ten

april 25, 2006

the plan

A girlfriend of mine, who shall remain nameless, called me today to
discuss a self-help seminar she recently attended that has been
life-altering. The phone conversation ended pretty quickly. Mostly
because I was so stunned by the complete change in personality. Who was
this person?

As a devoted fan of "Six Feet Under" and having also viewed the movie
"Holy Smoke" with Kate Winslet and Harvey Kietel (the one where she
peed on herself), I think I recognize the signs of "freaky cult" when I
hear them.

Since my life is my material, it is my duty to alert the public. Allow
me to present "The Warning Signs that Your Friend has Joined a Scary
Cult". Please bear in mind the basis for this list is one phone call,
but it was a hell of a call.

"Things Your Friend Says That Indicates They Have Joined A Cult"

* Responds to "how are you" with a chirpy, sing-song "I'm absolutely
wonderful!"

* "Julie, you need to become elevated and aware that you are a good
person with amazing qualities."

* "I want you to come to my graduation from the advanced seminar and
see what it's all about"

* "I can't wait to attend the LP (leadership) program, but I may have
to cut my vacation short to attend it"

* "It's at the Hotel Pennsylvania."

* "I can't tell you anything about the seminar because it will prevent
you from having your own authentic experience."

* "This works so much better than therapy ever could."

* When told about the office dancing ritual, instead of the appropriate
reaction of sheer horror or laughter, she said "Isn't it wonderful to
try new things?"

* "This thinking is completely outside of the box."

* "I used to be a judgemental person, but this seminar has taught me to
release my anger and negativity."

* "It's not a cult!"

Judge for yourself, and stay away from the Hotel Pennsyvania.

may 1, 2006

planes, trains, & auotmobiles

Have you ever had to book a flight to Nairobi? Sounds simple right?
In this day and age of cheaptickets.com, every thing is a mere click
away. How hard could it be? Look at me, I'm off to Kilimanjaro, and I
never even left my office.

Honestly, I don't want to be bothered with the details of finding my
way to Nairobi. It's far away and sounds complicated. Anyway, that's
what travel agents are for. Claire, my girl form the Botswana era,
obviously had enough of my daily emails and has been mysteriously
replaced by Samantha. Samantha must have been clued into my obsessive
compulsive nature and is quite slow to answer my queries. When asked
to look into possible flight itineraries, she responded that it would
probably be better if I did it. Not quite the go-getter attitude I
had hoped for.

To prepare for Kilimanjaro and Zanzibar, I took a good chunk of time
off from work. Having learned from my Botswana experience, I took
more time off than needed. Now there's an opportunity for even more
travel! This cannot go by unnoticed.

At first I thought, great a few days in London. However, visions of
exoticism danced in my head. I'll already be halfway around the
world, why take the path most traveled? The lightbulb clicked, and I
thought Dubai.

Dubai has it all. Sea, sun, shopping, and seven star hotels. It's
like Vegas but with camels. Who cares about reaching the highest peak
in Africa, when you could get Prada for super cheap! I would be an
American vision. All the sheiks would want me in their company. Being
the Paris Hilton of Rio de Janeiro pales in comparison to being the
future Aishwarya Rai of UAE.

Of course, Dubai comes with a cost. The cost of any potential income
for the next 10 years or so. Oh, I tried to make it work! I spent my
days and nights on every travel site imaginable. This was met with
such frustration...sold out flights, multiple stops, etc. Every
possible combination of flights resulted in some sort of error
message. What didn't result in the red asterisks that now haunt me
meant thousands of dollars for a one way flight. I had to concede
that Dubai was not meant to be.

I settled for a couple of days in London. Isn't it a sad world when a
few days in London is considered a pathetic consolation prize? Must
talk to my therapist about that one.

Since the stopover is now settled, I'm off to ba.com. They fly to
London. They fly to Nairobi. A few clicks of the mouse, and I'm on my
way.

There are a plethora of flights to London that land with an hour or
more of connection time to the Nairobi flight. I chose every flight
listed. Each one could not be purchased due to insufficient
connection time. I selected "JFK" instead of Newark, thinking that
there may be more options. I clicked the button only to be shown the
same choices departing from Newark.

Sigh.

I pick a new set of flights and again 5 1/2 hours in between flights
is still deemed insufficient. I figure if I pick each flight
individually, I may have a shot of making some sort of progress. I
manage to set up a decent itinerary with sufficient connection times.
I feel relieved and my blood pressure begins to lower. I reach the
final stages of pertinent information and payment. I hit the
"finalize" button only to find out that one of the flights had sold
out. Which one? I have no fucking clue because they don't specify. My
rage is now so great that my skin is about to turn green and my body
will grow huge muscles causing my clothing to rip. I start the
process all over again with freshly picked flights. Again, another
non-specified flight is sold out.

I admit defeat and call British Airways direct. Obviously, someone
could be of help. After a long and tedious wait through anger
inducing muzak, Wendy answers my call. Wendy's southern, sunny
disposition and tobacco induced throaty voice makes me wary and
tired. It seems that flights to Nairobi are classified into a "high
risk" category that is usually reserved for countires like Nigeria or
Myanmar because of the astronomical amounts of credit card fraud. In
order to complete the purchase for said ticket, one must either visit
ba.com (how helpful was that?) or to skedaddle on down to Newark
airport and pay in person. Of course, the reservation will only be
held for a maximum of 24 hours. I'm also going to assume that that
multiple forms of ID, a birth certificate, and confirmation of my
existence by a blood relative will also be needed for purchase.

Ironically, buying my ticket from Zanzibar to Nairobi took mere
minutes. No matter what the difficulties, I'm still one step closer
to my journey of a lifetime.

may 8, 2006

Intergalactic Domination

In between my full time job, preparing to scale Africa's highest
peak, perfecting my arm stands and binds, sipping cocktails and
prowling around for dates, I'm trying to launch my own website in
the hopes of spreading my words to the masses and becoming the next
great blogging phenomenon. Let's face it, myspace can only take me
so far.

World domination is for wimps. Real power is outside the
stratosphere. Why settle for a small ecologically challenged planet,
when there's a whole solar system and beyond out there. Oh yes, it's
intergalactic domination or bust.

I preface this by saying I know nothing about computers. Sure, I can
check my e-mail and shop for strappy posh sandals. Any words like
dreamweaver, flash, rss, css is like listening to Charlie Brown's
teacher speak.

Friends have given me many words of encouragement.

"You should be published"

"You need a column because you're writing in hilarious"

Statements like those above just lead to an inflated ego and
delusions of grandeur. I am guilty of both. I have visions of
crashing servers and multi-million dollar book deals.

Creating and hosting a website is a simple enough process. Click
here. Click there. Check this box agreeing to the sale of my first
born. A working credit card. The website is all mine.

My website. A perfect blank slate to mold into anything I choose.
The sky is the limit. Too bad my computer and design knowledge is
below sea level. If only my computer programming ex-boyfriend and I
were on speaking terms!

I enlist the help of a friend with a planetary sobriquet. He offers
his services willfully, but slowly backtracks once it's decided that
actual programming may be involved.

"I'm a designer, not a programmer." he scoffed.

I naively put my trust in him, and patiently wait for a solution or
one of his connections to pull through. The spoiled milk in my
refrigerator had a greater chance of survival. I solicit other
programming friends, but they're busy schedules and my basic needs
prohibit much progress. It's like asking Frank Gehry to design a
tool shed.

Somewhere along the past few months, I decide to become independent
and motivated. I spend many a nights sifting through
uncomprehensible manuals deciphering how to design one's own website.

Who writes this stuff? It looks like English and sounds like
English, but it does not compute. Only minds that can bend spoons
will prevail, not the feeble one I am cursed with.

I install "helpful" prgrams after programs, but I'm stuck with these
hideous generic templates that in no way reflect "Julie". The
frustration is worse than trying to book a flight to Nairobi.

It's finally time for the no frills approach. I delete everything
that is deemed "helpful" and start from scratch. A few hours each
night, and my little site is starting to look respectable and decent.

The site has not officially "launched" yet. There are still some
kinks in the system. Funny, how creating the site was the easy part.
The daunting tasks of promotion, public relations, and publicity
tend to be a bit trickier. The hopes of developing my cult following
keeps me going. Next stop intergalactic notoriety!

Stay tuned folks!

              may 11, 2006

Bionic Woman

Today's vignette is brought to you by the letters "A" and "B" as in
Hepatitis A and Hepatitis B. Today is vaccination day. In
preparation to travel to a third world country with limited third
world medical resources and highly infectious diseases, today's
modern girl has to be prepared. It's also the law.

I found my travel doctor the way I find the latest naked pictures
of Paris Hilton via Google. He could be hack, but he's authorized
to dispense yellow fever. I don't know what to expect when walking
into the office. I was pleasantly surprised to find it spacious and
quite antiseptic looking. I'm given forms to fill out. It's mostly
the usual stuff.... name, address, age, last rabies shot, any
allergies to eggs, etc. Since I'm the only patient in the office,
the waiting time is kept to a minimum. Before I left work, Vanessa
wished me good luck. I'm still not quite sure why, but she mumbled
something about pain, needles, and fear of the unknown. Thanks to
this advice my heart begins to pound. I fear something now. The
unknown I guess.

I head into the doctor's office. Our introductions are brusque and
he instructs me to sit on the papered examination table.
Immediately to my left is a computer screen. The doctor sits at his
computer across the room, and begins to tick off all the deadly
diseases that reside in Kenya, Tanzania, and Zanzibar (which is
still Tanzania). Since we can't look at each other, it's like we're
having a phone conversation which I find a tad odd. I feel
instantly comforted to know that the vaccines for cholera, dengue
fever, and rabies are not that effective, so he won't be
administering them to me. He cautions that even though rabies is
rare, his last patient was bit by something in India. "You just
never know". I begin to wonder why St. Barth's wasn't that
appealing to me.

It's needle time! I lay down stiffly on the examining table. The
doctor prepares the potions. Once again, I remember Vanessa's fear
of long needles and pain. The first needle glides gently through my
skin and feels relatively painless. Within a flash, the first shot
is over. He alternates arms for the second shot. The initial prick
is painless. but I feel the rush of antibodies burning through my
veins. The burning is so intense, I'm ready to tip the needle right
out of his hands. This makes me wonder if I could ever hack it as a
heroin addict. This feeling isn't pleasant. Although if the next
sensation was 1000x better than sex, what's a little burning in the
arm.

Two shots down. One more to go. I watch the doctor prepare the
needle. It feels like an epidsode of ER. He squirts fluid out of
the syringe to test it and flicks out the remaining air bubbles.
The macabre side of me begins to wonder if there's any air left in
the tube and what an air bubble of death feels like. Is it the
burning that I just experienced? There's more pulling, prodding,
and burning. I survive, but I must return for two more boosters.

I leave the office feeling like the bionic woman, engineered by
science to ward off any disease possible. Not everyone get
vaccinated for yellow fever. Between the chemical combinations of
typhoid, poli, tuberculosis, tetanus, hepatitis, anit-malaria, and
mountain sickness medications, I think I will disease-free 4eva!
Watch I catch a cold next week.

may 23, 2006

I went to Denver & all I got was this lousy concussion

I went to Denver, and all I got was this lousy concussion. Today I
arrived in Denver. It's for business although today was all for
myself. I was determined to make the most of it.

I checked into my lovely suite at the Magnolia Hotel and tossed my
suitcases aside. I put on my sunglasses, and I was off to explore
the streets of LoDo (lower Denver for those not in the know). From
what I can tell, Denver is a great city. It reminds me of Seattle
except a liberal attitude and full sleeve tattoos are not required.
I had a sandwich at a quaint cafe, and was simply enjoying the
present moment. "Me" days are so few and far between that one must
take advantage when they can.

The great thing about traveling west is the "Corner Bakery". They're
not around my neck of the woods. The cinnamon swirl creme cake is
delish and a rare treat to be savored when available. A cafe au lait
and my cinnamon cake. The perfect afternoon snack!

I take my cake and coffee to an outside table. I read my magazine
and sip my coffee.I'm liking this rare moment of serenity. Suddenly,
there is a gust of a wind. I think nothing of it. It gets windier
and windier. I struggle to keep my magazine and food from flying
away like Mary Poppins.

BANG!!!!!

Something hits my head. I am so stunned that I don't notice
anything. Three women sitting at the table behind me rush to see if
I'm ok.

"The umbrella hit your head!" they cry.

"That huge, ginormous umbrella fell over and hit you on the head!"
they emphasize and point at the offending umbrella.

The three women worry about my well being. I insist that even though
a 30 pound umbrella fell right on my head shattering my headband and
sunglasses, I'm perfectly fine. I'm more annoyed that my favorite
$200 sunglasses are broken and I don't have the money to replace
them. One of the women rush to fetch the manager. I just sit
absolutely dumbfounded and just a touch embarassed.

The manager is quite concerned as she should be. She asks questions
for the accident report. Everyone asks what I want to do. I'm all
alone in a strange city and just had a dangerous accident. I have no
fucking clue what to do or where to go. I call my mother because she
lives for moments like this.

It's decided that I should go to the emergency room. The manager
asks if I would prefer a cab or an ambulance. I prefer the anonimity
of a taxi. She walks me to the stand. There are about six cabs
waiting, yet none of them will take my fare. Each cab driver we
approached said to ask the next cab.This goes on for what seems like
an eternity. It's like a vicious Abbott and Costello routine. I
screamed that I need to go the hospital. It made no difference. The
manager asserted that I needed immediate medical assistance. We were
still brushed off. I conceded to an ambulance ride.

Back at the bakery, the calvary arrived. I pretended to ignore the
curious stares of the patrons while the paramedic poked and prodded
me. Her diagnosis was that I was fine. However since this was a
trauma to the head and I was not thoroughly examined, I could....

A) lose consciousness

B) vomit uncontrollably

C) die

With that advice, it was off to the ER. We speed off to the hospital
sans sirens. The paramedics ask more questions. Although I'm not
splayed out on a stretcher, I'm given an oxygen for some unbeknownst
reason. With all the talk about head trauma and being
inconpacitated, the medics proceed to tell me about all the sights I
need to see in Denver before I leave on Thursday. I'm basically
thinking I'm going straight to bed after this ordeal.

I exit from ambulance to wheelchair. The medics push me immediately
to my room, and the ER staff smiles and waves to me. I'm definitely
not in the ghetto anymore. One of the paramedics joke that I
should've just told them I didn't like the coffee. I smile wanly.

More friendly staff pop in and out of my room. They ask questions.
They take my blood pressure and temperature. They laugh and make fun
of the fact I live in New Jersey. It's the basic routine. I explain
the umbrella incident several more times. The same coffee joke is
repeated just as many times.

The doctor arrives. He feels my head like a phrenologist and asks me
to perform simple tasks like squeezing his hand. Since I can touch
my nose with my eyes closed, the general consensus is that I will
live. It's just a concussion. Take two tylenol and advil and call
him in the morning.Oh, and live with being a bit of a space cadet
for the next couple of days.

I wonder if everyone visiting Denver gets this lovely welcoming
gift. I must admit, it seems better than a T-shirt. Somehow I also
sense an unnatural fear of umbrellas is in my future. No more Corner
Bakeries for a while either. It's a good thing I like the muffins at
the Paradise Bakery.