When one thinks of a canal, they most likely picture the "romantic" channels in a city such as Venice. Definitely not what equates to a moat surrounding vacation cottages on a small island located along the Eastern side of the mitt that is the state of Michigan. At least, that's how I'd like to picture a canal...unfortunately, I learned the hard way that canals in Michigan are nothing like their European counterparts.
Begin story:
It's early July, 2013, and I'm with my parents and younger brother (because someone, I won't even give this person a "fake identity", decided last minute to stand me up) to attend my cousin's wedding. My mom, being the awesome lady she is, rented a waterfront cottage on a tiny little island for the duration of our stay. Being a native Michigander (is that a word?), she wanted an actual vacation away from the suburban Detroit city where the wedding was being held.
The island was lovely, no doubt. The cottage-quaint. A gravel road led back to several cottages, each surrounded by essentially, what could be deemed a canal, and each cottage had a "cute" little bridge that led onto its property. I say "cute", because that's exactly what these bridges were when used properly.
On my last evening staying on the island, I went out for a drink with a friend I had made during my stay. Seeing as how it was later in the day on a Sunday on an island where the closest bar was 4 miles away (thanks, little brother, for making me walk there by the way...), this didn't quite come to fruition. Said friend dropped me off at the end of the driveway, still a good distance from the bridge to our cottage and left. It was pitch black and none of the cottages had outdoor lights on, so being the resourceful person I am, I of course used my phone as a flashlight. Until it died.
This is where the fun began.
Me (rationalizing in my head): It's not that far, I'm pretty sure the bridge is straight ahead. I'll be fine.
My foot: I'll just trip over this piece of metal (which happens to be a horn cleat...look it up), and we'll fall. I'm used to causing Freeway grief.
Next thing I know, I'm not hitting a wooden bridge over a canal as expected, I'm completely underwater, eyes open with a mouthful of dirt and seaweed (at least, I hope that's what it was). Thankfully, I didn't panic. Once I realized I was underwater, I knew exactly what had happened. Operation save my belongings kicked in...phone, brand new Dooney & Bourke wallet, cigarette pack, phone charger-all thrown up on the bank. Then, standing completely up, I realize that not only am I submerged 4 feet deep in water, but that there's approximately another 3 feet of steel (with no grips or places to climb out) preventing me from joining my belongings on land. Naturally, the first thing out of my mouth is, "F word". I assess the situation, look down at my throbbing and cut foot and knee, and then realize the item I tripped over is within my reach. Yes, I pulled myself out of that damn canal with the same item that landed my dumb ass there in the first place.
And sure, now someone decides to turn on the outside light to the cottage. I cross the bridge with my belongings (I made it out with everything but one flip flop and my lighter), and make it to the front door. I'm a soggy mess. My foot is cut, my knee is cut and swollen, I'm cold, and all I can think about is how my brand new phone isn't going to work. It's amazing what a hair dryer can do for electronics.
Needless to say, I've been nursing the knee injury ever since. Oh....and did I mention, my graceful self fell down a concrete stair last night? Yep, same knee. Same story. FML.
Still learning to walk without falling,
Freeway
Saturday, August 24, 2013
Thursday, May 3, 2012
You're So Vain...
...You probably think this blog is about you.
We all know someone that fits the "type". He or she is constantly checking themselves out in the mirror, flexing their muscles (or what muscle they think they have), and has a cocky-as-hell attitude. Some truly are THAT good-looking and can get away with it. Others, well not so much.
I like to think that there are two types of people that fit the vain mold. There is the traditional, "Type 1 Vain Person": born beautiful, knows they're beautiful, and can get away with having the stuck-up because I know I'm hot attitude. Does this mean they deserve to have an excuse to act this way? Most definitely not. But...it's understandable. They've lived their entire life this way, and unfortunately, until something devastating happens that takes away their natural outer beauty, then they'll never understand just how vain or naive they are.
The "Type 2 Vain Person" is one who acquires beauty in later life. Let me stress again, that this is outer beauty. For example, the Type 2 Vain Person might have been an overweight, bullied youth who works away their excess fat and then in turn, becomes obsessed with vanity. This person forgets where they came from and the pain they may have mentally endured and instead, becomes cocky and obsessed with their new-found good looks. The Type 2 Vain Person may also have at some point undergone superficial surgery to alter their looks (i.e. nose job, breast implants, liposuction, etc.) to achieve the beauty that has so alluded them for the better part of their life. They too, forget what it felt like prior to becoming what society deems beautiful or in the words of Zoolander, "Really, really good-looking".
Due to the line of work I'm in, I encounter both types of vain people on a daily basis. And, for so many of them, I feel a sick sense of empathy. No wait, sympathy is a better word to describe what I'm meaning to say. Day in and day out, I hold conversations with people who believe themselves to be God's gift to the World. Little do they know, I also hold conversations with people who knew these same people in high school, college, etc. and who can tell wonderful stories of an awkward youth and share the pictures to back it up. (Oh, and of course, there's Facebook to do the same). So recently, it left me to wonder...just why do people become so self-obsessed and vain?
While I've never considered myself to be a complete mutant freak, I haven't ever considered myself to be gorgeous or beautiful either. I learned the hard way after a freak injury and follow-up car accident, that strength and outer beauty can be taken away in mere seconds and in some cases, never be re-gained. In order to make myself truly a "pretty" person, I try my best to remain nice to everyone I encounter. I have a sense of humor, a healthy sense of humility, and what I'd like to consider a truly beautiful inner self.
What all the vain Type Ones and Type Twos fail to realize is that outer beauty fades. Humans age. We wrinkle. We lose our luster. And in certain, unspeakable instances, we can lose any and all exterior beauty and muscle in mere seconds. While I understand the human need for acceptance, I do not quite get the flexing in the mirror or the attitude that comes along with finally achieving a fleeting appearance. This is life. You're colored hair, fake breasts, injected lips, toned muscles, and straight teeth do not make you a better person...so, I'll just come out and say it on behalf of everyone else out there thinking the same thing: GET OVER YOURSELF. For real.
Enjoy a summation of today's rant by Janet Jackson and Carly Simon:
http://youtu.be/QVkibLD5GbA
Yours in vanity,
Freeway Fairington
We all know someone that fits the "type". He or she is constantly checking themselves out in the mirror, flexing their muscles (or what muscle they think they have), and has a cocky-as-hell attitude. Some truly are THAT good-looking and can get away with it. Others, well not so much.
I like to think that there are two types of people that fit the vain mold. There is the traditional, "Type 1 Vain Person": born beautiful, knows they're beautiful, and can get away with having the stuck-up because I know I'm hot attitude. Does this mean they deserve to have an excuse to act this way? Most definitely not. But...it's understandable. They've lived their entire life this way, and unfortunately, until something devastating happens that takes away their natural outer beauty, then they'll never understand just how vain or naive they are.
The "Type 2 Vain Person" is one who acquires beauty in later life. Let me stress again, that this is outer beauty. For example, the Type 2 Vain Person might have been an overweight, bullied youth who works away their excess fat and then in turn, becomes obsessed with vanity. This person forgets where they came from and the pain they may have mentally endured and instead, becomes cocky and obsessed with their new-found good looks. The Type 2 Vain Person may also have at some point undergone superficial surgery to alter their looks (i.e. nose job, breast implants, liposuction, etc.) to achieve the beauty that has so alluded them for the better part of their life. They too, forget what it felt like prior to becoming what society deems beautiful or in the words of Zoolander, "Really, really good-looking".
Due to the line of work I'm in, I encounter both types of vain people on a daily basis. And, for so many of them, I feel a sick sense of empathy. No wait, sympathy is a better word to describe what I'm meaning to say. Day in and day out, I hold conversations with people who believe themselves to be God's gift to the World. Little do they know, I also hold conversations with people who knew these same people in high school, college, etc. and who can tell wonderful stories of an awkward youth and share the pictures to back it up. (Oh, and of course, there's Facebook to do the same). So recently, it left me to wonder...just why do people become so self-obsessed and vain?
While I've never considered myself to be a complete mutant freak, I haven't ever considered myself to be gorgeous or beautiful either. I learned the hard way after a freak injury and follow-up car accident, that strength and outer beauty can be taken away in mere seconds and in some cases, never be re-gained. In order to make myself truly a "pretty" person, I try my best to remain nice to everyone I encounter. I have a sense of humor, a healthy sense of humility, and what I'd like to consider a truly beautiful inner self.
What all the vain Type Ones and Type Twos fail to realize is that outer beauty fades. Humans age. We wrinkle. We lose our luster. And in certain, unspeakable instances, we can lose any and all exterior beauty and muscle in mere seconds. While I understand the human need for acceptance, I do not quite get the flexing in the mirror or the attitude that comes along with finally achieving a fleeting appearance. This is life. You're colored hair, fake breasts, injected lips, toned muscles, and straight teeth do not make you a better person...so, I'll just come out and say it on behalf of everyone else out there thinking the same thing: GET OVER YOURSELF. For real.
Enjoy a summation of today's rant by Janet Jackson and Carly Simon:
http://youtu.be/QVkibLD5GbA
Yours in vanity,
Freeway Fairington
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Merely Superstitious...
"Very superstitious, writing's on the wall
Very superstitious, ladder's 'bout to fall,
Thirteenth month old baby broke the lookin' glass,
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past..." -Stevie Wonder
At seven years of age, I broke a mirror at my Greek best friend's house. Her mother, an extremely superstitious women, called my mom and sent me home with my usual goody bag of treats (Little Debbie cakes, a juice box, other assorted snacks/junk food). I don't recall being invited back over after that incident. I don't recall if that's the approximate time my bad luck in life started, or if it was merely the beginning of my obsessions with superstition and/or OCD.
At 17 years of age, I was involved in a car accident on Friday the 13th. The brakes on my 1996 Ford Taurus SHO (man, I loved that car) went out, and I rear-ended a man in a large F-350. Luckily, no damage was done to his truck. My car (and ego), however, were totaled. The man turned out to be a regular customer at the restaurant where I worked, and I would see him every Friday and Saturday night for the next two years. For the record, I never again drove on any Friday that fell on the 13th of a month until approximately two years ago.
Then, in 2008, my brush with bad luck and reinforcement with superstition altogether came back full force. In December of 2008, I participated in an office White Elephant gift exchange. Originally gifted a Brooks Brothers pinstripe tie, a co-worker swiped the tie and left me with a Voodoo Doll. Not the New Orleans, Savannah type Voodoo Doll, but the cheap, super cheesy kind from an adult novelty store. I found it amusing and set it up on my desk (still in the box) to keep around for entertainment when I had any extra unruly or outrageous customers. Christmas and New Year's came and went without incident. The Voodoo Doll sat inside its box collecting dust in the corner of my cubicle.
On February 28th, 2009, I suffered a freak accident which tore cartilage in my knee. I attempted to suck it up and figured the pain would go away overnight, however, it didn't. I eventually went to the Emergency Room, had x-rays, was given crutches and pain meds and sent on my way. No one besides my mother and boyfriend at the time knew about my injury. That Monday at work, the Voodoo Doll had a black pin (the bad kind) in the left knee...the very same knee that I injured. Normally, I would have thought it was a cruel joke one of my co-workers was playing on me to mess with me, but none of them had worked over the weekend or even knew that I had hurt myself. The Voodoo Doll remained in its box, nonchalantly in the corner.
Approximately a month later, I was involved in a hit-and-run accident. My same knee was re injured, my car was totaled, and I would undergo three more knee surgeries to rectify the new problem. This time, I pulled the Voodoo Doll out of its box and removed the black pin. I still joked about it with my co-workers...I mean, come on, it was from a mall store and wasn't a real Voodoo Doll at all. Or was it? Did someone have it out for me and my poor left knee?
Finally, after two years of letting it slide, I researched properly discarding Voodoo Dolls. When the time came, I followed the instructions exactly. If anyone was to have bad luck going forward, it would be my boyfriend at the time, because against my warnings not to, he looked back at the charred remains of the doll as they were sent down the river.
My knee (and conscious) felt a million times better after ridding myself of the doll. And the giver of the doll to the White Elephant exchange finally fessed up after my two plus years of wondering who contributed the doll to the gift party to begin with. Turns out, it came to him from a friend who had also had weird happenings occur while the doll was in his possession. However, to this day, I still have no idea who (or what) put the black pin that doll's knee. I'm not even sure that I'd ever want to...
Voodoo-Free, and now only merely superstitious,
Freeway Fairington
Very superstitious, ladder's 'bout to fall,
Thirteenth month old baby broke the lookin' glass,
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past..." -Stevie Wonder
At seven years of age, I broke a mirror at my Greek best friend's house. Her mother, an extremely superstitious women, called my mom and sent me home with my usual goody bag of treats (Little Debbie cakes, a juice box, other assorted snacks/junk food). I don't recall being invited back over after that incident. I don't recall if that's the approximate time my bad luck in life started, or if it was merely the beginning of my obsessions with superstition and/or OCD.
At 17 years of age, I was involved in a car accident on Friday the 13th. The brakes on my 1996 Ford Taurus SHO (man, I loved that car) went out, and I rear-ended a man in a large F-350. Luckily, no damage was done to his truck. My car (and ego), however, were totaled. The man turned out to be a regular customer at the restaurant where I worked, and I would see him every Friday and Saturday night for the next two years. For the record, I never again drove on any Friday that fell on the 13th of a month until approximately two years ago.
Then, in 2008, my brush with bad luck and reinforcement with superstition altogether came back full force. In December of 2008, I participated in an office White Elephant gift exchange. Originally gifted a Brooks Brothers pinstripe tie, a co-worker swiped the tie and left me with a Voodoo Doll. Not the New Orleans, Savannah type Voodoo Doll, but the cheap, super cheesy kind from an adult novelty store. I found it amusing and set it up on my desk (still in the box) to keep around for entertainment when I had any extra unruly or outrageous customers. Christmas and New Year's came and went without incident. The Voodoo Doll sat inside its box collecting dust in the corner of my cubicle.
 |
| Image of the Voodoo Doll I Received from the White Elephant Gift Exchange |
On February 28th, 2009, I suffered a freak accident which tore cartilage in my knee. I attempted to suck it up and figured the pain would go away overnight, however, it didn't. I eventually went to the Emergency Room, had x-rays, was given crutches and pain meds and sent on my way. No one besides my mother and boyfriend at the time knew about my injury. That Monday at work, the Voodoo Doll had a black pin (the bad kind) in the left knee...the very same knee that I injured. Normally, I would have thought it was a cruel joke one of my co-workers was playing on me to mess with me, but none of them had worked over the weekend or even knew that I had hurt myself. The Voodoo Doll remained in its box, nonchalantly in the corner.
Approximately a month later, I was involved in a hit-and-run accident. My same knee was re injured, my car was totaled, and I would undergo three more knee surgeries to rectify the new problem. This time, I pulled the Voodoo Doll out of its box and removed the black pin. I still joked about it with my co-workers...I mean, come on, it was from a mall store and wasn't a real Voodoo Doll at all. Or was it? Did someone have it out for me and my poor left knee?
Finally, after two years of letting it slide, I researched properly discarding Voodoo Dolls. When the time came, I followed the instructions exactly. If anyone was to have bad luck going forward, it would be my boyfriend at the time, because against my warnings not to, he looked back at the charred remains of the doll as they were sent down the river.
My knee (and conscious) felt a million times better after ridding myself of the doll. And the giver of the doll to the White Elephant exchange finally fessed up after my two plus years of wondering who contributed the doll to the gift party to begin with. Turns out, it came to him from a friend who had also had weird happenings occur while the doll was in his possession. However, to this day, I still have no idea who (or what) put the black pin that doll's knee. I'm not even sure that I'd ever want to...
Voodoo-Free, and now only merely superstitious,
Freeway Fairington
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Keep 'em Comin' (aka "A Note from Your Blogger)
Dear Readers,
I love you. You love me. (Or you hate me, but really, this just means you love me in a weird, twisted kind of way). Regardless, I need your feedback as motivation to keep my stories (I mean, truths) coming your way on a regular basis.
If you don't already "like" me on Facebook, please do! You can find me by searching "Freeway Fairington's Fan Page". And while you're at it, friend request me: Freeway Fairington.
In addition to this, you can follow me on this site as well...receive notifications as soon as I post and comment on what you like (or don't like) about my blogs.
Please, motivate and inspire me. I love hearing suggestions/ideas for blogs...hell, you can even email me at freewayfairington@yahoo.com.
That's all I've got for now. Next up on deck is a very fitting explanation of why I'm superstitious...
Much love,
Freeway Fairington
PS-I need an editor. Volunteers contact me asap. Thanks!
I love you. You love me. (Or you hate me, but really, this just means you love me in a weird, twisted kind of way). Regardless, I need your feedback as motivation to keep my stories (I mean, truths) coming your way on a regular basis.
If you don't already "like" me on Facebook, please do! You can find me by searching "Freeway Fairington's Fan Page". And while you're at it, friend request me: Freeway Fairington.
In addition to this, you can follow me on this site as well...receive notifications as soon as I post and comment on what you like (or don't like) about my blogs.
Please, motivate and inspire me. I love hearing suggestions/ideas for blogs...hell, you can even email me at freewayfairington@yahoo.com.
That's all I've got for now. Next up on deck is a very fitting explanation of why I'm superstitious...
Much love,
Freeway Fairington
PS-I need an editor. Volunteers contact me asap. Thanks!
Friday, March 2, 2012
Rural Decay
It all started with the demolition of my favorite house ever. I think I was maybe ten years old, and I had this fascination with a white, Victorian-Style house that once stood near the corner of Old Hwy 5 and Hwy 92 in Woodstock, GA. One day, while riding in the car with my dad, I saw a large billboard of sorts advertising the coming of a new Walmart. I asked him if this meant "my house" would be torn down. The answer, of course, was yes. That Walmart is no longer there. Nor is the Historical home which it replaced. No, Walmart needed a bigger, better location and eventually relocated just a few miles down the street. All that is left of that beautiful white house are the memories of its appearance and the stories I made up about it in my head. (Yes, I've always been a story-teller...some make their way to paper and others simply remain in my head.)
Not long after, more and more areas of vacant, wooded land began to be torn down throughout my county and "progress" came. More grocery stores, more restaurants, more "opportunity". I won't deny the fact that more jobs and housing were created. Convenience became an expectation, not just a bonus to the location where I grew up. But, with all of the advancement came an unexpected outcome: Rural Decay.
Walking Skeletons. Vacant eyes. Soul-less migrants. What the "country" setting of my hometown had evaded for so long became a mecca for the Urban nightmare: drugs. Too many people that I knew too well became victims of their method(s) of escape. Heroin. Ecstasy. Xanax. Cocaine. Meth. It almost seemed that it was more readily available here than it was in the city, the place where everyone used to go. No one needed Atlanta anymore...anything anyone could want was here and available at any time, almost anywhere. And that's where the Rural Decay began.
I watched with horror over the years as so many people I had known became shells of human beings. They lost themselves in the need to escape. Progress, it seemed, came too quickly...or in rare instances, not at all.
For a while, I left. I moved to "greater" places of opportunity in the "City". Marietta, Roswell, parts of Atlanta. I was shocked to find that when I moved back to the town where I grew up how real the epidemic really is and was. I wonder sometimes which was worse-the pain of life in an Urban setting where drugs are often associated, or the reality of living in a rural setting where there is nothing much to do but "get high".
The Rural Decay around me these days is devastating. I see it in the hollow eyes of customers and friends. I watch it take its toll on loved ones. And I view it in the skeletons that walk around like zombies throughout my town: without purpose, without feeling, without life.
It's almost like the Reagan campaign in the 80s from which D.A.R.E and the whole "Just Say No" programs sprung from. What is that we do? Do the sober ones wait and provide support? Do we let it go and shake our heads at the statistics? Do we punish ourselves with the consequences of this Rural Decay? In all seriousness, I'm really curious for some feedback on the issue and how its affected those of you living in and with this Rural Decay.
Thoughts?
In an inquiring mood,
Freeway Fairington
Not long after, more and more areas of vacant, wooded land began to be torn down throughout my county and "progress" came. More grocery stores, more restaurants, more "opportunity". I won't deny the fact that more jobs and housing were created. Convenience became an expectation, not just a bonus to the location where I grew up. But, with all of the advancement came an unexpected outcome: Rural Decay.
Walking Skeletons. Vacant eyes. Soul-less migrants. What the "country" setting of my hometown had evaded for so long became a mecca for the Urban nightmare: drugs. Too many people that I knew too well became victims of their method(s) of escape. Heroin. Ecstasy. Xanax. Cocaine. Meth. It almost seemed that it was more readily available here than it was in the city, the place where everyone used to go. No one needed Atlanta anymore...anything anyone could want was here and available at any time, almost anywhere. And that's where the Rural Decay began.
I watched with horror over the years as so many people I had known became shells of human beings. They lost themselves in the need to escape. Progress, it seemed, came too quickly...or in rare instances, not at all.
For a while, I left. I moved to "greater" places of opportunity in the "City". Marietta, Roswell, parts of Atlanta. I was shocked to find that when I moved back to the town where I grew up how real the epidemic really is and was. I wonder sometimes which was worse-the pain of life in an Urban setting where drugs are often associated, or the reality of living in a rural setting where there is nothing much to do but "get high".
The Rural Decay around me these days is devastating. I see it in the hollow eyes of customers and friends. I watch it take its toll on loved ones. And I view it in the skeletons that walk around like zombies throughout my town: without purpose, without feeling, without life.
It's almost like the Reagan campaign in the 80s from which D.A.R.E and the whole "Just Say No" programs sprung from. What is that we do? Do the sober ones wait and provide support? Do we let it go and shake our heads at the statistics? Do we punish ourselves with the consequences of this Rural Decay? In all seriousness, I'm really curious for some feedback on the issue and how its affected those of you living in and with this Rural Decay.
Thoughts?
In an inquiring mood,
Freeway Fairington
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wait, What Did You Just Call Me?!
This Blog was originally published in the February edition of The Canton Local. To read columns contributed by talented authors (such as myself) and to keep up with your local community please visit www.readthelocal.com and subscribe!
I realized the other day that I am at a stage in my life worse than the dreaded Tweens. This moment of realization came precisely at the moment when a woman just a few years older than me called me “girl”. I wasn’t sure whether I should be offended or if I should take it as a compliment. I chose the latter after cringing at the thought of my 19 year old employee calling me “ma’am” just a couple days prior to this incident.
I realized the other day that I am at a stage in my life worse than the dreaded Tweens. This moment of realization came precisely at the moment when a woman just a few years older than me called me “girl”. I wasn’t sure whether I should be offended or if I should take it as a compliment. I chose the latter after cringing at the thought of my 19 year old employee calling me “ma’am” just a couple days prior to this incident.
I must say that while I think of myself as young enough to
never, EVER be called “ma’am”, I feel much too old to be referred to as
“girl”. While my nightly routine
consists of two Advil and some eye cream, I’ll admit it-I still buy my jeans in
the Juniors section of the department store.
There’s definitely no denying the fact that this stage of my life feels
almost as awkward as my adolescent years.
I mean, what exactly is an under-30, over-25 year old woman
considered? I’ve been thinking about
this for nearly five days now, and I still have no idea.
Even the mirror doesn’t really clearly define the
answer. I keep searching for tell-tale
signs of new wrinkles, hoping this would determine why someone who isn’t even a
full nine years younger than me would call me “ma’am”…nothing yet. On the flip side, I consider the fact that
I’m often referred to as “girl” or “kid” could have to do with the fact that I
usually wear my hair pulled back and forego makeup. But surely, I must look older with no makeup
on. I even mentioned my paranoia with
being called any of the aforementioned words to my boyfriend. All I received in the form of feedback from
him was a blank stare and a headshake.
So it looks like I’m stuck in this transitional phase for at
least another year or two. Maybe then I’ll
be confident enough to rock Mom Jeans a ‘la Jessica Simpson to clarify my
age. Until then…
Not quite a girl, not yet a woman,
Freeway Fairington
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Adventures of GhettoStix and Sugar-Part I
Stepping off of a cramped plane into an island paradise of...oh, what, wait! It was gray outside. And raining. And the humidity...damnit, I wore leggings! I thought I was being the smart one by leaving my jacket at home and wearing a short-sleeved dress when flying out of my hometown in 30 degree weather. I lose again.
All I could think about for the next hour and a half was how much I wanted to take my pants off, and how I needed a lot of rum (or xanax) to deal with the crowd of people waiting to go through Customs. Have I mentioned that I hate flying? After finally making it to the front of the line, I received the necessary stamp on my Passport that allowed me into the island that was my greatest dream vacation ever...Barbados!
Being the Debby Downer that I am, I checked the forecast for the week on WeatherChannel.com before flying out. Sixty percent chance of rain. Every. Single. Day. And, of course, it was raining when we landed, when we boarded the taxi, and when we entered the lobby to our hotel. All of that was cured with a little Rum Punch (and some Chutney, for my dear friend Sugar). Four drinks later, we were led up to our room where a bottle of wine and fresh fruit awaited us. Then, down to dinner for some Flying Fish.
The food was delicious (the first time), and the next morning, the sun was out. Happily, it remained sunny for the duration of our trip. The Flying Fish, however, began to take its toll on my after the 3rd day. In fact, while all of the food was very delicious, there's only so much Flying Fish, Caribbean Vegetables, Cou Cou (I spelled it right, folks-it is NOT Cous Cous), and Chutney that an American can eat. I wanted Salsa!
After visiting a local show called Harbor Lights, my good friend, Sugar, and I (from here on out known as GhettoStix) hailed a cab. After talking our cab driver into stopping at a gas station for cigarettes, I begged him to take me to the KFC across the street. "No, you must have Chefette!" He said, pulling into the competition's drive thru. "I want a number 3," he ordered before we could even place our order. Pulling forward, he banged on the drive-thru window to tell the workers he needed a separate bag. It was going to be an interesting night...
Chefette did nothing to curb my hunger for American(ized) food. It was the greasiest chicken I've ever seen in MY WHOLE LIFE, and the biscuit was a roll-much to Sugar's disappointment. I looked at her with all seriousness and stated, "I need salsa. We have to find somewhere that has tacos or something". She nodded her head in agreement.
Security was no help when we inquired on where to find tacos, salsa, or any kind of real American food. And, of course, the local convenience store in town was closed. So GhettoStix and Sugar set off for the Shell station on the other side of town. The seemingly five mile trek was worth it. Not only did we pass a bar on the way (there's one every block or so), we also were successful in obtaining chips and ice cream. But, no tacos. After being followed back to our hotel by two cabbies smoking a joint and driving on the wrong (their right) side of the road, we were safe at home. However, I was still hungry. We decided to try walking into town to find something, anything that was open, only to realize we were walking too far and too much alone. So, we hailed a cab yet again. This time, we paid $7 for a two second ride to the only restaurant open 24 hours in Barbados: The Lucky Horseshoe.
The name wasn't kidding, either. Finally, after five days of Flying Fish and Chutney, real food! I think we ate those nachos in seconds. And, we found a ride home that didn't cost $20+! Lucky on all accounts, indeed!
It's a hard-knock life,
Freeway Fairington
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| Gray Skies in Barbados |
All I could think about for the next hour and a half was how much I wanted to take my pants off, and how I needed a lot of rum (or xanax) to deal with the crowd of people waiting to go through Customs. Have I mentioned that I hate flying? After finally making it to the front of the line, I received the necessary stamp on my Passport that allowed me into the island that was my greatest dream vacation ever...Barbados!
Being the Debby Downer that I am, I checked the forecast for the week on WeatherChannel.com before flying out. Sixty percent chance of rain. Every. Single. Day. And, of course, it was raining when we landed, when we boarded the taxi, and when we entered the lobby to our hotel. All of that was cured with a little Rum Punch (and some Chutney, for my dear friend Sugar). Four drinks later, we were led up to our room where a bottle of wine and fresh fruit awaited us. Then, down to dinner for some Flying Fish.
The food was delicious (the first time), and the next morning, the sun was out. Happily, it remained sunny for the duration of our trip. The Flying Fish, however, began to take its toll on my after the 3rd day. In fact, while all of the food was very delicious, there's only so much Flying Fish, Caribbean Vegetables, Cou Cou (I spelled it right, folks-it is NOT Cous Cous), and Chutney that an American can eat. I wanted Salsa!
After visiting a local show called Harbor Lights, my good friend, Sugar, and I (from here on out known as GhettoStix) hailed a cab. After talking our cab driver into stopping at a gas station for cigarettes, I begged him to take me to the KFC across the street. "No, you must have Chefette!" He said, pulling into the competition's drive thru. "I want a number 3," he ordered before we could even place our order. Pulling forward, he banged on the drive-thru window to tell the workers he needed a separate bag. It was going to be an interesting night...
Chefette did nothing to curb my hunger for American(ized) food. It was the greasiest chicken I've ever seen in MY WHOLE LIFE, and the biscuit was a roll-much to Sugar's disappointment. I looked at her with all seriousness and stated, "I need salsa. We have to find somewhere that has tacos or something". She nodded her head in agreement.
Security was no help when we inquired on where to find tacos, salsa, or any kind of real American food. And, of course, the local convenience store in town was closed. So GhettoStix and Sugar set off for the Shell station on the other side of town. The seemingly five mile trek was worth it. Not only did we pass a bar on the way (there's one every block or so), we also were successful in obtaining chips and ice cream. But, no tacos. After being followed back to our hotel by two cabbies smoking a joint and driving on the wrong (their right) side of the road, we were safe at home. However, I was still hungry. We decided to try walking into town to find something, anything that was open, only to realize we were walking too far and too much alone. So, we hailed a cab yet again. This time, we paid $7 for a two second ride to the only restaurant open 24 hours in Barbados: The Lucky Horseshoe.
The name wasn't kidding, either. Finally, after five days of Flying Fish and Chutney, real food! I think we ate those nachos in seconds. And, we found a ride home that didn't cost $20+! Lucky on all accounts, indeed!
It's a hard-knock life,
Freeway Fairington
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