What’s Your Preference?

A couple months ago, I went to lunch with a friend. We were catching up about my time in Australia and about life in general.

We were probably talking about Facebook when she told me my page says to ask about my relationship status. I told her that was because I'd taken off that I was single and interested in men a few years ago, right when Facebook started targeting ads based on your info. Because I find targeted ads creepy and was sick of getting ads for dating websites and that the ads stopped immediately after taking that info off. 

She persisted and questioned if there was anything to ask about, then interrupted herself and said she thought she already knew. “What do you think you know?” I asked, and she said, "There's a girl you had posted a picture with a while ago, and she changed her profile picture to it recently."

Me and Alli

"Oh, Alli? Yea, we're soul mates, but I'm straight." By soul mates, I meant we like the same music and reading and maps and tequila and random dance parties. She asked if I was sure and said she'd talked about it with her boss about it. He'd told her some people who travel long-term are asking themselves questions about life and that they go off to travel, meet new people, try different things, and come to some answers. All of which I agree with, so I asked her what the question was. "Your preference."

Yea, still straight.


ETA: My point was that I just don't understand the curiosity about other people's sexuality.
Just wanted to make clear that it's not an insult to be asked if I'm a lesbian or bi-sexual.

Sloppy Joe

On a somewhat regular basis, Tracy, my boss at On the Wallaby, would ask me to cook dinner for those of us working there. We got barbeque (steak and sausage or veggie patty, salads, and mashed potato) every night, which could get a little old. Since I love to cook, I was happy to help.

Tracy is a vegetarian, so I had to make sure to leave the meat out of whatever I was preparing. For a couple weeks, I’d been talking up these vegetarian sloppy joes my sister had made, having to explain to Trace what sloppy joes are in the first place (because it’s not a dish in Australia) and how I would make them vegetarian.

I had finally remembered to get the recipe, so the next time we did a grocery run for the lodge, I picked out the lentils and everything else I would need. The plan was make them that Friday because Judith, one of our regular guests who is friends with the owner and Tracy, was coming up for the weekend. Trace had texted Jude to bring her appetite since we were having Monica’s sloppy joes for dinner.

Tracy’s roommate was also over for dinner and was going on blind faith that the meal would be edible—he’d had my food before so wasn’t worried. He works with Americans and had asked them what sloppy joes are, but they couldn’t explain how I could possibly make them vegetarian, seeing as the main ingredient is ground beef.

When Jude showed up, she was confused that our meal was called sloppy joes because, never having heard of the dish, she had interpreted the message “Monica’s sloppy joe” as a new euphemism for some guy named Joe who I was messing around with, like the whole thing was a sloppy mess. And that Joe would be at dinner.


* For any non-Americans, sloppy joes are a crumbly hamburger with onions, green bell peppers (capsicum), celery, and a ketchup-based (tomato sauce) sauce mixed in. They’re served on a hamburger bun (bread roll) and may be eaten picked up as a sandwich, but they’re usually so sloppy that it’s easier to consume open-faced with a knife and fork.

Who Wears Short Shorts?

surreptitious picture of the shorts

“Real men wear shorts to work”--direct quote from one of my co-workers at Kurundi Station, another cattle station job. It’s true that some of the guys here work in shorts. I just don’t understand why they have to wear shorty shorts--think along the lines of 1980s men’s basketball shorts.

For station work, they’re around cattle all day long. It’s mustering season, so they muster (bring cattle into the yards), draft (sort by sex and/or age), and brand. The branding process involves de-horning, castration, ear-marking, and hormone tags for the steers in addition to the actual branding.

When cattle are de-horned, they spurt blood from the head. Castration and branding sometimes causes them to shit themselves. So these guys come back covered in…you guessed it…blood and poo, not on their jeans, but on their legs. I can’t imagine it’s fun to clean out of leg hairs.

wearing shorts to feed Lucille

But who am I to judge? I wore shorts when feeding the poddy (orphaned) calves at my last station job, and I would inevitably end up with milk, poo, and sometimes blood  (don’t ask, sometimes blood happens caring for calves) on my legs. Manure in the boots was the worst. I’m just glad I didn’t have the leg hair-cleaning problem. And I could immediately clean and not have to wear it all day.

What Star Sign Are You?

This was an actual interview question (back in May) for a kitchenhand position in Australia.
“Cancer"
“So you’re a homebody?”

“Well kind of, but I’m here [in Australia].”

I had a weird feeling about the job in the first place, and I didn’t pursue it after that because really? My zodiac sign has bearing on how well I would work in a kitchen? At least it was a phone interview, so the guy didn’t see my reaction.

Oops, I Touched a Sleeping Stranger

The first night in a new hostel always seems a little confounding, and Space Hotel was no exception. There I had booked into a six-bed female dorm room. In the middle of the night I got up in to use the restroom. 

Upon returning to the room, it was really dark. Some hostels don’t have adequate window covering, but that was not the case at Space. It was especially murky since I had not really cleared my eyes properly and had come from the brightly lit hall.

I missed my bed, just walked right past it. When I reached what I thought was my bed, I stretched my hand out to make sure I was close enough and jumped when I touched a blanket--I always throw the covers off so I can easily hop back between the sheets.

I shuffled around and made it to my bed. Oh, and I don’t think my neighbor knew I almost got into her bed with her.

The Anti-Comedian Bus Driver

Over the first weekend in March, there were no (reasonable) rooms available in Adelaide due to it being Mad March, the festival season. Someone told me there are 200 separate events that occur in March in Adelaide! The Clipsal 500 stock car race put the city over the edge as far as rooms go. So I took a trip to Melbourne to see my friends. It worked out cheaper to do that than to stay in town. 

The bus driver on the overnight bus there thought he was a comedian, but he was only humorous in the awkward sense. He started off the 8:30 pm ride with a boisterous, “How is everyone?” Silence. “What if I make everyone give me $5? Now how is everyone?” Crickets. “How about I make it $10?” Finally someone piped up a dry, “We’re all fine,” just to shut him up. “Why are you speaking for everyone?”

After the 15 minute safety video, he went on to talk for another 10 minutes about using the toilet on the bus. “If you don’t make sure the bowl empties, it will back up and pour out on the floor of the bathroom and spill out into the bus. You don’t want that. Also, guys, please point down when you use the toilet…you know what I mean…your willie.” If they knew what he meant, why did he say it?

“I’m going to put on a movie now. If you’ve already seen it, you don’t have to watch it again. You could read or listen to music or try to sleep.” I mean, it's a bus, so I would say the options are pretty obvious. At least he didn’t repeat the safety video or the toilet spiel at every stop throughout the night.

Upon arrival in Melbourne, he proceeded to talk for 15 minutes about what you need to do if you were going on to Sydney via bus or going to the airport or taking a train or about five other options. “And if Melbourne is your home, just don’t say anything. You know what to do.”

Double the Arrests, Double the Fun

Arrest Number 1:

After a couple drinks in Melbourne, Scott, Adele, and I walked to Melbourne Central station to catch the train to the suburbs, where we were staying. The departures screen informed us that our next train left in 15 minutes, so they sat down for a rest. 

Scott swiftly turned around and grabbed the handrail of the “up” escalator, but he could only support himself for a few seconds. When he had slid back down, he said, “Mon, get a video of me!” So I obliged and shot a short video.

On his third time up, two transport security officers came over and tried to get his attention, “Sir, what are you doing? Sir, get down. Sir, that’s how people get hurt.” One officer spoke with Scott, and the other addressed myself then Adele. “Do you know it’s illegal to take pictures down here?” He pointed to a sign directly behind me that I clearly had not seen. It looked something like this, but it also included a camera icon. 

“Ohmygod, no! I’ll delete them right now.” “Well don’t worry about that now.” My mouth went dry. Shit. “Do you have ID?”

“Are you all English?” I overheard Scott’s officer. “We are," he indicated himself and Adele, "but she’s American,” Scott replied.

I handed him my driver’s license. “Are you a resident or traveling?” “We’re all traveling on working holiday visas.” He wrote down my name and asked my date of birth. He wanted to get correct documentation since America is not down with the rest of the world, which writes dates day-month; we write dates month-day.

He asked for Adele’s ID. Now, Adele had done nothing wrong, so she had taken a step back. She looked as terrified as I felt (and, as it turns out, also looked). He took her info down in his notebook, as well.

As he handed us back our IDs, Adele asked what happens next. “Oh this one’s trouble,” he indicated to the other officer but offered no explanation. The guy who had been talking with Scott piped up, “We can’t fine you because you’re not residents.” Sigh of relief.

Scott later informed us that as soon as his officer saw his ID, he said, “Oh shit. You’re English, so I can’t issue a citation.” I don’t understand why the guy talking with Adele and I couldn’t have offered us the same courtesy--he just left us hanging.

And to top off almost being arrested, the departures screen lied to us. There were no more trains from that station, so we missed the last one back. Then we had to battle hundreds of others trying to hail taxis right at shift change, so it took us an hour to finally find someone who would take us there. 

Arrest Number 2: 

The next day, as we were riding the train into town, two transport officers came through the car checking everyone’s Myki (metro) card to make sure everyone paid for their ride. When he came up to us, he looked at me with my feet up on the seat and said, “Do you know that having your feet on the seat is a finable offence.” Crap not again. “No.” “I’ll need to see your ID.”

I start to retrieve my license. “Since I’ve caught you doing it, I will have to make a report. If the transport authority decides to issue a citation, it will come in the mail.” I feel immediately relieved because, having been through this the night before, I now know I won’t be fined.

Handing him my license I answer, “Ok,” polite and agreeable, “I’m American, so how does that work?” He gets snippy, “You’re not a resident?” “No, sir.” “Are you living in Melbourne?” “No.”

“Are you staying in Melbourne?” inquired his sidekick. “We’re staying outside the city tonight, but we’re staying in a hostel in the city tomorrow.” “How long have you been in Melbourne?” “Just for the weekend; I’m going to Adelaide Tuesday.”

The guy jumps back in, “Common sense tells you not to put your feet on the seat. Do they have trains in the state of” he checks my ID “Illinois?” “Yes.” “Do they allow you to put your feet on the seats there?” I wasn’t going to stoop to his rudeness level and reply that no one really cares if you put your feet on the seat, nor would anyone get fined for having feet on the seat. If a transport employee did come through and cared enough, they would just ask you to please put your feet on the floor.

“To be honest, I’ve never ridden the train in Illinois.” That was a lie, but really it’s been years since I did. He reiterated the common sense bit and moved on, not bothering to take down my information.

By the way, it’s not as if I had muddy or even dirty shoes, in which case common sense would have kicked in, and I would not have had them on the seat. Also, I could have informed him that the train from Melbourne to Adelaide does not have such a rule, since we all had our feet up a couple weeks prior. Had he been polite about the whole thing, I may have felt sorry for putting my feet on the seat, but as he was exceedingly rude, I don’t.

Magnetizing Weirdos

Where my amazing ability to draw in kooky people comes from, I don’t know, but it certainly has made my life richer. Ok, I do know that when I only witness the oddness, the skill comes from observing people around me…and a little voyeuristic listening to their conversations. But it’s the times when they feel the need to speak to me--that’s the gift from nowhere.

Last week, there was a woman on the tram creating a ruckus by shouting that her home is jail and that she wanted to stab two white men. She did not in fact stab anyone on the tram, just caused a scene and made everyone feel uncomfortable. I do want to say she was not talking to me but was on the other end of the tram.

A few days ago, I sat down in a food court for lunch, and the guy at the next table, who was missing multiple teeth, smiled and said hi, so I said hello back. A woman came through yelling to herself. The man turned to me, laughing, and said something about how she’s so crazy and always shouting. He proceeded to talk smack about her incomprehensibly. 

A few days ago, I spoke with Rachel, a lavender-haired woman who was most likely on drugs and may or may not have been homeless.

Most of the day Monday, I watched free Adelaide Fringe shows at the mall, a venue for the artists performing at the Fringe to let people know what their show is about and to provide the public with some free entertainment. To fill time between acts, the host asked the audience if anyone had already seen or was going to see a Fringe show. Rachel, who had been watching all morning, too, said she won tickets to a show that night. I gave details about Confessions of a Control Freak.

After lunch break, I hear Rachel holler my name and look over thinking, ‘yay, this woman knows my name.’ She says her friend (can’t remember his name) went crazy and deleted his Facebook. “Oh, that’s too bad,” I replied.

Later that afternoon, she came and sat next to me and said she recognized me from our conversation the previous week. “When you were talking earlier, I said to myself ‘that’s Monica.’” We had never spoken before that day, but I wanted to see where it was going so I just went along with it.

She asked how long I’d been in Adelaide and whether I liked it. She’s been in Adelaide 12 years, but she doesn’t like it because her boyfriend broke up with her. And also because he stabbed her. She reiterated about her housemate who came home high, went crazy, and deleted his Facebook.

She told me she was trying to sell the tickets she had won for $20 because she had to work that night. It clearly said on the tickets that they were free, so I don’t know if she had any luck with that. She also said her auntie works at the Hilton and that she’s letting Rachel live there for free. I chose to believe the bit about the housemate over her living at the Hilton.

On Monday, I was sitting watching the shows at the mall when I feel poke on my shoulder blade. There's Rachel. "Oh, hi! how are you?" I asked. "Sore," she replied. "I got kicked out and had to sleep on the streets last night. That's why I have all my stuff with me." She pointed to a red suitcase. I didn't question her about living in the Hilton. She pointed out her new haircut, which was a little shorter with the sides shaved.

Anywho, whatever the reason these people talk to me, I guess I'll have to accept it.

Shout Out to my English (and Swedish) Homies

My new English friends requested a shout-out on my blog. We met during the fun-week orientation with Work and Travel Company. They were going to spend a few days in Bondi before heading to Melbourne, which was where I was headed. I saw most of what I wanted to see in Sydney, and the rest I can see when I get back at the end of the year.

I had been pretty quiet and awkward for the first week, as I am when I meet new people, and was kind of just tagging along with them, but I soon made myself integral to the group via “that’s what she said” and other innuendos.

A few of them now relish speaking in an American accent (that sounds nothing like anywhere in America). “Mwaniker” is my new name, but they also call me by singing my full name. It cracks my shit up. When they request my English accent, they call me out for speaking “posh.”

They call me their mum because I’m prepared for all situations. All I do is have the map memorized, have everything in its place (OCD), carry a Swiss army knife, and have safety pins to be considered “so efficient it makes me sick.” I’ve also been nicknamed a walking encyclopedia since I share random facts. 

So here's a "hey, hey" to Binx, Scott, Adele, Luke, Jess, and Richard.

Surf Camp…Spoiler Alert: My Day Ended in Burned Feet

Yesterday my orientation group went to surf camp at Seven Mile Beach National Park. We were told to bring a huge appetite because lunch would be two bread rolls. I don’t know what bread rolls sounds like to you, but to me it sounds like dinner rolls, something you would get with a chicken dinner. FYI, bread rolls are sandwiches.

Being allergic to neoprene, the main ingredient in a wet suit, I told the surf camp staff when we lined up to get fitted. The lead surf instructor informed me he is a medical professional (mmm hmm) and wanted to know what my reaction was. “When I got certified for SCUBA a couple years ago, I broke out in a rash everywhere the wetsuit touched me.” I mean, I don’t know if he thought I was lying so I didn’t have to wear one, but I really don’t want to run the risk of wearing one again since every time you’re exposed to an allergen, the allergy tends to become more severe.

They did not have a non-neoprene wet suit, so I got a “rash shirt” (“skin” in U.S.). He told me if I booked a weeklong surf camp to let him know in advance so he could procure a rubber wet suit. Right, with my long-time hatred of sand, I’m going to roll around in it for a week--I was doing good to be there for the one day in the first place.

We left our stuff at the camp and walked to the beach. However, they failed to inform us how long of a walk it would be, so most of us did not wear shoes, myself included. By the time we got to the beach, the balls of my feet had burned and blistered from the heat of the blacktop. I couldn’t walk the last bit to the beach, so one of the instructors lent me his “thongs” (flip-flops).

We sat down on the sand for our surfing lesson—yes, I sat on sand, no towel, just sand. The wind had picked up and was pelting us with the stuff. I was zoned out, mentally numb from my feet and to turn my brain off to sand. I tried to stand to attempt the paddling practice, but I couldn’t stand on my feet so immediately sat back down. When everyone picked up boards, the instructor asked if I was going to try. Nope.

He pointed out a table the surf camp had that I could lie under so I wouldn’t fry in the sun. It was maybe four feet long, two wide, and two tall, so I was on the struggle bus to get under it and keep my knees and everything out of the sun. I promptly started ugly crying, sobbing, with snot running down my face. It was attractive. 

I wanted to watch everyone else surf, so I faced that direction. But the sand was assaulting my face, swirling around, and going up my nose. So I sucked it up, got out, dug some sand from under the table to give myself a little more room, and turned the other direction, so I couldn’t see the surfing but wasn’t struck directly in the face with sand. I still had to put my arm into an awkward position to protect my face, but it was better.

Then I felt a stinging bite on my ass and saw a horsefly zooming about. He bit me at least another 20 times--but only on the buttocks. I got out a couple times to swat him, but he was too swift.

An instructors came back to offer a surf with him holding the board or even on my knees, but I could not imagine anything worse at that moment, so I declined and stayed in own my sandy, horsefly hell for the remainder of the two hours.

I was so grateful for the flip-flops on the way back. I know my feet are wimpy, but I genuinely could have made it back without them. I was walking on the outsides of my feet to compensate, so my ankles (especially the one I broke) were screaming at me by the time I got back to the camp. The blister on the left popped on the walk back, and I pricked and let out most of the right one after I got back to the hostel. The lead instructor loaned me gel ice packs for the bus ride back to Sydney.

The others without shoes were suffering from burned feet, too. In fact, on the walk back, two of them sat down almost crying, and all the instructors walked past and left them behind. They couldn’t find the way back and ended up locked out of the camp while the rest of us were getting rinsed off and eating fruit and cookies. They did make it back but only because some random people lent them flip-flops and showed them the way back.

The surf camp staff tried to blame us for not wearing shoes, but we were absolutely not informed that we would need shoes. I heard this morning that the Work and Travel staff informed the owner that he needs to ensure people are wearing shoes.

I elevated my legs last night, and my feet (and ankles) definitely feel better than they did yesterday--I can walk, so that’s a plus. But my right foot is a little squishy and my left ankle is puffy. It’s going to be weeks before my feet are healed.

The moral of this story is to wear shoes at surf camp.

Disorientation on Entering Sydney

Arrival in Sydney was a big CF. Everyone rushed to the nearest bathroom, like is usual after a long flight. There were four stalls in the one I entered, but someone was sick in one stall, so we were down to three. I wanted to go before getting my backpack because that’s one less thing to stuff into the stall.

Immigration is always busy, with everyone trying to get his passport stamped first. As usual, they had separate lines for citizens and foreigners, but there were signs pointing in opposite directions indicating where foreigners should go. I went where the permanent sign pointed so was in the right place. Then I had to wait for my luggage, and with a double-decker plane containing 88 rows, there’s a lot of luggage.

Once I finally got my backpack (for whatever reason, my luggage is almost always toward the end), I hoisted it onto my back and turned toward customs. Oh. My. God. The number of people trying to get through was atrocious. There were two lines merging into one, and by lines, I mean large blobs of people. I decided to take the airport up on a free cart. At least my blob was the smaller of the two, so I may have gotten through a little easier.

Fun fact: You’re not allowed to bring food of any kind into Australia. They tell you on the plane that no food is allowed, including food you receive on the plane. There are quarantine bins throughout the terminal. Most countries don’t want you bringing fruit, vegetables, or seeds in, but I’ve never heard of confiscating mints and granola bars.

I marked on the customs form that I had no food, left my trail mix on the plane, and crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t search my bag and find the chocolate bar because I read that they search everyone regardless of what you mark on the form. Apparently, I don’t look like a food terrorist, so they let me through without checking my bags.

Once through customs, I walked out to freedom. Work and Travel Company, whose program I’m using, had indicated my program included airport pick-up, so I was expecting to see a driver with my name on a sign. No such luck. By now, it had been over an hour since the plane landed, so there was no way the driver was that late.

I turned on my phone to see if I had a message. Nope. I tried to jump on the airport’s wireless to get the phone number because I had forgotten to put it in my phone before I left, but there wasn’t much of a signal and they were asking for my email address to “keep in touch with me” (aka send me spam), so I asked Airport Help. He said there was another exit and to check there. Nope.

I was fed up, so I just got a taxi. I hopped in the back and closed the door before remembering that Australians sit in the front seat of taxis because of “egalitarianism.” Oh well, too late.

Is This Where You Put Your Children?

not a baby holder

That's exactly what I asked myself upon seeing this when entering the restroom at Goose Island Brewery in Chicago over the weekend. And no, I wasn't drunk. It would be helpful, wouldn't it? For people who have to take their child into the restroom to be able to strap them to the wall and go without having to worry that the kid is going to crawl on the floor, which you know is disgusting and wet. I mean, why is everything in a public restroom wet? But no, it's a nifty hand dryer, the Dyson AirBlade. Sounds pretty bad-ass, right? I felt awkward using it, trying not to touch the sides, because clearly it must be crawling with germs.

because I'm always worried about unsafe TP conditions

Also, the toilet paper dispenser was smart, safe, and sanitary. Because, as Lauren put it, I'm usually worried about my arm being cut off while getting TP. It could happen, people. You should insist your office put in San Jamar TP dispensers, so you too can be safe in the restroom.

How My Sister and I Had a Couples Massage...

...or Foreign Massage Should Come with a Nudity Warning

Our first day at Riu Bambu in Punta Cana, Lauren and I were hoping for some pool time. However, Mother Nature had some rain in mind. We were already by the pool, with our swimsuits on, so we decided to start our vacation out right--at the spa! 

We picked the body scrub, wrap, facial, massage, manicure, and pedicure package for the low price of 5400 Dominican Republic pesos or $138.43. Gotta love a favorable exchange rate!  

The girl behind the counter said they had now available if we wanted. Yes! But we needed to go back to the room to get our credit cards. So we hiked back to our room and came back with our credit cards. And by hike, I mean walk--we were in the last row of bungalows, but it was all flat, paved ground. I actually had to shuffle so as not to slip out of my wet flip flops and break another ankle.

The good and bad thing about an all-inclusive is that you don't have to carry around money. Good because you are not going to get mugged and do not have to pay for food and drinks. Bad because if you want to book any additional excursions, you do need money, but it's in the safe in your room. 

We paid (the girl was confused that we both had the same last name--"somos hermanas") and were led back to the waiting area. Then, we were called into a room...together...and there were 2 massage tables set up, complete with flowers. So yea, sister couple's massage! I'm thinking, 'we'll be covered, so it'll be ok.'

The masseuses started clearing the froofiness off the massage tables, and one of them said, "You take clothes off." Now, we looked at each other like 'Is she serious? They're still in here?' I looked around for a curtain or closet--nope. We shrugged and started taking off our cover ups then paused. One came over, threw her arms over her head, and said, "Everything off!" Lauren was apparently lagging behind because the girl grabbed her swuimsuit bottoms and insisted, "dees too."

We lay on the tables face down...no bum cover...just naked. Then the body scrub started, and I found out why there was no bum cover: it was scrubbed, too. Whispered in my ear, "tin ofa pwis." "What?" "Tun ofa pees." "What?" "Tun ova pwees." Oh 'turn over, please.' I did get a cootchie cover while on my back, more like a bandanna. I later learned Lauren was not so fortunate there. 

While on my back, the girl exfoliated my cleavage and under my boobs and my sides. Not the tots themselves, but definitely between and all around them.

Lauren was told to go to the shower in the back of the room to rinse the scruby off. When it was my turn, I sneaked a peak toward the shower through squinted eyes to blur my vision. Lauren was getting out; she was given a very large towel, bath sheet-sized. So she was completely covered while we had to pass each other. I was not. We just looked away, and I tried to cover the important bits.

When I was done rinsing, I received a hand towel. That's right, a hand towel. I kind of questioned the unequal distribution of towels, but whatever, the whole situation was already a hot mess, and the hand towel did the job. Before I stepped out of the shower, my girl told me to turn around and slathered something slimy on my back and backside.

When I got back to the table, it was covered in a large sheet of plastic, Dexter-style. I wasn't too scared of getting stabbed through the heart, so I laid down on my back, which was particularly difficult because the goop on my back was super slippery. Later, I learned Lauren did not have the luxury of being slathered before getting back on the table. No, she had to lay face-down then flip over while gracefully attempting not to slide off the table. 

Keep in mind that in the US, we'd have been covered, and the masseuse would have lifted the cover, looked away, and replaced the cover once flipped. But I will remind you: we were completely naked. Just imagine her flipping while trying desperately not to turn the massage table into a slip-n-crack-your-skull-open (aka slip-n-slide). 

But I digress. Once the goop was spread over our bodies, the plastic wrap was pulled around, except that I had a foot-wide naked strip down my front. A sarong was laid over that. Also, the overhead fan was on full force, so I was thankful to be wrapped up because the slime was cold as it evaporated.  

On to the facials, which were pretty uneventful. Lauren's girl did say to my girl, "Esta máscara está muy bien buena!" (This mask is very good good). They put cucumbers on our eyes, and we heard the door open and shut. Neither of us could see if they were both out of the room, what with the cucumbers and all. So we didn't say anything. 

A few minutes later, the door opened and shut, and they finished our facials. We showered the goo off, and the towel disparity continued. Then, we were massaged, including the buttocks. The cootchie cover inequality also continued.

Whispered in my ear, "aw feeneesh." Lauren was not given any indication her massage was over, except that it stopped. The door opened and closed. We looked at each other, and Lauren questioned, "I guess we're done?" We had a little giggle but were afraid the masseuses were listening just outside the door so did not collapse into uncontrollable laughter like we did later. So we just put our swimsuits on while averting our eyes.

The manicures and pedicures were also relatively mundane. We were given German fashion magazines to read. Neither of us knows German, but I think it was all they had. I kept chipping the manicure by dinking my fingers into the bowl or the towel on the table. That girl spoke very little English, but she kept making fun of me through random squeaks and pointing. I scraped all the nail polish off my fingers by the time we got back to the room (finger nail polish makes my nails feel heavy and unnatural). 

The moral of this story is that foreign concepts of modesty are much different from the US, so if you're not at peace with your body, you may want to avoid massage out of the country (or at least discuss prior with the front desk/masseuse).

Reality is a Drag

Some people in our group recommended we go to a drag show in Key West. They recommended Aqua Nightclub, so Aqua's 'Reality is a Drag' show it was! Since we're lame and wanted to go to bed early (it was an hour drive back), we decided on the 7:00 show. There was hardly anyone in the bar when we arrived, so we got seated front and center. 

Victoria, the evening's host, opened with a number wherein she harassed some audience members, myself included. She looked down from the stage, saw the size of my hoots, walked down, and grabbed them. Can't say I blame her; I was kinda expecting it. 

She gave her spiel, saying, "If you come in straight and leave gay, it's your own damn fault. This is a bar. And what do you do at a bar? Drink. The more you drink, the better I look!" Then she asked whose first drag show it was: "I thought I smelled fear." 

Angel, a fellow audience member, jumped up, raised her hand, and announced, "It's my birthday!" "Shut up, slut--we'll get to you," Victoria ordered. Angel's jaw dropped. "Oh, close your mouth, you look like a blow-up doll." As we later learned, Angel was celebrating her 21st birthday...with her family...at a drag show. Her father was so uncomfortable as to appear frozen. 

Sassy and Inga also performed. Sassy was a little blah, but gorgeous. Inga was hilarious! She came out dressed as a cow, complete with udders. First, she sang about her own teats, then about loving boobs in general. This is when she looked down my shirt approvingly and grabbed my maracas. She proceeded to sing about itty-bitty titties and pointed out some tots in my group. Laura wouldn't allow any of the performers to grab her puppies, but she kept count for me--my breasticles were fondled 5 times! 

We enjoyed ourselves enough to get stamped to come back for the 9:00 show, but by the time we got a ways down the street, we were drenched in sweat and decided to go back to the house, shower, and sleep. 

Damn it, I Forgot to Check my Boobs!

My sister, Lauren, and I were on our own for dinner in Key West one night, so we walked most of the way down Duval Street looking for a place to eat. Along the way, a bug flew down my shirt, so I start flailing, trying to get the bug out. 

Thinking I succeeded, I calmed down... only to feel the flutter of its little wings right in my cleave! I can only imagine what those around me thought as I proceeded to yank my collar out and reach down to scoop the little guy out. 

But I didn't know if I had gotten all the bug parts out, and, because I didn't want to forget and find a random wing later, I was going to check in the restroom. However, I forgot, so upon returning to the table, I said, "Damn it, I forgot to check my boobs!"

What Happens in Key West...

Some college friends, my sister, and some friends of one of the college friends rented a house in Marathon Key for the week. We drove down to Key West a few nights. 

For dinner, my college friends, sister, and I went to Margaritaville, where our waiter opened with, "You're going to have crappy service tonight. If you have a shot of tequila before dinner and one after dinner, it will make my poor performance seem much better. Help me to help you." Throughout dinner, he was giving everyone a hard time, in a funny, joking way. 

We went on our way after dinner but saw him out at a bar he had suggested. Later, he awkwardly kissed someone's ear, and even later, there was a moment of panic regarding suspected stalking, but he disappeared. Foof! We made sure to walk on the other side of the road or walk swiftly past the restaurant the rest of the time.

At Rick's Bar, we were the only ones dancing for most of the time we were there, but there was a guy in a black shirt who came up behind my friend and her boyfriend and started grinding on her boyfriend. Her boyfriend was slightly alarmed but continued dancing. 

Black shirt guy moved on to dance with all of us, asking each if she had a husband. Someone told him, "yes, in fact, I have three husbands!" And that all of us there were staying at the same place and, in fact, in the same bed. He offered his bed, but the offer was not accepted. When he asked me, I said no, and he reacted like he was annoyed: "geez, everyone here has a husband." Maybe he misheard me? 

"Desperate Dance"  note his wide smile and look of desperation in his eyes

Anyway, black shirt guy's friend, plaid shirt guy, joined in dancing for a while, twirling me around the dance floor. He asked what we were all doing there, so I told him it was a girl's trip...well, plus one boyfriend. He grinned and said, "I left my boyfriend at home!" Then he proceeded to do the desperate dance with me, confusing me. Then, black shirt guy went back to his group of friends, threw his empty beer bottle on the floor, and was promptly kicked out.

Continuing on at Rick's, there was a man we deemed to be a local who was dancing by himself, refusing to dance with anyone else. He was schmammered. He humped a garbage can and then banged the air while using a beer bottle as his schlong. We tried to get one of my friends to dance with him, but she was a little intimidated by all the thrusting.