She very kindly (after I twisted her arm) shared her amazing recipe for Lebkuchen — a traditional German cookie — that I plan to bake in honor of the homecoming of my esteemed (German) Professor Angel Boy, also known as the boy/man who can eat more food than anyone I’ve ever known — a Guinness World Record contender – which makes baking and cooking for him a total and complete joy.
The frosting calls for Amaretto, something we don’t normally keep stocked in the Enchanted Seashells liquor cabinet.
After a massive shopping excursion at Trader Joe’s, I walked down the sidewalk (in the same shopping center) to BevMo.
I picked up a small bottle of Amaretto (along with a few other items, as long as I was there, ya know.)
In the center of the main aisle, my eye were drawn to a bright blue box — one of those promotional boxes of booze they feature around the holidays usually boasting a value added option like glasses or a shaker.
Wait, hold on a minnie.
This was DeSaronno Amaretto, but a larger bottle than the one I had in hand, and it was packaged with two pretty glasses.
OK, I didn’t really need more glasses that I’d just end up breaking, BUT I do like a bonus.
Chanel notwithstanding, I am a thrifty gal.
Upon closer inspection, the final affirmation of purchasing perfection was my realization (in slo mo) that the amaretto bottle itself was DRESSED IN VERSACE.
DRESSED IN GIANNI VERSACE.
Picture me doing a double take.
Wha?
Yes! Yes! Yes! A DESIGNER CLOTHED BOTTLE OF BOOZE!
(And only a few dollars more than the naked/undressed/unadorned bottle and THAT satiated my price point.)
Oh HELL YES, I said to myself as I grabbed it off the shelf.
SEASHELLS AND CHERUBS.
I’m all verklempt, fanning myself with my shopping list.
OY. VEY.
Come to MOMMA.
A perfect marriage, a perfect union of form and function.
A truly brilliant marketing design.
Water bottle and iron on patch.
I haven’t been THIS excited since my son sent me a water bottle from Yale that featured Hello Kitty.
At the time, I thought THAT was the pinnacle of marketing heaven.
Backstory: Versace and I have a sad history.
When tugboat man and I were newly married, his father and stepmother gave me a Christmas present in a beautiful brilliantly white Versace bag with the iconic lion. Read all about my disappointment HERE @ Lesson #1. Never do this to your daughter-in-law. Ever.
The only Versace I own is that white bag.
Up until now, that is.
Now I have a stylishly dressed up bottle of booze.
Life is good, y’all!
P.S. I have the world’s worst in laws — world’s WORST. The Versace bag incident was the tip of the iceberg. It’s been downhill ever since. I have NO IDEA how my tugboat man turned into such a wonderful, loving, caring human with ‘rents like that. Truth.
“There goes Honey Boo Boo” — that should be the new title, ha ha.
NEWS: TMZ reports that TLC has cancelled “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo” in the wake of allegations that June Shannon, aka Mama June, is dating convicted child molester Mark McDaniel.
According to the TMZ, the network has already shot an entire season of new episodes, but will not air them due to the allegations, as they believe that Shannon is putting her children at risk.
In a world that ignores and covers up domestic violence and child abuse in professional sports, where whole networks are dedicated to hunting and killing animals, I am skeptical of TLC’s swift action to cancel “Here Comes Honey Boo Boo”.
Is it a ploy to placate those of us who are outraged?
Is it just another spin — will HCHBB be reinstated after a short period of time, like that other stupid show, “Duck Dynasty”?
Or is this another kind of spin to garner more publicity and gauge the pulse of the public with regard to just exactly how much we’ll tolerate?
Were the advertisers outraged?
This is all speculation on my part because I don’t watch the show.
And why not, you might ask?
Yes, it’s offensive on a myriad of levels, but the major reason is that itpains me to my core to watch so many horrible fashion choices.
(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 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
Even in the midst of body conscious Suthern Caly-forn-eye-A, we who aspire to the “forever young” mantra know what yoga pantsmean. They mean we don’t have to always think about holding it in, they mean we can EAT, they mean it HIDES imperfections and flaws while we are in pursuit of perfection, they mean we can — for the duration of the wearing of yoga pants –NOT be self-haters or ashamed of our silhouette in the reflection of a shop window.
At least that’s what yoga pants did for me. Until now, that is.
Did you think that all the attention you were getting at the gym or the grocery store or running errands was because your beauty was shining though and the universe was responding to your inner goodness and wit and intelligence?
WELL…maybe that’s true, but it could also have been this. Lululemon is recalling some of their yoga pants because of a teensy weensy transparency “issue”.
Yup, you can see through ’em.
Your (and my own) overpriced and overhyped little Lululelmon logo embellished workout wear lets it all hang out for the world to see.
According to a Lululemon company statement, the recall is due to “the coverage… resulting in a level of sheerness in some of our women’s black Luon bottoms that falls short of our very high standards.”
LOL.
The transparent pants, which resulted in a recall of 17% of product, are the fourth quality-control issue that Lululemon has had this year.
For the outrageous price of a Lululemon product, would it be too much to expect that they’re well-made?
Seventy percent of their clothing is manufactured in third-world countries with factories in China, Taiwan, South Korea, South America, Israel, Indonesia, Thailand and Vietnam.
The Lululemon website explains, “Global economic forces…have shifted manufacturing to more cost-attractive locations and resulted in closures of some domestic factories.”
Instead of using the goddess-given benefits of Spandex to crunch and smash together all my cellulite into one hot tight mass of “muscle”, everything I DON’T want the world to see is OUT THERE. I’ve been OUTED.
Hell, even I don’t want to see that cottage cheese on the back of my legs. Now I have to be stressed out that YOU can see it, too?
And what’s worse? My confession? I don’t wear underpants under my workout gear. I hate panty lines; they just bother me. Now I learn that it’s all on display and I never knew it.
Apparently I’ve been giving it away for free, as my mom would have said. Not only my butt, my cellulite, and my C-section scar, but — oh joy –you can discover whether I’ve had a full Brazilian OR NOT.
i’m ashamed to say that I bought into the hype —which is huge in SoCal — and I’m gonna march myself right on to the Lululemon shop in La Costa at The Forum and hand them back so I can get my $79.00 plus tax put back on my credit card and hippity hop over to Target and buy several new very densely packed yoga/workout pants for about $25.00 each. A much better bargain and my girly parts and cellulite will stay private.
I read online about several different girls who attempted to return a pair of pants at Lululemon and were forced to wear them and bend over to show that it was sheer to the employee.
That is so crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. I think you prolly have a very good picture of what would happen if a salesperson insisted I bend over.
CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT CHICK FIGHT!
Lululemon blames the manufacturere who says in response..”All shipments to Lululemon went through a certification process which Lululemon had approved. All the pants were manufactured according to the requirements set out in the contract with Lululemon,” [Eclat Chief Financial Officer Roger Lo.]
Lululemon CEO Christine Day replaced Lululemon founder Chip Wilson in 2007. Before that, she was an executive at Starbucks. She has been criticized for growing the company too fast with a resulting loss of quality.
I don’t want to put the hate on a woman at the helm of anything, but I think women in positions of ultimate power have a tendency to model themselves after males in similar positions and forget the wonderfulness of our gender.
Don’t try to mimic a male; instead, be the best HUMANyou can be.
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…
(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 added a little tease to yesterday’s post about Anne Hathaway‘s wayward vagina that was awinkin’ and ablinkin’ at the photogs. It was like she had a big arrow pointing to what’s called a fannie in UK SPK. (Trust me, DO NOT go to England and ask anyone where you can buy a fanny pack). It was all waving back and forth, “Hey, look at me! Don’t waste time following LiLo or Honey BooBoo. Come on in, y’all! Take a peeky-weeky.”
Is this for real?
I was full of brag and swag a couple weeks ago when all the planets were aligned and I got the vintage Valentino and that handbag, and I was skipping through my days throwing a little enchanted fairy dust to the right and to the left, la la la. The extra shot of Grand Marnier in my Perfect Margarita was the Missoni sweater I got at that same consignment shop. BTW, I really have two arms, one was busy snapping the pic.
Well, it all came to a crashing halt. Nothing catastrophic–just a minor mis-alignment.
Signals of doom and gloom
The first harbinger of misfortune is the apparent neverending absence of my hubs whom I had expected home for sure by Christmas. Now I’m gonna be lucky to see him for our nineteenth wedding anniversary February 20.
The second toll of the bell occurred when I was cutting my lawn and my dumbass bitch neighbor stopped by to watch me for a bit and then snarkily ask why I don’t get a divorce since he’s never here. AND she wasn’t joking, not that it would have been funny, anyway. Way to go to be supportive, bitch. Hey, why don’t you make your husband wear a shirt so the school kids don’t get an anatomy lesson in old man buttcrack and wrinkly manboobs, huh?
And the third (‘cos things like this come in threes, right?) happened at my gym. I don’t know why these things always seem to happen when the captain’s gone–that’s part of the whole message, I suppose. The boot camp class I attend starts at 9:00 a.m. and I like to get there a bit early to claim my upper right quadrant spot on the floor.
Here’s why: 1. I’m an ex-ballet dancer and I need mirrors to survive. 2. It reduces germ exposure if no one is in front or to the right of me. 3. I like to look at myself (refers back to #1.)
If you promise not to hate me, I’ll offer up a confession here. I LOVE to work out. I love to lift weights, work my muscles ’til they scream, and feel the burn. I enjoy challenging my body to exceed the previous day’s reps, weights, or endurance. For me, it’s very empowering to feel and be strong. Short girl syndrome.
I’ve turned left at the stoplight into the center where the gym is located.I’m in the left of the two one-way lanes. The car next to me drifts into my lane, cutting me off, so I honk and keep honking because I have to slam on my brakes to avoid getting hit and also ‘cos I have nowhere to go except up on that grassy median. The car turned right at that first entrance to the gym.
I couldn’t see who it was, but I assumed it could possibly have been an elderly driver who was going to attend the “Silver Seniors” area of the gym. I checked in and walked down the hall to the room where they hold the Group X classes which is directly across from the weight room. I saw a friend of mine, said hello and then,
“I sure wish I knew who cut me off when I was driving in here.”
From behind us, we heard a voice,
“It was me.”
Cool, an admission of guilt with a witness. It wasn’t an elderly lady; it was a sour faced older guy with greasy gray hair and a straggly beard. I said,
“Hey, you cut me off back there. You were taking up both lanes and I had nowhere to go. You should really be more careful.”
Well…he went batshit crazy, ballistic, out of control, yelling at me in front of what was now a whole group of my friends who were waiting for our class to begin. I have never seen this person before; we had no history, nothing.
“Just shutUP and get your ass in that room for that bullshit you guys do. And fuck you! And shut the fuck up!”
and then some random crap about how I didn’t have to be driving next to him at the same time that he was there ?? and a few more “fuck yous” before he walked into the weight room.
I didn’t ever respond back to him cos I got it, he was crazy–but I also don’t think any woman should accept any kind of abuse from anyone, and I know he never would have been so abusive if the captain had been around, and that pissed me off even more. I went to the front desk and explained to the manager what had occurred and asked him to document this incident and have a talk with the guy cos not only did I not accept being mistreated but he shouldn’t allow that kind of behavior in the gym. The big 6ft 4inch baby didn’t want to do it, but I was pretty insistent so he had a talk with him. By that time, some of my body building friends were on the scene and they were enthusiastically providing me with security. Apparently, that guy is known as being a jerk in general, but has a real problem with women. It was very unpleasant and I was pretty stressed out by that attack, but my friends convinced me to stay. Since then, I’ve been driving the hub’s truck in case he wants to hurt my car since he obvs knows my wheels, and I’m being extra careful not to make eye contact with any other potentially unstable lunatics who want to bully me.
The pic makes it look like the carpet is stained, but it’s not.
Things just don’t seem to be going my way right now. Look at the empty space where our Christmas tree would be. No wonder I stay here and glue seashells all day. It’s a jungle out there. I’m all set for 12-21-12. How about you?
I guess my life’s not so bad. I haven’t done an Anne Hathaway or a Brit-ney. Ever. My lady parts haven’t ever been introduced to the world that way. Not yet, anyway. I even had a c-section; no human being has even luged down that tunnel. But who knows what I’ll do to get more blog or Twitter followers! Seriously, Anne, gurllfriend. Please wear undies or keep your legs together–or both. Pull-eaze. Have you ever done the “look in the mirror” thing to get in touch with your femaleness? Ick.
Actually, it was a disaster coming and going. I thought Rachael Zoe was her stylist. Was Rach too busy at QVC to care about that important deet? Who put that parachute on her back? It was a Tom Ford gown and he designed the bondage shoes, too. They say he used vegan leather. Are you telling me a poor carrot or a poor eggplant died so Anne could have a pair of shoes?
parachute or backpac
So…you might remember a while back when all the planets were aligned for me and I got the vintage Valentino and that handbag, and I was skipping through my days throwing a little enchanted fairy dust to the right and to the left, la la la. Well, it all came to a crashing halt.
That’ll be on tomorrow’s installment of Enchanted Confessions. Stay tuned–
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…
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 
