Friday, May 20, 2011

Look, up in the sky!

Its a bird! No! Its a plane! No! Its superman! the Rapture?

List most rational people, I'm pretty sure the world is going to implode when the Mayan calendar stops 12/21/12. It's the most logical thing next to zombies. But on the eve of my FIRST trip over seas (and on the eve of hopefully being hired for an amazing job... but I digress) a growing number of people are suddenly backing out of the agreed upon apocalypse, and are now saying that this Saturday, tomorrow, at 6pm your local time, God is going to appear and, I don't know, shun the non believer, get his smite on. 




This is problematic for a number of reasons.


First, as an American,  I do not want to die in a plane, plane crash, or anything involving moving very quickly in a aluminum tube and then suddenly coming to a halt. No thank you. I've maintained for years I want to go out in a blaze of gun fire or doing something incredibly noteworthy/ stupid/ ballin' or sexy. Taking down a transatlantic 747 does not fit that outline. Like any other average woman, from time to time I take one fear and inexplicably replace it with another. It's hopefully a sad coincidence that my constant fear of being mugged and held for ransom is now replaced with flying. Every bump? Yeah I start swearing. (this doesn't help with the whole being good for the Rapture part)

Outside of the general sucking dying in a plane would bring, I am just not old enough to die. Everyone says that, and there are kids with cancer out there and I've made it to my prom, got my license, fallen in love, ect. but there is just so much left on the list.

See?
Throw a drink in someones face
brawl in a bar
go hot air ballooning
get married
go to jail
(right now the only thing that's coming to mind is that STUPID saying from the Island Company Store: 'Quit your job, buy a ticket, get a tan, fall in love, never return.' Screw you Island Company, get out of my HEAD!)  
See if I would have a hot kid
be abducted by aliens 
go to England to see the Harry Potter sound stages
get the FourSquare badge for going to Antarctica
clone Pepper Ann


And that's just the stuff off the top of my head!
Not to mention that I don't really know if I would fare well in the Rapture. Is it like an interview? Do I have to account for every thought I've ever had? Because some stuff is probably best left alone. Do all dogs go to heaven? If you get in is there a 30 day trial period where God can just fire you without reason? If you don't get in will it REALLY be like that "2012" movie? Because I'm assuming if you're God you could take everyone out a little quicker and prevent a LOAD of suffering: dropping into the hot, melt-y center of the earth can't be pleasant.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, God, now is not a good time. I'm pretty sure unless you're someone who owes a lot of money to a particular mob, mafia, Don, or loan shark- yeah sure! "beam me up Scotty!" But for the rest of us that do our best not to suck and generally be kind to our fellow man, isn't Saturday a little soon? 


And if its got to be Saturday can I at least see Big Ben first?

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Needed a Distraction

Its one of those days where I really want to do something, but know I shouldn't. Lets 'pretend' I can't keep my hands busy enough to stay off the rum cake in the fridge ok? So in an effort to keep my fingers moving I thought I'd tell you a story...
(cue dream sequence)

So earlier this week while back in Tampa I ran by the Target [sounds like tar-zhay] to just double check... stuff. I don't know it was a shop-y weekend (aren't they all?), don't judge. Anyway, I was cruising past the clearance section when I saw a water proof jacket that was around 60 percent off. It said size 4 and was cheap so, with a looming trip to London, and the CONSTANT, PERSISTENT, UNWAVERING reminders that its wet, miserable, cold, damp, full of dragons, will take my first born, et cetera et cetera I figured it best I get something flame retardant waterproof. 

Size 4 does not always mean size 4


I throw on this tomato red jacket only to be swallowed by it. For about 30 seconds I was elated that a size 4 was big, but in the next instant I realized it was so big I was either shrinking (literally) or they stitched on the wrong label and thats why it's in clearance. Eventually I see a rack of these jackets, still in clearance, so I go and, sure enough, find a size 2 and put on.

Oh come on.

Again I'm swallowed up. Imagine 'The Blob' but clothing. Even in the size 2 the arms are wide enough to pack full with, I don't know, cotton balls, a Christmas ham, and I could EASILY smuggle no less than 3 puppies per arm out of a pet shop (if you're into that sort of thing). In the desperate hope to get a stupid jacket to prevent me from melting in London (20 bucks says I L-O-V-E it there and moan for 2 months about how badly I want to move there) I put on the size 1. Then I realized that this was the most bizarre sizing system I've seen: things are either odds, evens, or European- not 1,2,3,4,5,6. Not to mention the size ONE was still big.

The universe, obviously done with it's mean joke, urged me to turn around. Behind me I see that although yes, I am in fact in the clearance section, I am in the WOMAN'S section- aka plus size. The handy sizing chart behind me indicates that, no shit Sherlock,the size 4 was big because size 4 in the plus department is roughly sizes 18-20. (my size 1, which I bought because it was cheap, fits sizes 12-14. fyi)


And that's what it's like to be me for an hour.


Now if you'll excuse me I have to go outside. The lawn guy with the weed-whacker (because that piece of lawn equipment isn't annoying enough on it's own) is singing... something... and between him and the whacking I just cant sit here any more.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

Remember Remember

I don't remember to update this blog. My bad. I was told all I do is eat bon bons and watch Oprah ("or Ellen, whatever one of those is your show"). Whoopsy.

This is supposed to be about island living and what is like temping in a field you don't have a lot of experience in (law yes, British law no) so this will serve as a quick update on island-y things.

The high stakes job of removing staples and scanning paper has come and gone. In the meantime I went on a fundraiser luncheon on a cruise ship where the captain keeled over, in the throngs of a massive heart attack. I went to the YCLA awards and 1) finally got to dress up AND 2) was very moved by young people giving SO much to their community. I felt some pangs of nostalgia from my days of coordinating puppy hugging and cracking my whip to get all 100+ sorority sisters out and volunteering. 

Not too soon after that I got the call I was set up for an interview with what sounds like an amazing law firm. I interviewed (and in that interview I showed I not only can compose a letter but ALSO an email!) and by all accounts the people sound interested. Well, interested so long as they don't find someone with more experience. The upside is that I'm being considered for two positions so if the legal secretary part doesn't work out, I can flex my assistant muscles! I was told last week I'd hear something by the end of this week (3 more days but I'm not counting...) so fingers crossed.

After that interview I hopped on a plane to Tampa to see some old faces, felt sad I wasn't there long enough to see all the old faces I wanted to (I'm looking at you Pris), visited my sweet baby dog, and then turned around to come back to Cayman where I have 3 days to do laundry and pack for a trip around England, France, and Ireland. Of course the trip to Tampa wasn't filled with dieting or even a salad (well half a Cesar at the airport but with that much dressing I don't think it even counts) and my trip to France has me staying in Cannes for a while. I can't haul my fat ass on the French Riviera! I know they go topless there but my butt's about a round as pac-man at the moment. Plus I'm American and if the American media tells me anything the French will be rude to me and judge me on my plump American rump. 
With no idea what to pack, what to wear, or where I'm going to be going I find myself just sitting here looking at the mess of suitcases and wishing I was Harry Potter and could use that spell that makes items put themselves away. (also that spell that makes people do what you want, the ability to ride a broom, and the invisibility cloak) 

With all the whining and dodging coconuts and skin cancer it's understandable why a good few people were under the impression I don't exactly love it here. But this morning as I snuck (did NOT want to be seen in workout clothes) into Ogier to drop off a thank you card to the lovely woman who interviewed me and then made my way to the gym, I realized (realised? Nah I'm not English who am I kidding?!) I was happy to be home. My work permit stamp says 3/15/11 which means I've been here just over 2 months. I'm still not ok with the lack of best friends and sisters, or the lack of Chipotle, Moe's, malls, Publix's, Pepper, and (oddly) John Morgans haunting face and empty eyes (CREEPY SANTA BILLBOARD) (Oh and that guy from the vasectomy billboards. ahhhh) but I have a feeling by month 3, hopefully with this job under my belt, I'll be able to call it home without the sarcastic tone.


After all, if you know me at all my goal was to just drop out of school, take up residence on a small island, and start my own nudist colony. 1 out of 3 isn't terrible, and one of those I'm actively working on.



Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Its all fine and good...

Until you get hit with a coconut.

Let me explain.

Today I went on an adventure to buy Jen Lancasters new book "If You Were Here", and like many things on a small, out of the way Caribbean island, no such book has been ordered by either of the book stores. 


I have an iPad I love it very dearly but its just not the same as a real book. I love the smell of the paper, the binding, how after time the book seems to weather and age right along with you. A book wont run out of battery, or literally scream if you drop it in the sand. 


Yet with no options other than to wait or download the book, I opted for the route less full of waiting and downloaded it. Its not like a Kindle and Apple really screwed the pooch not finding a way to incorporate e-ink into their devices but it gets the job done. In the house. Not in direct beach sun light.


But we'll get to that part. Eventually I tire of Gossip Girl (I'm almost done with season 2- I came late to the party I know, and I'm just worn out on Dan and Serena at this point. You'll have beautiful babies. Just work it out. And come on Serena? "Oh I'm too different and special for Yale"? Money might buy you looks but it won't fix stupid [catch the Ron White reference?]) and decide it time to stop turning my brain to mush.


In island fashion (because thats real, you know), I throw my towel down under a coconut palm and dive into what is shaping up to be another work of art by the lovely Miss Lancaster. However, its spring, and the coconut are a-bloomin. I keep hearing things go 'thud' on the sand around me, and from time to time something that feels roughly the weight of a big bumble bee drops on a leg, arm, my head, and eventually into my drink. Thats when I look up.






Its now I'd like to say for dramatic effect that I got a coconut right to the face (doesn't that just sound raunchy) but instead I watched this tumble to the ground about 5 inches from me.



That there would be a baby coconut. Not enough to kill but surely enough to take me out of the running for any pageant any time soon. It was at this point I realized both my (smokin hot) face and over priced electronic toy were at risk of significant damage and decided it best to prepare for yoga. Of the bikrum variety? I'm not positive, all I know is that I will sweat and likely offend those around me. I don't smell bad but my deodorant is another story.