On April 10, 1912, Titanic departed Southampton, England, on her maiden voyage to New York City. She sank five days later on the morning of April 15th after hitting an iceberg four hundred miles off the coast of Nova Scotia.
My tugboat man is a true waterman on land, too. When he’s not driving tugboats all around the world’s oceans and waterways, he’s surfing big and small waves here in SoCal.
When my tugboat man is home between assignments, he likes to assemble models. Of boats. He’s especially fascinated with Titanic. I wrote about it here:Building A Paper Titanic.
This time he created an adorable tiny sparkly silver Titanic, about six inches long, using tweezers and a magnifying glass.
The details are so precious!Isn’t it the cutest little thing, and so sparkly?The assembled model right next to the picture on the box.Nope, no jokes, not going there LOLOn the dock.I’ve searched on the internet for different models that my water loving mariner might like. I found some elaborate tugboat designs, but they’re very expensive, in the $300-$400 range. That’s a BIT pricey for something that’ll eventually sit on a shelf to be dusted by moi.
I hope you enjoy a repeat of one of my most clicked on posts of 2012 while I get ready for my son and DIL who are visiting for a couple of days and my tugboat man who’ll be home on December 23. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. …..
Don’t HATE…EMULATE!
It was last year that I was inspired by other topnotch decorators who so kindly blogged about their DIYChristmas tree masterpieces.
In fact, I was so inspired and so thrilled to be stuck here all alone for the millionth time during the holidays that I created a masterpiece of my own, just for you, my loving internet family.
As I looked around my house, the elliptical seemed like it had the best “bones” to adorn.
I didn’t have any Maxi-pads or other feminine hygiene products–‘cos THAT ship has sailed–if you know what I mean. (Hey cool, a nautical reference jauntily tossed in. Damn, I’m good!)
I added a toilet paper garland, a couple of Sophie Kinsella novels, two glittery seashell ornaments, a bottle of wine in the beverage holder, a white plastic poinsettia, a few EMPTY gift bags, and a festive plush Hello Kitty toy.
You can’t really see it very good, but there’s a chocolate bar too, which I don’t have to share with anyone! I’m such a lucky girl! This is the best use I’ve found for the elliptical. Hanging freshly ironed shirts hanging on it is a close second.
Now you can carry on with your day; just take a moment to let it all sink in.
The moral of the story is that it might not be a good idea to leave Princes Rosebud alone for long periods of time.
Don’t HATE…Emulate.
Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife
Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife
(This might take a while, grab your hankies, 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.
Here’s where serendipity might have had a hand in the convergence of our lifepaths.
In the beginning, I THOUGHT I first laid eyes on the captain when I was hired for the marketing department of a local cruise line.
Aside…because 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.
OK, now read this – could it be the hand of fate that brought us together? Was our eventual connection forged a decade before ?
_________________________________________________
Was it luck or serendipity?
On a romantic evening In front of the fire with a couple snifters of Courvoisier, my tugboat man and I concluded that our paths did cross, not in a prior life, but…
In the 1980s he captained a charter vessel in our local harbor–tours of the bay, dinner cruises; that kind of thing.
In between going out to sea for four to six months, he’d come back to SoCal for a break and to surf-and worked locally.
Around that same time, my mom and I took my then five-year-old son on his first boat ride, a tour of San Diego Bay.
At that time, there was really only one boat company that offered daily excursions.
It wasn’t until we had been married for probably ten years or so– looking through an old photo album–when he saw a pic of my mom and me on “his” boat — that the subject came up.
(That’s part of me and the Coronado Bridge. Obviously, my mom couldn’t take a decent pic.)
Since there were only two captains, and the time of day we were there was during his (remembered) shift, it’s highly possible that we spoke–or made eye contact. As captain, he always greets and counts the passengers while he collects boarding passes; especially because we had a child with us. Always concerned with safety, my captain.
Our ships DID, most likely, PASS in the night (day).
What would have happened if we had talked? I was married with a little boy–the timing was absolutely not right.
Did we each hold on to a momentary glance or imprint on our subconscious so that our path to romance was pre-determined?
Why did I become employed at a cruise line when I don’t even like boats?
I still have no idea.
That we met in 1991 and felt an instant connection might be interpreted as luck or serendipity.
Which do you think it is?
_______________________________________________________________
Back to the story: Was it merely coincidence–meaninglessly simultaneous occurance–or synchronicity? 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 to celibacy 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. I told you the truth, I’m not a natural seawoman.)
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.
Here comes the good part, y’all.
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 had grabbed hold of my good sense.
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 further excuse to drag my feet and delay the inevitable departure.
I very reluctantly and slowly walked to my car, parked in front of a coffee shop, and as if by magic, the captain appeared.
I was trying to act all cool and nonchalant in spite of the fact that my heart was racing.
“Where are you going? Why didn’t you say goodbye? “What’s up?” “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 six-dollar lattes and Starbucks on every corner.)
“You don’t want me to think you’re a snob, do you?”
[pause]
That did it.
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. Not even borderline. I was hanging on to the cliff with my fingertips.
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.
Later I learned that he had spent much of his youth in Kauai and he really was/is a great surfer, but I didn’t know much about him — only what I was feeling.
As the conversation unfolded and we chatted–he told me 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.”
And with that, I drove off.
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”
I will speak in third person, not sure why, but that’s how I’m feeling at this exact moment so that’s how I’ll roll.
Princess Rosebud had a terrible, horrible, no good, VERY BAD DAY.
Her arms are crossed, lower lip jutting out, brow furrowed (as much as a Botoxed brow can be) and she’s stomping her foot.
A melt-down is imminent.
The day had started out in spectacular fashion.
Her Tugboat Man was FINALLY! COMING HOME!
He had been gone for almost a month and Princess Rosebud missed him a lot especially since he had been absent during the whole retinal tear/laser surgery episode as well as the “meeting Al Gore” event.
The house was spotless; the bed freshly made with 800 thread count linens that had been ironed and perfumed (with Chanel), ‘cos even a tough tugboat captain gets tired of smelling diesel fuel all the time and he appreciates the little things.
After hitting the trifecta: Trader Joe’s, BevMo, and Sprouts, she dragged nine bags of groceries from her car to the house and up the flight of steps to reach the kitchen (they live in a Southern California tri-level). She then walked back down to the garage to bring up a bottle of Gruet champagne and a couple bottles of wine.
Taking care of the most important chore first, Princess Rosebud placed the champagne and a bottle of chardonnay in the refrigerator and gathered together flour, cocoa, sugar, and eggs for a baking session.
The special welcome home menu would be Caesar Salad with homemade dressing, freshly baked French bread, and a (hopefully) moist and fudgey decadent chocolate cake.
Taking a brief moment to drink a glass of refreshing lemon water, she opened her computer to check for an email from her Tugboat Man with specific flight details. The airport is about forty minutes away and takes much longer if there’s traffic, and there’s usually tons of traffic.
This is what she found in her Inbox:
From MASTER XXXXXX Bad news they’re asking me to do another trip. I’ve asked them to keep looking for someone else but it’s a possibility. Not happy, sorry.
(She pounded out a swift reply, of course all in caps.)
To MASTER XXXXXX ARE YOU KIDDING ME? I JUST WENT GROCERY SHOPPING FOR YOU. OMG. IS THIS A JOKE?
(Storm clouds on the horizon. An upset Princess is NOT a good thing to behold.)
From MASTER XXXXXX I am not kidding. I will have more time off when I do get home. Just trying to look at the bright side. Now you can eat for a while. I will call you tomorrow with the final word. Love you.
To MASTER XXXXXX I don’t know what to say.
(She had a lot to say, but didn’t want to say anything she’d regret at a later date.)
From MASTER XXXXXX You and me both honey.
What was Princess going to do? She had been so very excited to see her Tugboat Man and he was now delayed for two weeks because his relief captain was unable to take over for some reason.
It’s not like this never happens in the life of a professional mariner.
It’s always a possibility.
Other mariner spouses have all experienced the “delay”. Either the assignment lasts longer than expected, or another obstacle presents itself.
Like this. Like having to work an extra two weeks because the company is in a bind.
That’s why most of the time Princess doesn’t allow herself to get too excited or plan anything until she knows he’s at the airport and on his way.
But this story has a happy ending. Sort of.
No, her Tugboat Man didn’t get a reprieve; he’s still scheduled to return around the 26th, but Princess’ friend came over and helped her drown her sorrows with a couple of bottles of wine purchased for the homecoming celebration.
A different ending than one of Angel Boy’s favorite childhood books…
…but the message is the same.
We can learn to cope when things don’t go our way — and in my case, a few glasses of wine turned my frown upside down!
I hope you enjoy a repeat of one of my most clicked on posts of 2012 while I spend a little time with my tugboat man and my son, Angel Boy. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. ….. …..
It was last year that I was inspired by other topnotch decorators who so kindly blogged about their DIYChristmas tree masterpieces.
In fact, I was so inspired and so thrilled to be stuck here all alone for the millionth time during the holidays that I created a masterpiece of my own, just for you, my loving internet family.
As I looked around my house, the elliptical seemed like it had the best “bones” to adorn.
I didn’t have any Maxi-pads or other feminine hygiene products–‘cos THAT ship has sailed–if you know what I mean. (Hey cool, a nautical reference jauntily tossed in. Damn, I’m good!)
I added a toilet paper garland, a couple of Sophie Kinsella novels, two glittery seashell ornaments, a bottle of wine in the beverage holder, a white plastic poinsettia, a few EMPTY gift bags, and a festive plush Hello Kitty toy.
You can’t really see it very good, but there’s a chocolate bar too, which I don’t have to share with anyone! I’m such a lucky girl! This is the best use I’ve found for the elliptical. Hanging freshly ironed shirts hanging on it is a close second.
Now you can carry on with your day; just take a moment to let it all sink in.
The moral of the story is that it might not be a good idea to leave Princes Rosebud alone for long periods of time.
Don’t HATE…Emulate.
Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife
Property of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife
The Continuing Saga of Princess Rosebud and her Tugboat Man
Day 30…thirty days and thirty long nights since my tugboat man has been away.
He’s on the move–closer to land–and his cell works! He called last night. Other than the five minute satellite telephone call on our anniversary a couple weeks ago, this was the only time we’ve spoken. It was so unexpected. What a surprise to see his name pop up on my screen!
I always ask the same thing, “When are you coming home?” The answer this time was the answer he usually gives me; he doesn’t know, it could be now or in a month. “…you’ll be the first to know.” Dry humor.
The unpredictable life of a mariner
Some mariners have a regular schedule: three weeks on, three weeks off or two weeks on and two weeks off or even a month on and a month off. In the world of ocean-going tugs, there is no such certainty. One of my captain’s recent assignments was estimated to last two months and it dragged on for a full four months due to several factors–including weather related issues.
Weather
There’s always weather. Right now, the project he’s on has had a lot of weather delays. If there are storms, high winds, and high seas, it’s neither prudent nor safe for a tug to proceed, and that entails a wait or what they call “on standby” until it clears.
What do you think about that? Do you think that uncertainty is a relationship hardship?
Things weren’t always so idyllic for us.
Did you think it was?
Before we met (at the company where we both worked), the captain had plotted a career move to Hawaii. His goal; good surf and work, probably in that order. Our company was setting up operations in Hawaii and he was tapped to head up that division.
Guess what? A year later, he left. He did. He really did.
I do kinda still hate him for that sometimes…wouldn’t you?
I took him to the dock and had to say goodbye. I mean a real goodbye, maybe a forever goodbye; he had packed up all his belongings and they were on the boat with him.
It was horrible at the time and it makes me sad now thinking about how I felt that day…so alone and bereft.
Us–we–it didn’t end. Over the course of several months, we visited back and forth a half dozen times. I was unhappy with the whole situation–I had done my work, made my list, and he was IT. Hawaii’s awesome, don’t get me wrong, who doesn’t love paradise–but that wasn’t part of MY plan.
Oh yes, he was IT for me but I couldn’t figure out how to persuade him to move back and allow our relationship to blossom. I was running out of options.
What if he met someone else?
One day I had just had enough. I was sick and tired of having a sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not boyfriend. It wasn’t what I wanted. And do you know what I did?
I changed my telephone number.
That’s just the way I roll. My home number was a landline and I called the telephone company and changed it. I figured that when he called, he’d get the recorded voice saying, “The number has been disconnected and there is no forwarding number” and he’d become so distraught when he couldn’t reach me that it would be the catalyst he needed to come running back to me!
I didn’t have a cell phone. I had a beeper, a pager–remember those things? Now I think only drug dealers use them LOL. He had one, too.
I waited for him to beep me. I waited all day. I was DYING to know if he had TRIED to call. This was 1992-ish; email was in its infancy–I don’t believe we even had a home computer, and the computers at work didn’t have internet access.
This is the funny part.
I started power paging him; over and over again. I mean, like twenty times, thirty times.
WITH MY NEW NUMBER.
I went to so much trouble to change my phone number and I couldn’t wait twenty-four hours. When he called, I asked him if he had tried to call the old number and he said he had (still not sure of that) and asked why I did something crazy like that. I can’t remember my response–I WAS crazy at that point.
[The quick end to that story is that I flew to Hawaii the following weekend and from there we went to Kauai and he said that I had wasted my time changing my number because he had already come to the conclusion that he couldn’t live without me and he didn’t want to live without me and he proposed and came home for good two months later and we were married nine months after that.]
Fast forward to yesterday’s phone call.
After we said our initial hellos and all that, I asked him, “Do you ever get worried that I”ll change the number again and you won’t be able to reach me? Like when you’ve been gone a really long time and I’m getting tired of it? Like NOW?”
Him: (Laughing) “Not really, or if you did, you’d just call me right away to give me the new number like you did before.”
HA HA.
Now he’s turned into a sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not HUSBAND. The difference is that he always comes home–to me. Oh, and his paychecks come here even when he’s not. Hee Hee.
Final Words
It cracks me up when I hear “Somebody That I Used to Know“. Gotye sings, “No you didn’t have to stoop so low. Have your friends collect your records and then change your number“…
My tugboat man and I were gone all day…gym in the morning, and then a trip to downtown San Diego for a pair of shoes for him and what I got is a post for another day…I think this is a lovely and inspiring quote and thought I’d share it! Hope your Friday was spectacular!
And every once in a while, it’s really black and white.
While I’m absorbed in the embracing and releasing of my inner beeyotch, there’s an overriding theme that’s emerging around Casa de Enchanted Seashells.
It seems that I am annoying in different ways to different people. Some might find that to be a negative character trait and should be “worked on.”
Not me.
I consider my annoying self to be a value-added option or a gift with purchase–to the liberation of my beeyotchiness.
There are some aspects of parenting and marriages that don’t reveal themselves right away. Sometimes it takes a child moving out to give him/her perspective and a spouse can also evoke a similar epiphany.
Last night my shining bright star boy child called and I was APPARENTLY nagging (his word) him about his eating habits and not eating enough. A great multi-tasker, he was chewing while chatting and told me he was eating a Subway sandwich. Always a caring and concerned and nurturing mom, I told him it didn’t have enough calories for a skinny boy like him and he needed to take bcare of himself and eat higher quality protein and more frequently, blah blah blah.
I said, ‘Maybe I should come back there and cook for you.” “No, that’s OK.” “Why not? I would have loved it if my mom cooked for me.” “No, I can cook for myself” “But DO you?”
“Were you always this annoying?”
That about sums it all up for me, and anyway, the answer is yes, I have always been this annoying.
In fact, the captain asked me the same exact question yesterday. I was bugging him while he was hiding from me working on a project–and he said, “Do you have any idea how annoying you are?”
To which I answered, “Yes, I am very well aware of how annoying I am. This is not new information to you. I did not suddenly emerge from my chrysalis and become an annoying person. I didn’t misrepresent myself. You knew full well what you were getting yourself into more than twenty years ago. So stop complaining. Your complaining IS annoying.”
“Once in a while, you should try to not be so annoying.”
Like really, like does he not know by now with whom he’s dealing? I was gonna say, does he not know who he’s dealing with, but that’s not proper English, so if it sounds strange, whatever. Deal with it. Oopsie, just let a bit of my beeyotchiness out, like a silent but deadly you know.
I felt picked on and since I’m only sixty inches tall, I feel a good old Napoleon Complex simmering just below the surface, ready to boil over real fast, rear its ugly head, and take no prisoners.
I added that snide remark to his Frico/Freaky sharp-witted comment of the other day. Like an elephant, we women don’t forget. We just tally up the misdeeds in one of our brain’s compartments, and when it fills up, watch out.
Thar she blows!
Here’s a little confession. Pissing me off is expensive. He paid dearly and with much pain. He was forced under duress to accompany me to South Coast Plaza in Orange County. I’ve spoken of this place before, I know, but it really is a shrine, a shopping mecca, a retail temple of the beautiful–and Chanel, or as my new friend calls it, ChaCha. (Check out her blog, reversecommuter–she’s awesome.) I love Hermes and Valentino and Versace and Gucci, but Chanel holds my heart.
It’s a beautiful drive to SCP and takes about fifty minutes or so. We could see the surf at Trestles on one side and snow-covered mountains to the east. We parked at Bloomingdales. I wanted to check out their Chanel department and compare it to the actual Chanel shop’s designs. I know I just got my Grand Tote Shopper in November, but she was a bit lonely and I thought a little sister (in other words, a matching wallet) would make her happy.
I pulled out all the stops on this one.
My crazy came out in spectacular form. Here’s what I said to the captain. “My mom called and she said that I really need a matching wallet.”
Hold on. Stay with me. Don’t stop reading now! You might be thinking to yourself, “That doesn’t sound too crazy.”
Well…when I tell you that my mom died in 1989, you might think differently, huh?
So…treading lightly here–very lightly, the captain said, “Tell your mom that saying things like that is not very helpful and you also can tell her from me that she raised a very spoiled daughter.”
I walked away and came back a few minutes later.
“My mom said you’re annoying.”
(We chat with my mom all the time as if she were still here, so it’s not that unusual to bring her into a convo.)
Back to SCP. Focus! Bloomies didn’t have a huge selection and the sales staff was EXTREMELY unpleasant and didn’t seem to really want us invading their space, so we left.
We took the escalator down to the first floor. As we were descending, I looked behind me…and there it was in all of its black and white magnificence. I swear the place was glowing, beckoning me in.
I almost forgot hubs was with me.
Marie greeted us as we walked in and made a grand tour of the salon. She commented on the beauty of my GST. I asked to see the black caviar wallet that would complement my bag. She escorted us to the proper glass case, and then beckoned me to go behind the counter where she OPENED ALL THE DRAWERS AND INVITED ME TO TAKE ALL THE TIME I WANTED TO LOOK AT THE DOZENS OF WALLETS IN EVERY COLOR AND PATTERN. My face turned bright red, I almost broke out in tears. The captain parked his ass somewhere–at this point I had no idea he existed. I WAS IN HEAVEN. Pink and blue and green and red and quilted and patent leather and imprinted with Coco’s signature camellias.
I touched and stroked and smelled them all.
With a nod from my tugboat captain–KING OF ALL MEN- best husband in the whole world–I chose my prize. When Marie asked if this was for a special occasion, my wonderful hubs shrugged and said it was “Just because.” He’s really a very special guy, my tugboat man.
P.S. In case you’re wondering, I was a very appreciative and grateful recipient.
Hubs isn’t a very good photographer and he would only take one pic
On the way home from SCP
So beautifully packaged, I didn’t want to open it!
As part of my 2013 resolution to release my inner beeyotch, Helen Reddy‘s inspired “I am Woman“ helps me stay on track!
I would like to thank three awesome women for their creativity and imagination, especially since it’s all about ME!
1. Rarasaur’s delightful interpretation of ME! Check out her incredible blog and just try to figure out how her mind works! She’s another SoCal girl and she loves cats! And she’s only 60 inches tall just like me! I love her a lot and you will too.
2. IB DesignsUSA banner in nautical flags, because sometimes the best answer is “Meow”. Kathy loves all things nautical and is a lovely lady with a great business. International maritime navy signal flags are a colorful way to spell names, messages, or to decorate your home. Give a personalized signal flag banner or wall hanging as a nautical wedding decoration, an unusual boating Christmas gift, or just for the plain fun of it!
3. In response to a tweet of mine bemoaning my lack of mail–no packages, no invitations to a ball, no requests to attend a movie premiere with Tina Fey–wonderful, awesome Red Dirt Kelly sent me a t-shirt!! I was so excited to return home (from my all day torture of my tugboat man as I dragged him from store to store at South Coast Plaza in the OC until he was so exhausted that he was at my mercy and he begged me to buy something, anything from Chanel so he could go home) and find a package to open and it was this t-shirt! Everyone needs to read the Red Dirt Chronicles!
Don’t miss Tuesday’s exciting blog! I’ll share an in-depth reportage of our day at South Coast Plaza, a day of torture and retaliation, culminating in a new Chanel acquisition!
Beeyotches RULE!
The details are so precious!
Isn’t it the cutest little thing, and so sparkly?
The assembled model right next to the picture on the box.
Nope, no jokes, not going there LOL
On the dock.
I’ve searched on the internet for different models that my water loving mariner might like. I found some elaborate tugboat designs, but they’re very expensive, in the $300-$400 range. That’s a BIT pricey for something that’ll eventually sit on a shelf to be dusted by moi.
If only I could have had just a teensy-weensy bite here, a bite there–oh, SO yummy–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 
