Writing progress, or lack thereof

Every time I take time away from my burgeoning novel, I feel guilty. The few minutes that I’ve spared to write this post is no different, but I wanted to write something that doesn’t have to do with the subject matter.

I think I underestimated the difficulties of writing about my mother’s illness. There was so much that I forgot, and quite frankly WANTED to forget. The good news is that it’s a cathartic experience for me, and will probably do me more good than any therapy session.

I’m a few thousand words behind, so I’m trying to do a few catch-up marathon writing sessions. Last night I managed to eke out 4,300 words — about 10 pages or so. It was a meaningful chunk. The problem is that today I have absolutely no interest in writing, or even looking at that book. Not good, because the point was to catch up, not burn myself out.

So, I’m sitting in Starbuck’s (aka my office), doing some “real work,” trying to coax myself into writing more when I’m done. We’ll see what happens.

Jamaica Funk, that’s what it is . . .

It’s been two weeks, so let’s catch up.

First, I had a great time in Jamaica. (and yes, Damon, I did wear the bathing suit. I also wore the board shorts. ) The wedding was beautiful and the resort was amazing. We stayed at Couples Tower Isle in Ocho Rios, which is a couples resort (if you couldn’t tell by the title). The bridal party had to get special clearance to allow singles to attend. I wasn’t sure of what my experience as a single at a couples’ resort would entail, but I decided to go for it anyway.

Now . . . I have to admit that Jamaica is not my favorite destination. I went several years ago, and I never had any plans to return. While there the first time, I felt like I always had to be alert. From the moment I deplaned, natives were aggressively clamoring for my attention — ultimately my dollar. Several times while there, I was warned to be careful. I was so mistrustful and mindful of my surroundings that I wasn’t able to relax. If I wanted to feel that way, there are plenty of neighborhoods in Chicago that I can visit for free.

This trip was different. The resort is private and all-inclusive. I’d heard mixed reviews about all-inclusives. A lot of people complain about the quality of the food, or the activities. I was pleasantly surprised. The food was good and very abundant (a little TOO abundant. Like, I gained-4-pounds-in-four-days, abundant). There were endless activities — free golf with caddies, waterskiing, scuba, snorkeling, etc.

Essentially, the resort set-up shielded me from all of the things that I don’t like about Jamaica, and provided more of what I do like — beaches, warm weather and activities. And yes, I did manage to have jerk chicken a few times. At the resort, of course. And don’t give me shit, people! I wasn’t there for a cultural immersion. I was there to relax and enjoy a wedding. Which is what I did.

Now . . . being a single at a couples’ resort is better than I thought. When I told my friends that I was going to Jamaica — specifically to a resort with nude sunbathing options — there were mixed responses. Jen was repulsed by the thought of free-range nudists. Stacey was convinced that I would get lots of requests for threesomes by gruesome, bored couples. Others asked me if I was going to get my groove back, Stella style.

I reminded them that getting her groove back in Jamaica wasn’t ultimately what it was cracked up to be for author Terry McMillan. So I promised, instead, that I wouldn’t have any threesomes, nor would I flirt with any sexually-confused men who were several years my junior. I kept those promises. Which was easy to do.

At a couples’ resort, all of the visitors are paired up, so nobody’s flirting with you. Additionally, the Jamaicans were unflirtatiously cordial and helpful. Bonuses, all around. I was able to hang out at the beach and pool, without concern about my looks or having to pay attention to my environment. If I could sneak into a couples’ resort again, I would do so in a heartbeat.

Funny stories, though . . . upon arrival at the airport in Montego Bay, guests have to check in at the resort area, and then they’re piled into a van to head to the resort. I was on the flight with a friend and his date, so there were three of us in our party, along with a couple that was on our flight. Having taken a 6:30 am flight, we were all too tired to talk during the van ride. When we made a pit stop during the two hour drive to the resort, we told them that we were going for a wedding, and explained the situation. They confessed that they thought we were going down as a threesome, which I found hilarious.

While at the resort, almost every woman in our large party managed to encounter a frequent guest named Fred. Fred’s claim to fame was having visited that resort 69 times — a number that sounded suspicious to me, but I didn’t question it. Fred and his large party were big fans of Tower Island, where all of the naked people hang out. (FYI, these weren’t the people that you wanted to see naked.)

Tower Island is about 100 yards off the coast of the resort. Close enough to see that people are naked, but far enough so that you can’t see specifics. There are boats that will take you and pick you up. The rule is that you have to be naked if you’re on the island. You’re able to walk to your seats in your bathing suit, but once you get settled, you have to strip down. Needless to say that I had no plans on setting foot on that island during nudist hours.

Fred lobbied for the contrary. And, by the way, I think there’s something a bit strange about going to a nude island with your spouse and 10 of your closest friends. Call me a prude. Whatever.

At one point, a woman in the naked party intimated that they did more than nude sunbathing on that island, but I didn’t want to go any farther with that visual. In fact, I still don’t.

Let’s just suffice it to say that I had a great time, and I was happy to watch one of my favorite couples begin a new phase of their lives.

Who else is over it?

Maybe this should be content for the other (yet-to-be-launched) site, but I’d like to put it up for discussion over here. At least five times this week, I’ve heard people say that as far as relationships go, they’re “over it.” Either recent experiences or an accumulation of experiences over time have caused these people to check themselves out of the game. For good, as far as they’re concerned.

So, I’m wondering . . . how many of you are done? If so, what was your defining moment (to the extent that you’d like to share), and what, if anything, might bring you back to the land of relationship hopefuls?

As for myself, I’m not really sure what it would take. [But then, I'm a different case. Analyzing/writing about something is a recipe for wanting nothing to do with the very thing that you analyze. And then there are the experiences that reinforce the feeling.]

Overdoing it, board shorts, etc.

I’ve already managed to burn myself out on the exercise in preparation for Jamaica.

Well . . . not really, but I’m so sore that I can barely stand due to the power lifting I’ve been doing.

Okay, so I can’t REALLY call it power lifting, since I don’t work out with any more than 25 lb dumbbells at a time. In fact, some would call me a sissy!

But I’m sore nonetheless. I’m determined to work through it, but I’m moving slowly.

My problems may be solved, though, as my friend Susan has given me a good solution for my butt-thigh-coverage issue — Board shorts! Love them, and I can waterski in them! I will be ordering a few pair, should my workout plan prove ineffective. I hope they arrive in time.

Because I’m getting accused of neglecting to announce this, yes, I’m in the October issue of Essence in a Pantene ad. It’s amazing what a lot of makeup and Photoshop can do.

What IS this new site, anyway???

It’s been a while since I blogged, and not because there’s been any lack of weird stuff to talk about, or boy stories to report. I’ve been working on putting content into my other site, which I’m going to launch as soon as I think I have enough compelling content.

Q&A time

Do you still write for RedEye?
Yes, I am still a special contributor. The economy has forced the paper to shrink, and the special contributors’ contributions have been reduced. You can still find me on most Fridays writing my share of 3Sum — where three of us weigh in on a specific topic.

So . . . what IS the new site?
Well . . . since my original column (The Gina Spot) hasn’t been running in RedEye for the better part of this year, I need a new outlet for my organized rantings (apart from this blog, which is clearly a collection of unorganized rantings). I’m thinking of the site as my own personal hub.

Will you have new columns?
Yep

Will the new columns be the same format as the old ones?
For the most part. You can expect a few more racy topics, and probably a sprinkling of profanity (‘cuz this girl LOVES to drop a well-placed f-bomb)

Will you have archives of old columns?
Yep

Is the Rantspot going to go away when you launch the other site?
Nope

Will there be an area for comments?
Of course, and I encourage them

If I have a proposed column idea, can I send it in?
Sure – but it doesn’t mean that I’ll get to it immediately. Column ideas typically arrive in my head based on what’s nearest and dearest to my heart at the moment, or they could stem from something that a friend is going through. If something is itching to get out, I’ve gotta let it out.

Where is the new site?
I will let you know VERY soon. Stay tuned. Seriously.

Any other questions, just holler!!!!

I love my male friends

I have great men in my life. I’ve dedicated columns to this topic — I really love my male friends, and I’m good at having platonic friends. I have a handful of men whom I consider to be truly good friends — they’re salt-of-the-earth good guys.

And before anyone asks, no, they’re not datable. Most of them are very attractive, but none of us would dare “cross the line” for a number of reasons. We have sibling relationships – without the fighting and forced holidays. Also, I know too much about them — enough to know that if I dated them, I would have to kill them. I like them too much to kill them. (The ones that I’m in danger of dating? Not so great. My friends? Awesome!)

The only hiccups with my boys happen when one of them gets a significant other. By and large, their girlfriends don’t care for me, and, by and large, I blame my male friends. It’s all about the introduction.

For example, on the off-chance that I’m dating someone, I quickly get him comfortable with the idea of my male friends. I freely mention their names. I take their phone calls in the presence of my boyfriend. No, I tell him, we’ve never slept together. No, I assure him, we’ve never even been close to sleeping together. If he doesn’t believe me, I plan a night out together, so that he can see us together and feel secure with the knowledge that nothing’s going on. If he has any suspicions, it’s not because I did anything to put them there.

Do my male friends follow suit? Not usually. They mention me to their sig. others, and speak highly of me. Don’t get me wrong — I’m grateful that my friends have high opinions of me, but I also know how women are. Some of my (sadistic) friends enjoy making their girlfriends a little jealous, so they might talk about me in more depth, pushing the woman to the (ridiculous) belief that we’re more than just friends. In some cases, she’ll talk herself into believing that I have a crush on her man, and I’ve always wanted him (which is sheer hilarity).

Generally, I don’t enjoy meeting my male friends’ significant others, which only fuels the fire. Not a fun position. Kind of going through it right now from the friend side, and wish I weren’t. When I finally meet the woman, she either has an attitude with me, or she’s hell-bent on being my BFF — but only so that she can dissect our relationship. Both are annoying.

I understand the woman’s perspective, because I’ve been on the other side. I’ve dated men whose female friendships have come into question. A few of my exes have refused to introduce me to their female friends, which only made them the sources of many arguments. In a few cases, as I suspected, there was more going on than just platonic friendship. In other cases, the men claimed they were trying to “avoid an argument” — a point that never seems to make sense.

So . . . a bit of advice . . . if you’re one that has opposite sex friends — platonic friendships that you care to preserve (as opposed to “little friends” that you occasionally hook up with) — unless you enjoy drama and compromised friendships, IMHO, you have to actively make your sig other comfortable with them.

Just some food for thought.

The sex life myth

Men and women are so different that I often wonder how we get together in the first place.

For example, if you hear men and women discussing their sex lives, there will be a distinct disparity.

If the average man reveals that he’s not getting any, it typically means that there’s not a breathing human female who will consent to having sex with him — or he’s not trying to find her. If he’s just trolling for ass, she doesn’t necessarily have to be cute, or even have a great body (and don’t try to deny it. I’ve seen some of your hookups. I know of which I speak). If he’s not looking for a relationship, he’s focused on the act itself.

For women? Not so much. If a woman complains of her horrible sex life, a man will tell her that it should be easy for her to have sex anytime she wants.

Those men don’t get it.

I suppose we could find random sex partners. We could get really wasted and pick someone (and take the chance that we’ll wake up next to a critter the next morning). Or if we posted signs and craigslist ads, sure, we could certainly solicit some nasty syphilitic strangers to get the job done. But most of us aren’t wired that way.

Even if we’re just looking to have ongoing flings, there are attributes that our partners must possess. They must be:

1. Attractive (Most women are not pulling a Katherine Heigl in Knocked Up. Here’s a little secret — for the most part, my flings have been way hotter than my actual boyfriends)

2. Attracted/available. We want him to be intensely attracted to us, and have time for us — whether we see him weekly or monthly, it’s not sexy if he’s only lukewarm about seeing us, and pencilling us in for 3 weeks down the line.

3. Smart enough to know how NOT to talk himself out of sex. Guys, you have no idea how much ass you would get if you could only learn to use a filter. Sometimes we’ve made the decision that we’re going to hookup with you, only for you to say something so foul that no self-respecting woman would ever lay down next to you.

4. Nice/respectful. Even if she’s having a fling, no woman wants to be treated as though she was picked up on a street corner wearing clear heels.

5. Unattached. Some women won’t agree with me, but, personally, I won’t fling with guys who are married or seriously dating. Casual sex is one thing, but I’m completely uninterested in being the other woman.

See, guys . . . not that easy, right? It’s almost as hard to find a good fling as it is to find a good boyfriend. Hmmm . . . well . . . maybe not.

Illness and useless medicine

Dear Vick’s:

I’ve been stricken by the deadliest predator of the season — the summer cold. I’ve either been victimized by the overzealous use of air conditioning, a parent of a germy child, or a nasty person who doesn’t have the decency to wash their hands or use anti-bacterial hand sanitizer. Whatever the case, I’m sick and I’m mad about it!

Being a person who rarely gets sick (read: obsessive handwashing germaphobe), I’m completely bewildered as I stroll the aisle of my local drugstore. So many choices; so many promises.

I selected your products, the combination pack of Vick’s DayQuil/NyQuil gelcaps for cold and flu patients. The two products purported to address all of my symptoms — headache, sore throat, cough, sneezing and runny nose! Whoo hoo! Imagine my glee when I discovered the added benefit of NyQuil – a little something extra that will help me sleep for longer than 3 hours at a time. I couldn’t wait to fork over the money and get some of that medicine in my system.

I took my first dose of DayQuil with a large glass of water and a hot tea back. I waited and waited . . . and waited. But, alas, my throat was still on fire. I continued my bouts of coughing fits.

I wasn’t discouraged. When it was time for bed, I thought I’d give the nighttime medicine a try. I was anxious for sleep, and didn’t want to take my friends up on their profuse and generous offers of tylenol with codeine, vicodin, hydrocodone, oxycontin or various street drugs. Somehow, I imagined that NyQuil would be a better, safer route.

Not so much.

I became slightly drowsy an hour after taking the suggested dosage. I was awakened four hours later. I’m not sure if I was coughing, but I was certainly traumatized. I’m beginning to think that the side-effects of your medicine are actually diversionary tactics. When I was awakened a mere 240 minutes after falling asleep, I was sweaty and preoccupied by my vivid nightmares. My extreme symptoms were secondary to the memory of my dreams of comatose pregnant women, eerie Halloween costumes, being chased by lunatics, and being . . . umm . . . pleasured by strange men. Well . . . I guess that last dream wasn’t really a nightmare, but YOU GET MY POINT!

That said, I do not plan to continue taking this medicine, or recommending it to my friends, unless they’re interested in retaining their cold symptoms while adding sleeplessness, hallucination, and night terror to their list of ills. Those street drugs are sounding better and better by the minute.

Wheezingly yours,

Gina B.

My car is a money pit

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate, hate, hate spending money on cars. If I have available cash, I’d prefer to channel it into a home improvement project, or something that’s actually an asset, rather than an expensive car.

That said, I’m also tired of having an old car (2000), which is now starting to break down left and right. Within the last year, I’ve needed a new transmission, a fan belt, something to do with my heating system that I still don’t quite understand, and now it’s the starter.

I have to admit that the Universe looks out for me. Yesterday, I went out in the morning, worked out, ran some errands, all before 9:00. The plan was to get back home and get a few hours of work done, take a shower, and then go back out for a lunch meeting.

40 minutes before the meeting, I went to start the car. Nothing. I jumped on the red line and made it to lunch on time (gotta love the el), and called roadside assistance when I returned home. They arrived to jump my car. Again, nothing.

I called my mechanic, who told me, from my description, that the trouble is the starter. UGH!! I was SO hoping that it was just a dead battery.

I called my father, who suggested that I bite the bullet and get a new car. He’s thinking that perhaps I should get a used Altima.

Okay, so let’s revisit the first paragraph of this post. The Fannie Dooley of this is that, while I don’t like car payments, yada, yada, yada, I also refuse to buy a piece of shit. If I replace this car, it will have to be with a car that I actually like — because I never liked the car that I’m driving presently.

Frankly, the Taurus was appealing because of the 0.0% financing that I was able to obtain when I bought it in 1999 (was that 10 years ago???). It didn’t have features that I would have liked, such as leather seats, a sunroof, a cool dashboard, or an upscale feel. It’s a car that simply gets me from point A to point B, and one that I find myself apologizing for when I have passengers, who ultimately express their surprise that I’m driving a Taurus, and want to discuss that decision processs. They seem to understand when I tell them that I haven’t had a car payment in years. Those passengers envision that $600+ check that they write every month and suddenly envy me my financial freedom — despite the fact that my car is about as unsexy as they get.

And because the car is decidedly unsexy, I’m not really nice to it. I rarely wash it, much less get it detailed, and there’s a dent in the front that I refuse to fix (a dent that several Mexican bodyshop workers have approached me about in various grocery store parking lots across the city — they actually get mad at me when I tell them that I have no plans to remove that dent. The nerve! But I digress . . .)

For the record, I have no prejudice against Altimas. I owned an Altima for about three years and enjoyed the experience. It was my first car in adulthood, and it treated me well. The problem with my Altima was its four cylinder engine.

Ummm . . . has anyone ever seen me drive? I’m aggressive, and a four cylinder car won’t work for my brand of abrupt lane changes and accelerations. In my defense I’m a safe driver — the Secretary of State told me so — despite the fact that a few of my friends (Jen) insist on pumping imaginary brakes on the passenger’s side. LOL.

The (only) good thing about the Taurus is that there’s a nice, big engine. The Taurus replacement won’t have to be a luxury car, but it will have to be something that I appreciate, actually want to drive, and a vehicle that won’t require constant explanation. Hopefully.

A few hundred dollars from now, I will have bought myself a little more time before making a decision on a new car. I’m already dreading the payments.

Kitten aftermath

A few weeks ago I posted something on Facebook about the mother cat who gave me the “gift” of bringing her very young kittens to live in my backyard. And since a few people have inquired, here’s what’s going on with the kitties . . .

First, we lost one a few weeks ago. She was only about 6 weeks old at the time, really REALLY sick, and I was debating what to do with her. Every veterinary medical professional I consulted told me not to touch her, and to let her mother take care of her. I was afraid to walk out of my house every day for fear that her little cold body would be laying on my porch. But, again, the mother did me a favor by taking the kittens away for a day, and when she returned, the little sick kitty was no longer with her.

And then there were three.

I clearly couldn’t keep them. My cat situation is hardly ideal. I have two cats that hate each other. Okay, that’s not fair. Phoebe hates Bailey, but Bailey LOVES Phoebe. The problem is that Bailey’s version of playing is Phoebe’s idea of assault. When Phoebe feels violated, she becomes nervous and pees everywhere. When I brought Bailey in (because he, too, was born in my backyard), Phoebe exhibited stress behavior, and the cat behaviorist at Anti-Cruelty told me that they should be separated. And they’ve been separated ever since. It completely sucks, and my house is one closed door away from being a feline battle zone, but that’s the only way that I can have them both.

Besides . . . as my friend Jen pointed out . . . I’m one cat away from being the official single cat lady, and never getting a date again. (Doesn’t seem promising, even without cats, but I guess that’s beside the point)

So . . . I wasn’t sure of what to do with these little kitties. I tried several no-kill shelters, but none of them were accepting new kitties. I tried to explain that they were really cute and sweet (I would be proven wrong on the “sweet” part later), but one of the women — the nicest one — reminded me that most kittens are cute and sweet (which I suspect is the only thing that keeps you from killing them when they’re adults — kinda like kids. But I digress.)

I didn’t want to send them to Anti-Cruelty for fear that they would be euthanized. In the meantime I fed them and their mother twice daily. And, I learned an interesting tidbit — if you feed a stray animal for 7 straight days, that animal is considered to be yours, legally. So technically, those cats were mine. All mine.

But I’m happy to report that Jen saved the day. She and her husband adopted (read: came and picked up) ALL THREE kittens, brave souls that they are.

It was a bit of a surprise. The three of us had brunch a few weeks ago, and when I mentioned the kittens to Jen, she looked at her husband hopefully. Fletch said, definitively, “No more cats!”

The unfortunate death of one of her older cats changed their minds, and Jen wrote me an email in the middle of the night — from her vacation (later she would confide that she was “tipsy”) — to ask if the cats were still around. Of course they were.

A few days later I trapped the kitties, which was both exciting and heartbreaking. Jen said that she would take mother and babies, but I knew the mother would be hard, if not impossible, to catch, so I focused on the little ones. I set up a rudimentary but sufficient “trap,” which consisted of a plate of tuna and a cat carrier.

I transferred the kitties to a larger cage in my basement.

Now . . . when you think of kittens, you think of sweet, playful creatures who cuddle and purr, correct? Oh, not these kittens. These were the scratching, biting, mean variety of wild kittens. I couldn’t figure out why something that has been alive for a mere nine weeks, and weighs less than one pound has so much venom?? Where did that come from?? I had no idea. They seemed sweet enough as they plowed through their kitten chow every morning!

It was a nightmare getting them from my cage to Jen’s carrier. Fletch had to don the leather gloves for protection from the scrappy little kittens. They were squirmy and I was nervous that one of them would get away and become a permanent fixture in the bowels of my basement. Which would suck. Tremendously.

As happy as I was that they had a great home, I hated to see them upset. Jen said it best when she said that the cats thought they were being kidnapped rather than rescued.

Long story (that could get longer) short, we got them in the cage, and after an extended (expensive) vet visit, the kitties are now healthier and happy in their new home with a loving family of people and animal-siblings.

Nice to have a happy ending in this economy! I’m just happy that I can visit occasionally.