of the bathroom; I stayed there, heart pounding, tears welling up in my eyes. I looked at myself in the mirror.
Why today of all days? What did I do wrong?
I was still wearing my workout gear with an oversized plaid shirt. Nineties grunge, ya know?
At some point I steeled my nerves and came out of the bathroom to get it over with and figure out how to endure a breaking heart.
He was sitting at the small dining table we have in our family room where we eat informal meals. There were a couple of shot glasses filled with Rumplemintz (peppermint schnapps). He looked very serious. I mean, like he planned to deliver really bad news. He pulled out a chair and said, “Have a seat.”
I said, “No. I don’t want to.”
Nice guy. He was going to get me drunk, break up with me, and run out the front door. This could be the worst day of my life. Seriously. He was going to do this before I could get a Christmas present from him? Seriously?
“Oh, come on. I need to tell you something. Come and sit down right here.”
Oh. Shit.
I forced my sad little plaid covered self over to the chair and looked down. I looked anywhere but at HIM. I didn’t want to see him for the very last time.
He wasn’t saying anything. I could feel him looking at me. At that point, I was thinking to myself, oh hell–just get it over with already! I gotta get myself a gallon of ice cream and start on it asap.
Finally, he reached over, took my hand and said, ” I need you to know that I love you.”
WHAT? You set me up for a break up scenario and you were planning to tell me that you loved me? WTF?
I had anticipated the worst possible outcome. Instead, once again–he surprised me.
Crap. I can’t go any further with this story! He just told me that I can’t write the rest of what he said ‘cos it’s private–not for anyone to hear but me is what he said–but I can tell you it was lovely and sweet, and I’m so glad he’s here now–home for Christmas–because I’m always reminded of that first year.
If you don’t have to drive anywhere, try our special holiday tradition cocktail, the Reindeer: mix equal parts Jagermeister and Rumplemintz. Very potent!
Where did your most memorable “I love you” take place?
I’m going to spend the next couple of days reading and commenting on a crapload of posts piled up in the old inbox–oh yeah, and enjoying the homecoming of my very own tugboat man! Merry Christmas to all and I hope you all get the presents you asked Santa for! Hugs and kisses from SoCal
xoxo
The little sign says Princess Rosebud but it doesn’t show up very good
A miracle occurred and at the very last minute, my tugboat man has been released from his assignment and is on the long journey home. Because of the great distance he must travel, it takes two days but he’ll be arriving on Friday, which means another drive to the airport at midnight. It’s an unexpected joy, and in honor of this great occasion, I have written a poem based very loosely on “Twas The Night Before Christmas“. It won’t win any prizes, that’s for sure!
Twas the night before arrival
when all through the house
there was a lot of vacuuming and bleach
with not a single dust bunny too far to reach.
The sign says Princess Rosebud but it’s hard to see.
The f-me boot was hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Capt Cranky wouldn’t be too tired to…you know, (overshare).
The sheets are perfumed and ironed with care
because FINALLY my tugboat man would soon be there.
There’s granola and cookies and cupcakes, too
And vodka and whiskey, and champagne flutes.
Let’s all hope I can find that missing corkscrew.
I did a mani and a pedi and some ‘scaping, too
for the reason that you-know-who would heed the clue
I’ll drive to the airport and what might I find
but a very, very tired husband who’s ever so kind.
And what to my wondering eyes will appear
but last minute gifts so shiny and sheer.
And I in my vintage Valentino
and he in his new fuzzy robe
will sit by the fire and sip champs ever so slow.
Just a cup of coffee, the love story of Princess Rosebud and her tugboat man.
(This might take a while-it could have been broken up into three parts, but I didn’t want to prolong the happy ending!)
Fast forward to a year later, the following September 1991.
Yes, I kept my promise; no dates and no mistakes. There was the excruciating lure of nubile and suntanned young surfers but I stood firm in my resolve in spite of the half naked, salty-skinned–oh crap. Living in Southern California is sooo like opening up a fresh box of candy. It wasn’t fair, but a deal’s a deal.
If only I could have had just a teensy-weensy bite here, a bite there–oh, SOyummy–that one has a caramel center, or that other one’s coconut-filled, or a tart juicy cherry embraced by dark chocolate, or full of Baileys Irish Cream–er–you get what I’m sayin’? I’ll just bet you do. On my towel, surveying the beach, I wanted to take a little bite out of each one (so to speak).
But….I had to go cold turkey and avoid them all. Not one lick, not one taste. I had a goal, I had a vision; I had my list–clenched tightly in my hand–WILLPOWER–it’s all about the willpower.
I first laid eyes on the captain when I was hired for the marketing department of a local cruise line. The whole idea of me and boats is a joke. I’m not what you’d consider sea-worthy. I’d only been on a couple of boats previously and became violently seasick on both of those trips.
Now, my tugboat man and I discuss it. Was it merely coincidence–meaninglessly simultaneous occurence–or synchronicity? During romantic moments in front of the fire, we agree that it was meant to be. We’re two peas in a pod, me and him. We mirror each other.
One of my first marketing duties was to attend a downtown trade show. I vividly recall my ensemble–and before you get all judge-y and everything, let’s take the year into consideration–1991–please be kind. You know you looked exactly the same. You KNOW you did. I wore a short split skirt (dare I say skort) of silky polyester-type material (I know, I know) imprinted with brightly colored parrots (cringe), a turquoise blazer, and four-inch-high red heels. Oh, and they were LARGE parrots. I’m five-feet-tall with very curly dark brown hair. You can imagine the style when I tell you it added five inches to my height. Nuff said–stop laughing, I have nothing to apologize for; it was the decade of big hair.
The owner of the company walked by our booth and introduced me to his senior captain. I played it cool; I’m good at that–just a quick handshake and then I turned my attention to the marketing materials like I was very, very busy.
I only allowed myself a passing glance his way, committed as I was to making a good impression on my boss. Plus, I was fully dedicated to my promise and just because he was ADORABLE was no excuse to give in to temptation. Not even with those green-gray eyes. Not even. Since I was on a “man diet, I transformed him (in my mind) into a rich chocolaty truffle and successfully used my powers to resist–at least on that particular day. During the next few weeks, our paths crossed many times; at the office with brief hellos in the hallway, and with overt scrutiny during cruises when I accompanied some of the charters. (When I wasn’t stuck with my head in the toilet.)
As much as I tried to deny it–I can’t lie–there were those familiar little tingles, goose bumps even, delicious frissons of attraction. On one hand I was fighting it with all I had, yet on the other hand I spent more time in the office than I really needed to. A little extra makeup, perfume, a few new outfits–you know how it is. OK OK, I admit it! A smile from him did something to my insides, that fluttery butterfly sensation I willed myself to ignore. I carried The List in my handbag and referred to it in moments of weakness, and for a while I was able to avoid temptation.
In mid-November, I met with a client at one of the boats to plan a large corporate event. As we walked up the gangway, I discovered the captain was on board in the wheelhouse. I had no idea he would be there, and resolved to ignore him, except that everyone always wants to meet a captain, (too much Love Boat) so I was forced to be polite and make the introductions.
Here’s where it all went wrong-or right-depending on your point of view.
After my meeting ended, I did not immediately leave. I stalled, meandering around the small area of shops located near the harbor. I was so mad at ME; I tried to talk myself into leaving by going over The List and telling myself that I should be writing up the event details. Just GO, I said to myself! But guess who didn’t listen? I found myself furtively looking around to see if the captain was still there. Since the whole chocolate visualization thing didn’t seem to be working anymore, I turned him into as a gooey, cheesy, spicy pizza and I used all my willpower to stand firm–to stay focused–recounting all the reasons why that delicious piece of heaven is not worth the calories.
I swear to you, I had every good intention of leaving and driving to the corporate office, I really did, but cosmic forces were taking over. I was powerless. The hand of fate had me in her grip–and that chicka had been working out with the heavy weights!
Finally, I could find no excuse to drag my feet and delay my departure. I walked to my car, which was parked in front of a coffee shop, and as if by magic, the captain appeared.
“Where are you going? Why didn’t you say goodbye? “How about buying a co-worker a cup of coffee?”
I demurred, saying I had to go, I had another appointment (not true); uh, I don’t buy guys coffee, and he kept badgering me,
“C’mon, don’t be stuck up, don’t you have fifty cents for a cup of coffee?”
(That was before $6.00 lattes and Starbucks on every corner.)
“You don’t want me to think you’re a snob, do you?”
{pause}
Of course you understand why I wouldn’t want him to think any of those things, right? RIGHT? It was a matter of pride; once he turned on his charm, I was hooked. I unearthed a few quarters from the bottom of my handbag. Yes, I bought the coffee. It’s something I can’t believe myself.
My other credo had always been, “Princesses don’t pay. Men pay.” But buy the coffee I did.
Honestly, I was borderline pathetic. It’s like sparks were flying off his body. I made every excuse in the book to lean over and oops, accidentally brush his arm and cop a sniff. He smelled heavenly. It’s that damn pheromone thing. I was–still am-hopelessly–magically attracted. He’s irresistible. And he knows it.
We took our coffee outside and sat at a cement patio table. It was one of those perfect SoCal November days–balmy even. For a few moments we said nothing as we sipped from our coffee and enjoyed the warmth of the sun.
Red lights flashed on and off in my head.
DANGER AHEAD! STOP THE MISSION! RUN!
Less than a foot away from me he straddled the half-moon shaped concrete bench. His thighs were encased in soft worn jeans and my thoughts were heading into hazardous waters. His hair was wet and looked like he just had showered.
“What are you doing here? Did you know I was going to be here?”
“No, I didn’t, I had to update the logs, and I surfed a bit earlier.”
Ah, that’s where the wet hair came from.
“So, you’re a surfer?”
That is most definitely NOT on my list.
“I like to think I am.”
Scintillating conversation, huh? I thought that was a bit arrogant, a bit–AHEM–cocky.
As the conversation unfolded and I learned more about him–like where he lived and where he had gone to college, and–those thighs, oh wait–no, not that–of course I meant what kind of music he liked and that he loves animals–I found myself listening to his voice but not hearing the words.
This is where it gets weird. And pinky-swear, it’s all true, it all happened exactly like this. It was REAL.
He looked at me and smiled.
I felt lit from within. My heart melted. (Even now, his smiles affect me the same way.)
I sighed. He sighed. I sighed again.
That was IT.
Everything became quiet and a calm-before-the-storm sensation enveloped me. I placed my hands on the bench because I was suddenly lightheaded–I needed support because I felt like the ground beneath shifted; waves that triggered that falling phenomenon just before you completely succumb to sleep–like a hypnagogic myoclonic twitch.
Faintly, I sensed the planets tumble into position, the click… click… click… of stars aligning in the heavens; the sun, moon, Venus, and Mars at that moment were singing in the universe.
Did we just have an earthquake? I jumped off the bench like it was on fire. I ran to my car, unable to deal with the intensity of the moment. He was right behind me. He was so annoying!
“Where ya goin’? We should go out sometime.”
I was having a hard time breathing and fumbled with my keys as I unlocked the car. I leaned against the door for support and turned to him,
“When? Tonight?”
In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not known for being subtle.
“I have to work a charter later, I’ll give you a call.”
Of course, I never went back to work. Who could blame me?
I raced home and power-called all my girlfriends. I was in panic mode. I reported every detail to one friend after another. I needed advice, I needed explanations. I needed to be talked down. But no one had experienced anything comparable. No one knew what to do.
I was on this voyage alone; no rules to follow. I was in uncharted waters.
That evening I did what we are warned not to do, what mothers counsel daughters against.
I was nervous and jumping out of my skin, but also determined to be 100% honest (also on my list). How else would I know if he was “the one”? I called and left a message on his voicemail. Remember way back when we used voicemail?
“Hi, can you give me a call when you hear this message? There’s something I need to ask you.”
He called a couple hours later. I was on my bed, reading a magazine, pretending I was not waiting for the call…dreading the call.
“Hi there, it’s me. I got your message, but I was planning to call you anyway. What’s up?”
I took a deep breath and decided it was now or never–I needed to go for it…take that chance. DO it.
”Uhh, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened at the harbor…I never felt anything like that EVER, and I think… I think…”
Oh boy. In that single, painful, heartstopping moment I wished I could hit delete and erase the last five minutes. Palms sweaty, heart pounding, OMG, I am a total f-ing idiot–what have I just said–I’m insane, he’ll think I’m a freak or I’m exhibiting psycho pre-stalker tendencies–and then, finally, it seemed like hours of silence had gone by–I was gonna hang up and hide under my bed if he didn’t say something–he said,
“Umm, no, it’s not just you. I’m feeling the same exact way. Something happened to me today too, and I can’t explain it either. How about us going on a real date and let’s talk about it?”
I released the breath I hadn’t been aware I was still holding. That last planet locked into position. I discovered my soul mate, my tugboat man.
There’s lots more to this story; some twists and turns and ups and downs, but the thread that ties it all together is how we found each other and fell in love.
Today: I wait for him to come home. And wait. And wait. And remind myself, ”Don’t count the miles, count the I-love-yous”
…there’s nothing you can do that can’t be done, nothing you can sing that can’t be sung, nothing you can say, but you can learn how to play the game, it’s easy, all you need is love, all you need is love, all you need is love, love, love is all you need. – The Beatles
If only that were true, right? I am the honored recipient of some hot love from Cowboys and Crossbones in the form of One Lovely Blog Award. With lots of love right back to CBXB, I’ll try to do justice to the love! THANKS CHICKA! YOU ROCK!
The rules are simple: to share seven random things about myself and to nominate seven other worthy bloggers.
Where to begin. Where to begin. I’ve shared so much, I wonder what’s left? (It’s no secret I love seashells and shopping and my Angel Boy child.)
1. I totally crush on Tina Fey. She’s smart and funny and pretty and very powerful.
2. I’m petrified to walk across running water, like a creek.
3. When the captain’s gone, I change all of the buttons on his car radio to my favorite station and place Hello Kitty stickers all over his truck-interior and exterior, just to annoy him.
5. I was once the bathing suit centerfold model for a trade magazine for police officers. Don’t even think about me posting any pix. Don’t even think about it.
While I’m hard at work on a new post–or maybe it’s a chapter of my book...please enjoy the musical interlude.
It’s a dedication–of sorts–to the physical representation of the disembodied voice of my tugboat man. And while the lyrics might say, “all I want for Christmas is you” and that IS true in an existential way, it’s not the only thing I want for Christmas/Hannukah. Yes, I did get my Chanel Grand Shopper Tote, I mean, I could hardly represent my hood without it. Yo. But now I need the matching wallet. And although the GST is a roomy, serviceable day bag, I still very much need the 2.55 with the gold chain for all of my sparkling evening events. Which right now is zero, but once Tina Fey realizes that I am going to be her most prolific, witty, banter filled writing and producing partner, then I’ll be showing up at all the MAJOR parties. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m very, very good, I’ll be able to negotiate with my tugboat miser man and work out a mutually satisfactory deal, if ya know where I’m going with that. Wink. Wink.
P.S. And if you’re thinking to yourself…well, try this…imagine me imagining you with a thought bubble, “Is she really this shallow?” and maybe you’re getting a bad taste in your mouth about this whole “enchanted” person and her apparent obsession with Chanel and shopping, what if I was just a really good writer–but I’m a seventy-year-old MAN–or what if I was really the mariner, and I’m the one on a tugboat, and I have a scruffy blondish/silvery beard and all the boy parts and this is my secret persona–WHAT THEN, huh? Paradigm shift? Could be, ya never know…
I’m thinking of all kinds of painful tortures to inflict upon the surf-obsessed hubs when I realized that he had been talking for quite a while. I only picked up the last part of it.
Picture this. I’m sitting in the passenger seat. He’s driving. As he’s droning on and on and on AND on about the fun waves he’s been catching every damn day since he got that hateful SUP, I twist all the way around to look in the back seat. I look to the left-I look to the right– I stretch my body as far as it will go and look down with exaggerated movements to see the floor on the back seat.
However, it is now almost 5pm and he ran off to the beach with a surfboard this time for an evening glass off session.
