He Said, She Said

 How Male Authors Describe Women vs. How Those Women Describe the Same Situation to Their Girl Friends

Male Author:

                        Her body presented itself coyly, sidling away to create a pulsating space of thick, buzzing anticipation between us.  Her breasts swelled with heat and want, calling to me.  I reached forward with steadfast hands, massaging her chest deeply- invigorating the firm yet soft mounds which would one day hold life's nectar.

Actual Woman:

                           "I was PMS'ing so badly and my boobs were killing me.  All I wanted was a little space and this mother fucker reaches over and starts twisting my tits like ballon animals."

*

Male Author:

                        It was meant to be a typical trek on the train.  An ordinary voyage to an ordinary job.  The train car was busy that day- a steel atom filled to the brim with corporate molecules.  I took a seat at the front, where two benches faced each other; an awkward vestibule where strangers are forced to become each others' view.  No sooner had I settled in than a fellow weary traveller took her spot opposite me.  She appeared plain at first glance- it wasn't until you began to study her that her features began to burst forth, each more beautiful than the last.  She situated herself and pulled a book from her bag.  The international symbol of not wanting to be bothered.  As her eyes flitted from word to word, page to page, they began to water.  The waves of her ocean eyes started to swell forth, creating watery tide pools along the coasts of her irises.  She glanced up and fluttered her gossamer lashes in my direction as a single tear began the long, painful journey down her cheekbone.  I gasped inwardly at the realization that this ethereal stranger had chosen me to share the emotion that the world within her book had enveloped her with.

Actual Woman:

                           "I had an eyelash stuck in my eye on the train this morning, and it would not stop watering.  I looked up and the dude sitting across from me was just staring with this dopey look on his face.  It was gross."

*

Male Author:

                        The coffee was strong that day.  Surely a novice barista was still finding his footing among the caffeinated fields.  The din of espresso machines and cash registers and patrons discussing their daily ads created an energetic static electricity that bounced from wall to wall.  As I sipped my dark brown potion, I noticed two women in the corner; a small reprieve of silence among the chaotic whirlwind of the cafe.  Legs crossed towards each other, the two females leaned in close like sleek alabaster magnets.  As one whispered into the other's ear, I could almost feel her soft breath rustling through the delicate, silk-spun hairs of her companion.  Perhaps a profession of adoration, a tantalizing suggestion, or a declaration of yearning- their whispers would forever lie entangled in a web of secrecy.

Actual Woman:

                           "Do you have a tampon?"

Why Did I Come In Here Again?

 Whelp, appropriately enough given the theme of getting older in my last blog, this entry is a follow up.  

Why? 

Because I forgot half the things I wanted to write about. 

Did I have a bunch of notes written down specifically so I wouldn't forget to include them?

Yes.

Did I totally forget to look at said notes?

Also yes.

So here we are, folks.  Part two.  The sequel.  The literary equivalent of walking into a room only to completely forget why you are there and what you are looking for, only to repeat the process another 1-2 times. (The reason you can't find your phone anywhere is because it's in your hand down by your side.  The reason you can't see where your glasses are is because they're on your head). 

Ok, so back to the subject at hand.  The early stages of getting older.  A few days ago I turned 34 which officially puts me in my mid-30's (Assuming 30-33 is early thirties, 34-36 is mid thirties, and 37-39 is late thirties).  

I'm at that age where I don't yet pee when I laugh, but I do throw my back out a little bit every time I sneeze.  

I'm at that age where you look in the mirror and see a curiously long hair on your face and as you reach for it you desperately find yourself thinking, 'please don't be attached, please don't be attached'.  Spoiler alert: most of the time it's attached.

I'm at that age where the other day I found a white hair.  Do you know how blindingly white a hair has to be to stand out so blatantly against blonde tresses?  VERY.  VERY.  WHITE.

I'm at that age where I've started discovering new freckles.  And not those sun-kissed freckles you get on your nose and shoulders by being out in the sun.  No, I mean angry, hidden freckles that are practically holding up a sign that says, "I hope your insurance is good because in a couple years you're gonna have to get me checked for irregular borders".

I'm at the age where last night I had an incredibly stressful dream about buying tomato sauce.

That's adulthood.

I think back to my late teens to mid twenties.  My friends and I wouldn't even start our night until after 10pm.  We would go to multiple places in one night.  During the summers we would often still be up when the sun rose.  And then we would go to WORK.  Exhausted but filled with electricity that fueled us through the next 8 hours.  Our hair would still smell faintly of cigarettes and our lips had a lingering taste of cheap beer.  Our tongues would still be rainbow-stained from jello shots and our feet would be sore from dancing for hours on end.  

These days I've come to realize that my dancing is now less about popping my booty and more about frantically acting out the lyrics with my hands.

I used to joke about having to work out, but I never actually needed it.  Pants were never too tight and I could feel comfortable in a bathing suit at any given moment.

Recently, my doctor told me that I needed to start exercising because my "body had become depressed".  

My.

Body.

Had.

Become.

Depressed.

Gone are the days when I would be a secret little smart ass and think, "Oh gee, I sure hope all that time I spent thinking about exercising has paid off", as a I confidently slipped into a bikini on the first day of summer after a long, idle winter.

Now I practically wear a parka over my bathing suit.

When I would be seeing a guy back in the day, I would shave from top to bottom every. single. time I saw him.  God forbid he knew I possessed even a single follicle.  

But now?  Well, let me leave you with this piece of advice:

When a girl shaves for you, that's how you know she likes you.  When a girl stops shaving for you, that's how you know she loves you.

How'd That Get Down There???

I haven't written anything on here in awhile and in fact, the majority of my entries were written while I was in my 20's.  Well I'm about to turn 34, and there are a plethora of differences between the two decades.  Seriously, so many.  Like, almost an uncomfortable amount.

Let's start with dating, because that's pretty much what this whole blog was about when I started it many, many, many, ugh MANY moons ago.

For the most part, dating in your 30's sucks.  Everyones tired.  Our backs hurt.  Bar music is too loud for our delicate, aging ears.  The idea of being out past 9:30 is horrifying.

Also, people in their 30's (and older) are set in their ways.  Trying to find someone you're willing to compromise for seems as impossible as trying to fit into your favorite pair of jeans from college (RIP elastic denim flares; you served me well.  May your jean afterlife be filled with real pockets, and not ones sewn shut purely for decorative purposes).

Personally speaking, I have lived on my own for the better part of a decade.  During these 10 years,  I have come to find that I am one of those people who has a very specific spot for all of my belongings, and likes things just so.  Picture frames are angled to a certain degree, coffee mugs are put away in specific spots, and the dishwasher is loaded the same exact way, every time.  If any of these things are changed, a true and honest sense of panic and discomfort washes over me and there is a nagging itch over every inch of my body until it's fixed.  This is both insane and something that I truly cannot help.  Ergo, you can imagine the hell I go through when someone else comes into my space and moves something.  Or, god forbid, accidentally breaks something.  Both of these things have happened quite a bit (seriously, people are always breaking my shit, I don't get it), and so far I have managed to suppress my inner crazy until they leave.  This is all basically a long-winded way of saying that I came to enjoy (in an almost necessary way) living alone, and the thought of moving in with someone literally made my brain flip upside down.  But still, I soldiered on and dated guy after guy after guy after guy- you all know the deal with me at this point- in hopes that I would find The One.  Not surprisingly, all of the guys I dated also were set in their ways, whether it be habits, cleanliness, or what have you.  It didn't help that I've always tended to date much older guys, so trying to find a happy medium with a 45 year old proved futile.

(Luckily, I have since found my main squeeze.  He moved in with me and he not only knows, but lovingly puts up with, all of my quirks).

There is one exceptionally good thing about dating in your 30's, and that has to do with the aesthetic and physical aspect of it.  In your 20's, you're always trying to look your best for other people.  You work out, you diet, you do your hair and makeup and put on real pants.  Every time you take off your clothes in front of someone, there's always that thought of, 'Do they like what they see? Am I attractive to them?  Do they find me hot and sexy and desirable and the owner of the best boobs they've ever laid eyes on?'.  But once you hit 30 and above, Literally. No. One. Cares.  We're just so grateful that we've found another single person to have sex with, that we could give two shits what your body looks like. Stretch marks?  Who cares.  Belly pooch? Yeah, me too.  Back hair?  Let me run my fingers through that vertebrae forrest, you financially stable Sasquatch.

And sex itself?  We've both got work in the morning and still have that Netflix series to finish tonight, so let's forgo any fancy moves and missionary our way through these next 20 minutes.  Also, as mentioned above, our backs hurt.

This ties in nicely to the next shocking part of being in your 30's:

Your body changes AGAIN.

Nobody told me that, much like counting the rings on a tree trunk, you can tell someone's age by the number of chins they have after they turn 30.  I am currently curating my fourth chin and it is coming in strong.  And by strong, I mean soft and doughy.

The one resounding accomplishment of my body my whole life had been my booty.  It was at gold star, 10/10, daaaaaamn girl status.  Then, I kid you not, the day after I turned 30, I was in my room after taking a shower.  As I turned to pull on my pants, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  Where- just the day before- a juicy, buoyant set of Farmer John hams had once been, was a stranger's derrière.  Stretch marks ran through it like a topography map.  Cheeks hung down like two IHop pancakes; and not even the Grand Slam kind.  I spun around in abject horror, starting at myself in the mirror as this new reality swept over me.  It was too soon.  I thought I had more time.  Over the years I have had no choice but to accept my less exciting junk in the trunk, as even my weak attempts at squats and lunges have shown no improvement.  Every once in awhile I find myself mourning my old backside figure; my ass, much like my 20's- robust and full of possibilities- now just sad and full of disappointment.

While I may have been a little dramatic there, things really do change surprisingly quick as you leave your 20's.  There are body parts that gravity has taken permanent ownership of.  Stomachs that never appear quite as flat as they used to be.  Boobs that literally just go fucking haywire (I like to call mine Exhibit A and Exhibit AA).  It doesn't help that I have a rib cage the size of a small country with more bones than a porn star's work week.  And the cellulite, OOOHHHH the cellulite.  I feel like I'm built like a bargain bin jigsaw puzzle.

Yet, in a completely different way, there's something about my body getting older that I find really sexy.  My life has been really, really tough at times, both physically and mentally.  So when I see the permanent lines on my forehead due to my years of stress and anxiety and depression, I know that I overcame that (well, somewhat).  When I look down at my belly, I know that one day it's going to make a comfy little home for a baby.  When I see the deep creases around my mouth, I know that I inherited them from my grandmother, whom I think is beautiful.

This brings me to my last point.  The most stark difference between being in your 20's and your 30's, is that in your 30's, you honestly, truly, and completely - I cannot stress this enough- just don't give a flying fuck.  I used to worry so much about what people thought of me and where I was going in my life and fitting into this cookie cutter idea of what I thought a person should be and do.  Now, here is a comprehensive list of the things I have stopped caring about:

All of them.

If you think I'm a bitch, cool.  If you think I'm funny and awesome, equally cool.  If I never have a career and just flit from job to job, neato.  If I see that my friends hung out without me, thank you for not making me change out of my pajamas.  If my tits are small and my hair is thin and my feet are huge and my nose is Russianly bulbous, does that bother me anymore? A resounding Nyet.

Being in your 30's rocks.  Sure, getting up off the couch sometimes is literally an event in its own right, and I have to set my alarm for the morning by late afternoon because at that point I could fall asleep at any second, but I dig it.  I get excited when I save money at the food store.  I haven't bought just a single loaf of bread since 2016 because you KNOW I'm throwing that second loaf in the freezer.  I'm currently looking at houses that I can actually afford, as opposed to wish-list houses.  Pregnancy scares don't exist in my world anymore, because a baby would not only be welcomed, but wanted.  When I get married, I want a tiny little backyard ceremony with beer and pizza, because that money can be saved for a sectional sofa and a dope kitchen remodel.  

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go rearrange the dishwasher.

A Secret Sadness

There are things that happen that immediately and unknowingly thrust you into a new stage of your life.  There is the You before it happened, and the You after it happened.  For me, my life changed almost one month ago exactly.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, I had a miscarriage.

I didn't know I was pregnant.

I wasn't sure whether or not I wanted to write about this.  However, one of the few people I told suggested that I do so, as there are so many women who have lost pregnancies that feel isolated and alone and confused because it is not something often talked about out loud.  I also thought back to when I wrote about my PolyCystic Ovarian Syndrome and how afterwards I had quite a few people reach out to me and thank me for making them feel like it was ok to talk about their own struggles with infertility and all of the other undesirable afflictions that come along with PCOS.

So I'm writing about this.  I feel nervous and I'm shaking a little bit as I type but if I can help even one person through this, it will be worth it.

For the past fifteen years, I have been told that I will probably have a difficult time getting pregnant naturally, and would most likely have to turn to fertility treatments.  This made me sad as anyone who knows me knows that my only desire in life is to be a mother.  I don't have many great things in my life, but just the knowledge that one day- no matter what and no matter how long it takes- I will have a child, is enough motivation for me to keep plugging through each minute, hour, day, and year.

Throughout the month of November, I knew that I hadn't been feeling well, but I just chalked it up to particularly vicious PMS, which I usually experience for the better part of 2-3 weeks (ah the joys of having a constantly delayed cycle).  One thing that really stood out to me was how much my breasts hurt.  Every gal can get a little tender before their time of the month, but this was weeks of mind numbing pain and sensitivity and gradual growth.  Normally, I would be thrilled to have reached almost a B cup from my normal AA/A, but this was too painful to find any joy in.

I was falling asleep at the drop of a hat at any given time during the day.  My back and sciatica were on fire.  I had insane hot flashes and would gag out of nowhere.

I also noticed that smells were getting to me more than normal, and food and drinks tasted off.  Now, I'm a smart girl and I know well and good that these are all symptoms of pregnancy.  But I have also experienced all of these things before as part of my PMS, albeit to a much lesser degree.  There was a part of me that considered taking a pregnancy test, but a much larger part of me knew how sad I have felt in the past when I've taken one and it has come up negative.

To be clear, I have never actively tried to get pregnant.  Girls know that we've all taken tests over the years, and most of the time we're happy when they're negative, but over the past 5-7 years it became very clear to me that I would be more happy than not if I were to find out I was pregnant.

November trudged on and two girls I know announced their pregnancies.  A very small, very quiet voice in the back of my head said, "Me too".

The day after Thanksgiving I was backing out of my parents' driveway and felt my car tap something.

"It's not trash day, why do their neighbors have their trash cans out?" was the first thought that went through my very fuzzy, very confused brain.  I looked in my rearview mirror and saw not trash cans, but the neighbor's car.  I was shocked as I have never, ever even come close to hitting anything with my car or being in any kind of accident.  Without tooting my own horn (unintended car pun!), I'm an exceptionally good driver, so this situation completely baffled me.  (Luckily, the neighbors could have cared less about the whole thing and were super great about it).  It was like my ability to think rationally had completely turned itself off; it felt like I was a visitor in another body.

I'm going to try to keep this next part of the story as least graphic as possible.  However, please understand that there are some things that I must mention.

Two days later, on Sunday, I woke up and ate breakfast and started my day like any other.  I noticed a little spotting and thought, "Thank god, my period is about to start and I can finally feel like a human again".  This thought was very quickly followed by the most ferocious, brain splitting, out of body pain I have ever experienced.  I am a tough girl when it comes to pain and I can handle a lot; but this was on a whole other level.  It felt similar to over the summer when I had an ovarian cyst burst, but that pain was more centralized to one region.  This pain shot through every nerve in my body.  I curled up in the fetal position in my bed and tried to focus on anything but the pain.  This proved futile.  I felt a very strong pressure around my pelvis and staggered my way to the bathroom, stopping every few feet to grab onto something and let out a soft, almost silent scream, as even straining my vocal chords caused pain.  Once in the bathroom I bled.  I bled more than I thought was possible, and I continue to bleed for the next 30 hours.

I knew something was different about what was happening.  This was not just the worst period ever.  But then again, maybe it was.  Maybe I was reading too much into things.  Or, maybe I was in denial. Because as the hours rolled on, the only thought I had in my head was,

"No.  This is not what I think it is.  I am not having a miscarriage, and I am certainly not having a miscarriage all alone in my little apartment".

The rest of that day consisted of continued trips from my bed to the bathroom.  I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, my poor dog could sense something was wrong with me and held his bladder like a champ.  I tried Advil, I tried a heating pad, I tried laying in different positions.  Occasionally the pain would subside a couple of notches for a minute or two, but no sooner had it stopped than it would start back up again.  My back felt like there was an axe in it and there were other strange things that happened that I will spare you all from.

The one thing I did notice was that the moment I started bleeding, the pain in my breasts went away.  It was the only bit of relief that I felt that day.

During this time, I decided to keep a detailed list of everything that was happening, as well as how I had been feeling in the weeks prior.

The next day I got up and went to work.  I was still bleeding and still in pain, but it was more manageable.  I texted the person that would have been the father and said to him, "This might sound crazy, but there was a part of me yesterday that thought I was having a miscarriage".  He was concerned and told me to keep him posted.  I told myself that as long as there was still blood the next day, I would have nothing to worry about, and this had in fact just been the worst period of all time.

The following day, the bleeding stopped.

I saw the father that day and told him.  "Let's talk", he said.

Quick note: This is a man who has been in my life for awhile and who I have an unyielding supply of care and respect and love for.  At times he has been my best friend, at times he has been my boyfriend, and at times he has felt like a stranger.  But he is someone who always has been and always will be very important to me, regardless of what role he plays in my life.  Because of this, he knows me probably better than anyone.  He knows my moods, he knows my quirks, he knows my physical ailments, he knows my mind and my heart.

We sat down on my couch and I told him what had been happening over the past couple of days.  He then said something to me that I was not expecting at all:

"To be honest, over the past couple of weeks, I thought to myself, 'Alexis is pregnant'".

He went on to explain how I apparently had been acting quite differently over the past couple of weeks.  As he said them out loud- I have to admit- they all checked out.  Things that I hadn't even realized myself until he pointed them out.  Yes, I had been extra moody.  Yes, I had been eating everything in sight at all hours of the day and night.  Confirmation from someone who knows every iota of me, and who also has kids himself and is well versed in pregnant women, gave me an overwhelming sense of relief that I was not crazy for thinking that I had miscarried.

Then he asked me if it was a boy or a girl.

"How would I know?" I asked him.

"You were a mother for that small amount of time.  You know".

I did know.  I knew for sure whether I was going to have a son or a daughter.  But I'm going to keep that between the father and myself.

I called my GYN's office to make an appointment to get checked out.  It took an unacceptable amount of time (days, in fact) for them to get back to me, as they had "mislabeled" my voicemail.  That made me feel less bad about leaving increasingly angry voicemails on every single extension in their office.  Sorry billing department, but now you know about the vaginal house of horrors I just experienced.

For the sake of time, I'll skip the details of the conversation I had with the nurse on the phone, and other things that happened during that time.  The bottom line is, I went to my doctor, pulled out the list I had kept during the worst of it, and by the end of the appointment my doctor confirmed my suspicions.

My first feeling was a sense of relief.  I had been able to get pregnant.  Naturally.  I never, ever thought that would happen.  My second feeling was numbness.  Why wasn't I sad?  Why didn't I feel like I was mourning correctly?  Next came anger.  I had missed my first pregnancy.  I had finally conceived a child- the only thing in the world I have ever wanted- and I missed it.  I will never again have the chance to enjoy being pregnant for the first time.  Yes, I realize that having a miscarriage after knowing you're expecting is excruciating.  But still, I felt gipped.

Next came the depression.  The father has been so wonderful and has really encouraged me to talk to him about how I'm feeling.  The thing is, I don't know how I'm feeling.  I somehow feel love for a baby that I never knew and never will know.  I feel like I'm a completely different person because even though it was just for a moment, I was a parent.  I'm scared that I will miscarry every baby I become pregnant with.  I'm scared that I will never get pregnant again.

I want nobody to know and I want everybody to know.  In the month since it has happened, I feel like a fraud saying "I'm ok" or "Oh, same old same old" every time someone asks me how I am or what's been going on.  But I also don't want to tell them what happened.  How do you even say it?  I personally know 6 women who have had miscarriages, and it always seems to be information you tell someone in hushed tones.

I found this article which gives three different accounts of miscarriages, and I found them both comforting, informative, and relatable:

https://cupofjo.com/2015/11/miscarriage-stories/

One of the women refers to her miscarriage as a "secret sadness", which I think is a perfect way to describe it.  You're going through life holding in this new aspect of your being.  It's not something you should be ashamed of, but it's not something you feel that you can let people know about.  Every woman and every partner- whether it's her husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, best friend, or just somebody she happened to get pregnant by- will handle things differently and feel differently, but the bottom line is the same.  We have experienced a loss.  Some days we will want to talk about it and some days we won't.  Some days we'll be happy and some days we'll be sad.  Or angry.  Or confused. I know it has only been 28 days for me since I lost my baby, but every minute is a guessing game of how I will feel.

Writing this entry is both my way of personally coping, and also hoping to reach others who may have experienced a miscarriage as well.  To those people, I am so sorry and please know that I am here for you.  Even if you're a stranger on the other side of the country, I am here for you.

One thing I do ask is that if anyone has any questions or comments about what I have just written, while I am more than happy to engage, please do not ask the father anything.  He knows I am writing this, but he did not sign on for a question and answer session.  He and I are supporting each other privately and in our own way, but as I said, if you do have any questions direct them to me and I will be more than happy to talk about them.

Also, I want to send out a general apology to my family and friends.  I'm sorry if you called me or texted me and I either didn't answer, or was short and general in my response.  If we were supposed to hang out and I left early or canceled altogether, I'm sorry.  If you told me good news and I seemed only generically enthused, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry if you are about to get engaged or married or pregnant or get a promotion at work or buy a big house with a white picket fence or win the lottery.  I can't be happy for you right now.  In time, I will be.  But right now, I'm so sorry, I just don't have that emotion to give.  I'm still trying to work out how to handle the rest of the world while simultaneously trying to grasp what has happened in my own.

I hope everything I just wrote has been okay.  I hope I haven't offended anyone by being so candid about a somewhat taboo subject.  I hope I didn't gross anyone out by the details.  But mostly, I hope that one day I can wake up to the sounds of a happy, healthy baby.

This One Time, In Key West... (PART FOUR - HEADING HOME)

We woke up early on our last morning, so we could grab a quick breakfast and stop into town to pick up some giant cookies for the plane ride home.  Our flight was at 5:30 later that day, but we were out the door by 9:30am.

We drove to Dunkin Donuts for what we anticipated to be a speedy on-the-go meal, but ended up being there for half an hour as the two slowest women on Earth took our orders and messed up Claudia's food three times.  When we went into town the first store we needed to go to was closed, and the cookie store didn't have the kind that Jil wanted.

"Let's just go home, I think we're done here" was the general consensus.

We drove to the airport, this time not in rush hour traffic, and also this time in the daylight.  We could see the beautiful water as we drove over bridge after bridge, and the big mansions that Oprah and other celebrities had as vacation homes.  About a third of the way into our drive, we stopped in Islamorada for a pee break (I wasn't lying when I said I always have to pee), and Jil showed us the beautiful spot where she had wanted to take us on our way down for dinner and drinks.  It's a shame, it would have been an amazing start to our trip had we not been delayed for ten years of our lives.

One last group pic with our best friend, the selfie stick

The one thing that was not so amazing about Islamorada; there was water beneath the bridge that was filled with tarpons.  For those of you who aren't familiar, they are fish that are roughly the size of a basketball player.  These things are HUGE, and they jump straight out of the water to catch food and their eyes are half the size of my face.  It's not ok.  More ok than the iguanas, but still...not great.  Also with them were sharks.  Because nothing is more comforting that looking down at fish half the size of a football field, only to have a shark mosey on by.

The monster to the left of the shark was easily 6 ft long.  WHY ARE YOU SO BIG, FISH?

We got back in the car and drove and drove and drove.  Luckily, it was sunny, beautiful weather.  We stopped to get gas and stock up on beef jerky for the plane (protein kids, it's all about protein).  We arrived at the car rental place, dropped off the car, grabbed our bags, and walked into the airport.  They weighed our bags after telling us that if they were over 40 lbs we would have to pay an extra $30 fee.  The suitcase that Jil and I had split was 39.5 lbs.  Carol and Claudia's suitcase was 42 lbs.  Carol opened the bag and, understandably frustrated, took out a bunch of clothes and threw them in the brown paper bag that had held our giant cookies.  The part that was annoying was that we had exactly the same amount of stuff in our suitcases as we did on the way down.  And remember when I said Carol hates carrying a bag?  This was not her favorite moment.  We walked to our gate, sat down, and that's when the rain came.  The sky was black, it rained down, it rained up, it rained sideways.  It was like that scene in Forrest Gump.  Jil pulled up a weather map on her phone and we saw Hurricane Harvey coming from the west and a new hurricane coming from the East.  Right down the center was a clear path that luckily included Atlanta, which we had a layover in again.

They boarded us 30 minutes late, and then we sat on the runway (Tarmac? Airport driveway?) for a full hour waiting for the rain to let up.  We then noticed that none of the seats had air sickness bags, so I started doing inventory in my head of how many random plastic bags I had in my carry-on that I could give to Carol if need be.

We finally got off the ground and again we had turbulence.  Not as bad as the trip down, but enough for us to grab the seats in front of us again.  We landed in Atlanta and they told us we had 10 minutes to get off and do whatever before we had to board again.  We ran off, peed quicker than we had peed before, went to board the plane, and were told it would still be about a 20 minute wait.

So we just threw our bags on the ground and sat where we stood.  Chairs be damned, they were a full two feet away.

The second leg of the flight went so smoothly that I thought, "If every flight was like this, I would fly all the time".  Literally the SECOND that thought left my mind, our plane started shaking again and the pilot came on and told us there would be some turbulence.  At that point, I was so exhausted I literally don't even remember what I was thinking.

At around 10:30 that night we landed, and by 11:45 we were home.

Although the travel to and from was hell, the trip itself was amazing, albeit exhausting.  I'll tell you one thing though; as I sat in my apartment the next day, with the temperature outside barely reaching 60 degrees as it poured for 24 hours straight, I desperately longed to be back in those muggy, sunny, iguana filled Florida Keys.

The EP Ladies

This One Time, In Key West... (PART THREE - IT'S RAINING POOP)

Sunday morning.

Beach Day.

But first, breakfast.

We went to Blue Heaven, as Jil had been there before and I had a couple of people from work suggest it.  It's a really cute outdoor place with a rustic, islandly feel and chickens and roosters walking around.  In fact, there were roosters all over Key West- they're its version of squirrels.

We sat and we waited.  We finally ordered our coffee and we waited.  We finally ordered our food and we waited.  The food was good, but the rest of us should have taken Claudia's advice and just substituted the various omelet fillings with more meat and cheese.  We were about halfway through our meal, when we noticed something wet drip down from the sky, straight onto the chair in between Claudia and I that held our purses and sweatshirts.  Then more stuff came down, a little more forcefully and with a slightly brownish tint.

"Is, is that...poop?"

No sooner had this question been asked then a GLOB OF CHICKEN DIARRHEA FELL FROM THE HEAVENS AND SPLAT DOWN IN BETWEEN ME AND CLAUD'S COFFEE MUGS.

Everyone stopped.  Everyone stared.

"Did it get on our stuff?" Jil asked, almost afraid to say the question out loud.

I looked over and saw brown spots on everything.

"YUP", I yelled and stood up, frantically looking up and around for a safe place to stand.

We tried to get our waitresses attention but she was awful and just kept walking past.  Finally Claudia was able to grab her eye.

"Hi, yes," Claud said as the girl casually sauntered over, "Yes, um, we just got SHIT ON".

"Oh no," the waitress said, looking down at the glob of pure poultry evil spreading across the table, "Did it get on you?"

"It got all over our stuff." I told her.

"I'm so sorry.  I'll send a busboy over right away."

It took the busboy about ten minutes to show up, and he lazily threw some napkins on the table.  Then the manager came over and literally chuckled and said, "Well that hasn't happened in awhile".

In awhile?  IN AWHILE?  If we wanted to get shit on we would just stand outside in Pennsylvania and let a pigeon's digestive system have its way with us.

I went to the bathroom to reevaluate my life, and when I returned the girls informed me that they took some money off of our check (which didn't matter because they overcharged us for other things), and apparently we were each going to get a free t-shirt from the gift shop.  While picking out our shirts, a woman came in and told us that we could only get 2 free shirts between the 4 of us, and I immediately became the kind of customer that I hate, and instructed her to go talk to her manager again because either we're all getting free shirts, or we're just leaving.  She came back and said we could all get one, so we all picked out ugly stupid shirts from their ugly stupid gift shop.

We went back to the hotel and I ran my sweatshirt underneath water in the bathtub and then hung it to dry.  Funny thing about tropical weather though- air drying is impossible.

We soldiered on and went to the beach.  I'm obsessed with palm trees and to be on a beach that had them everywhere was one of the greatest things I've ever seen.  And the water was warm.  And clear.  I never knew such luxury existed.  We lounged and read and then noticed it was starting to look like rain so we drove back to the hotel and sat in a cabana by the pool.  It was here that I noticed all of the iguanas.

Hello Lover

 Here's the thing.  Not much scares me in terms of animals.  You can cover me in snakes and rats and scorpions and it wouldn't bother me.  You could throw hypodermic needles my way and it would just be another day at the Jersey Shore.  But something about iguanas...no no no.  Iguanas will leap through the air like a Jurassic gazelle and EAT YOUR FUCKING FACE OFF.

These assholes were everywhere.  Walking by the pool.  Sleeping on the island IN the pool.  One waited for a lady to get up out of her lounge chair before strolling over, hopping up on it, and making himself at home.  There was one in the grass behind my chair that kept getting closer, and every time I made eye contact with it, I swear it grinned and licked its lips.  Carol finally had to shoo it away before I went into cardiac arrest.

Jurassic Park 6: Terror in the Keys

As per usual, it started raining again, so we went upstairs and climbed into bed.  A couple of hours later we got dressed again and went out for our last night in Florida.  Our first stop was Mallory Square, where every night there was a sunset festival.  Except for that night apparently.  There was one weird guy with a cat who had bald spots from stress (the guy and the cat), and after standing there for a minute and getting a stranger to take a full length picture of us (the one downside of the selfie stick), we moved on to dinner.

We DO have legs!

We went to another cute outdoor place for dinner, where Jil and Carol had delicious burgers and Claudia and I had dreadfully disappointing crab cakes and quesadillas.  After eating we hopped around to a couple of bars, including one that had dollar bills stapled all over every inch of it.  There was an alligator in a glass case at the back of the place, so we jumped up next to it to take a picture.  A foreign man with a staple gun joined in, and while I don't remember exactly what he was saying, I do remember being worried about the combination of his blood alcohol level and heavy duty office supplies.

One sneeze from this guy and we all would have staples in our heads

Then we wandered around some more and went into a bar called The Bull.  Jil went to the bathroom and when she came back she informed us that there was a clothing optional bar upstairs.  She seemed grossed out by it, but at the mention of 'clothing optional', Claudia and I looked at each other and raised our fists in the air.

"PENIS!" we shouted, with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning.

Carol looked at us. "A guy from work said to not go up to the Garden of Eden".

"PENIS." Claudia and I said again, this time as a fact, not an exclamation.

We went up to the second floor and noticed everybody was clothed.  Well this didn't seem right.  Then Claudia noticed another set of stairs with a sign next to it that said No Cell Phones.

"This must be it", she said.

"Hooray!" I yelled, running up the stairs and preparing myself for some naked tourists.

The Garden of Eden is a rooftop deck with towels on the benches and a closed off space on the side where you can get your whole body painted.  Two middle aged women were in there getting painted and they looked amazing.  Two completely naked men were shaking literally everything on the dance floor to "Shut Up and Dance".  Every man in there was naked, all the women were clothed.  We stood and looked around, not sure how long of a glance we could give any given person, and I wondered where people put their clothes.  Were there lockers?

As I was wondering this, a guy with a Welsh accent came up to me and asked what was going on.  Apparently he had been downstairs with his mother and grandfather and someone had told him to check out upstairs.  They just didn't tell him about the clothing optional part.  He was scared and confused and I took that opportunity to ask him about my guilty pleasure British reality show, The Only Way is Essex.  After telling me that the cast 'were all wankers, every single one', we all went back downstairs and we helped his family get an Uber home.  We watched their car pull up and immediately drive away.  We watched it drive by again.  Claudia looked at her phone and it said that the guy had picked up his passengers.  They were just the wrong passengers.  Unable to cancel the trip, Claud tried calling the driver but he hung up on her.  Then Jil took the phone and texted the guy.

'You have the wrong passengers.  We tried calling you.  Cancel the trip. 
Make it happen.  We're walking.'

A moment later Claudia got a confirmation that the trip was canceled.

Boom.

We ended the night at another bar and were all exhausted and realized we had stayed out too late.  Back to the hotel we went, with Jil's and my bags still smelling faintly of rooster.

This One Time, In Key West... PART TWO - TRAINS, DRAG, & SELFIE STICKS)

So here we were.  Waking up Saturday morning in Key West, all in one piece.  After losing the previous afternoon and night to traveling, we were determined to fit in as much as we could during our remaining two days.  After an ever-nourishing breakfast at IHOP, we boarded the shuttle for town and bought tickets for a train tour.  We figured as we rode around we could pick and choose what destinations we wanted to go to that day.

One of the great things about Key West is the open container law.  It allowed us to always have a refreshing beverage in our hands no matter where we were.  You can even get a beer at one bar and bring it into the next.  This was great for those of us who don't drink a lot, as we didn't have to order a new beer at every place that we went to.

We hit a bar as we waited for the train and then poured the rest of our drinks in cups and boarded the cutest little trolley with the cutest little driver.  He took us all around and gave great commentary.  The four of us girls sat in the very back (as only the coolest of kids do), and we eventually gave in to Jil's requests to take a picture of us all wearing the paper train conductor hats the ticket lady gave us.

Oh, quick side note: Claudia mentioned that morning that she had forgotten to pack her selfie stick.  We immediately proceeded to make fun of her, and I believe I made a comment about how I would rather get back on a plane than be caught dead taking a picture with one of those things.  She tried to explain how useful they are, but we were all like, "Psssh, nooooo Claudia, you're wrooooong".  Needless to say, she went into the gift shop next to the ticket stand for the train and bought a selfie stick.  It was pink.  It was large when extended.

It was a lifesaver.

Granted, it took us awhile to figure out how to use it, but by the end of the first day we were pros.  We took this thing EVERYWHERE and used it a million times.  Please enjoy the photos below that first show Carol, Jil, and I very confused about Claud's instructions on how to use it, and then show how useful that little pink sucker was:

"Wait, what?  There's a button?  WHAT'S GOING ON?"

Cheese, suckers

Ok, back to the story.

After getting off of the train we decided that our first stop would be to Ernest Hemingway's house which thrilled me to the core because, while I think he's a shit writer (sorry every English teacher I've ever had), I was still interested to see how he lived and worked.

We entered the house, which was BEAUTIFUL, and tagged along on a tour that was about to start.  Our tour guide was amazing.  She was funny and knowledgeable and didn't hold back on telling us about old Ernie's affairs and affinity towards the glug glug.  It was amazing to walk through and see the books that he read and the glasses that he drank out of and the typewriters scattered around.  We also realized that not only was Hemingway a stone cold fox when he was younger, but he was also a silver haired god when he was older.  The consensus was, 'Yeah, I'd hit that'.

The Sun Also Rises in my pants, amirite?

There were also cats.  Oh good lord were there cats.  6-toed cats to be exact, 55 of them.  They were on the bed, napping in the sink, wandering around their little village of mini wooden houses.  They all were named after celebrities, like Marilyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart.  Jil was beside herself with the adorableness of it all, and I was beside myself with an allergy attack.

The best part was after the tour, when we could go up and see the studio where he wrote.  It was the only part of the house that was completely untouched, and there were black, wrought iron bars keeping you from fully walking in.  But to see where this man sat and thought and wrote and daydreamed, it was incredible.  There was still a piece of paper in his typewriter (whether that was staged or not I'm unsure of, but I'm going to pretend it was real).

After leaving the Hemingway House, we shopped and we ate and we became quite familiar with how oppressively hot Key West was.  I'm freezing if it's below 80 degrees so I loved every second of it- it was sticky and muggy and sexy and I was in heaven.  Whenever we got too hot we would just duck into a store which are all air conditioned, or stand by a fan outside a restaurant.  After a few hours we decided to head back to the hotel and watch some TV like god damn Americans.

While waiting for the shuttle back, a group of youths came up and began a fight right in front of us.  They were drunk, they were yelling, the girls were trying to calm down the boys, the boys all had ridiculously bright shorts on.  Eventually the drunkest guy sat by a tree a few feet away from me and promptly began to vomit.  Claudia turned to me and suggested that I maaaaybe not look in that direction.

As our shuttle arrived the girls pulled out a plastic bag for the kid to continue puking in, which the wind immediately picked up and took out of her hands.  It flew into the street, and one of the guys ran out after it, right into traffic.  Everyone stopped and one of the girls finally asked, "Did he, like, get run over?"

He did not.

They then walked towards our shuttle and us girls looked at each other, hoping this jackhole was not going to be getting on our ride and ralphing all over our good time.  Luckily our shuttle was just for our hotel, so the gaggle of idiots got on another trolley.

After our relaxing break in the hotel room, we got ready for our first night out.  We got dressed and brushed our hair and put on some makeup.  Claudia, my fellow blonde, got this powder to fill in her eyebrows, as sometimes people with lighter hair can look like they have no eyebrows or eyelashes which is just plain silly.  She asked if I wanted to try it and I was all, hell yes!

She showed me how to put it on and I felt like a new lady.  The other three girls approved so we grabbed our bags and the selfie stick (I feel like we should have named it, considering it ended up practically being the 5th person on our trip) and walked out of the hotel to catch the shuttle.  It promptly started pouring.

We come from the school of tongues, not duck face

 But did that stop us?  No!  We had overcome the plane ride from hell and the car ride from some other hell!  We were unstoppable!  We were ready!  WE HAD EYEBROWS DAMMIT!!!

We hit a bar called Sloppy Joe's that someone had suggested to Carol.  It was super crowded so we decided to just grab some walking beers there and move on.  The girl behind the bar asked for me and Claud's IDs, and when she saw how old her were she looked at us, then back down at our licenses, then back up at us.

"Damn!" she said, as all four of us look roughly ten years younger than we actually are.

Our next stop was Irish Kevin's where we happily realized that we weren't the oldest people in the bar.  There was a guy on stage playing guitar and singing and he would bring up people who had on a bachelorette sash or a birthday crown, and pour liquor down their throats.  Then we realized that mentally, maybe we were the oldest people in the bar because we gagged just at the thought of taking a shot of anything.

We used to be cool, I swear.  We used to stay out past 10, and drink all night, and not wear sweatpants to the bar.

From there we hit the main event of the night: A drag show.

Jil and Claud have been to them before but Carol and I were downright penis tucking virgins.  We met one of the performers outside, Miss Sheeva, promptly became best friends with her, and took a picture of all of us (she even found the picture on Facebook that night and commented on how nice it was to meet us.  Be still my heart).  Her makeup sparkled like the Times Square New Year's Eve ball and she had a better rack than I'll ever have.

We went inside and grabbed seats right at the front of the stage.  While we were waiting for the show to start, the announcer and head performer came around to talk to us.  She came up to us with her microphone and began asking me where we were from when she suddenly stopped at stared at me.

"Your eyebrows are amaaazing," she said as she took a finger and firmly wiped it across my newly powdered brow.

"Don't wipe it off, they're fake!" I cried as the rest of the girls burst out laughing.

"Oh shit!" the host laughed, before putting her arm around me and saying, "Girl, I know how that goes."

I told her we were from Philly and she told us that she has a cousin who lives in King of Prussia, by that "big, crazy ass mall".

The show was amazing.  AMAZING.  We stuffed dollar bills in the girls' outfits and sung and danced and had the best time.  By 1:30am the show still wasn't over, but our tired old asses decided to go home.

She slayed, she sashayed, she wiped my eyebrows off

 We got an Uber home and collapsed into bed.  Four girls, seven eyebrows.