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Icelandic Revenge Travel Part Four

Icelandic revenge travelEver since my ex-husband went to see David Bowie (may he rest in peace) in concert, in Reykjavik in 1997, I’ve been fascinated by the Nordic island country.

So when my parents planned a family vacation to Iceland a couple of years ago, I thought, yea us! I was terribly, terribly excited.

Unfortunately only a few months shy of lift off, plans had to be scratched due to my dad’s pesky double bypass surgery. Whatever.

Truth be told, I had doubts about traveling with my family. Five days together in a foreign country, where we were going to hike steep cliffs, share a narrow steel cage as we’re lowered into a volcano, and carry sharp ice picks while mountaineering, was probably four days too long.

We’re just not that family. You know, the family that takes holiday vacations together; renting cabins on lakes in the summer, or grazing the buffets on a cruise ship. The fact that we meet up at Thanksgiving every year is a Christmas miracle.

We used to travel together, but that was before my brother and I could drive. Now it’s only on a ‘need to see’ basis. Trust me, it’s best for everyone.

I wasn’t mad at my dad for having a bum heart (although no one made him smoke two packs a day for 20 years) but I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t disappointed. I really wanted to go to Iceland. I had my electric heated gloves already packed. 

Cut to: My ex-boyfriend went to Iceland. Oh, no he di-int, (I said like a preacher in church on Sunday morning). Funny how the time seemed just right for me to charge my electric heated gloves and start packing.   

And then I wondered, if I go to Iceland now, everyone’s going to think that I was following my ex and that Iceland was his idea. (I’m not sure who everyone was, or why they’d care). Please refer to paragraph one for the facts. 

As soon as I found my way out of the sandbox, I grabbed my family’s original Icelandic itinerary, made a few tweaks and off I went.

It took two and a half hours to go from my apartment in mid-town Manhattan to JFK. I’m convinced that my cab driver was legally blind. At the very least he had cataracts. He had zero idea where he was going, and clueless about short cuts that would bypass the standstill rush hour traffic. He even had the balls to blame me for not suggesting that we take the bridge. What bridge? WTF?!

When we got to JFK, two of my credit cards didn’t work, so I paid cash, which was fine, but ‘blind man river’ never moved from the front seat. 

“So, you’re not going to help me with my bag?” He looked at me, mumbled something under his breath that sounded a lot like, “no, I don’t…” and he trailed off. He popped the trunk and picked up his cell phone. I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the trunk shut.

By the time I went through security, my blood pressure had leveled off to a healthy resting state. I walked onto the plane, only to find my aisle seat actually in the aisle. Literally. Look at the picture. It was the bulk head but for whatever dumbass reason, the dumbass engineers shifted it into the aisle. I begged for sleep.


Despite the early hassles, I fell in love with Iceland. And because I’m not a travel writer by trade, I will only regale you with a personal story that I believe is the answer to what’s troubling the world today. 

One day I joined a tour that was headed to the Langjokull glacier. Skarpi, a sexy, and adorable man in his 30’s was our driver and guide. He was funny, a former professional basketball player (now personal trainer). We laughed and flirted the entire ride. I definitely saw a future with this man, had it not been for his wife and 3 kids, (and the one on the way).

He surprised the entire van of strangers when he spoke candidly about the likelihood of getting a vasectomy. I guess four kids were enough.

Skarpi mentioned that his family lived near the President of Iceland, as well as the singer, Bjork. “Oh, I love Human Behavior,” I shamelessly tried to impress.

He then told us this adorable story.

“My kids were going around the neighborhood collecting bottles and cans to raise money for a school project one day and when they got to the President’s house, he and his wife, who’s Jewish….” Whoa, hold up their Sharpie marker. What does her being Jewish have anything to do with recycling bottles? I thought, please don’t make any racist remarks like, Jews don’t drink carbonated beverages… except for seltzer, ba-dum tss.) He continued.

“The President answered the door and told my kids that he didn’t have any bottles or cans because…”  I held my breath. “…neither me or my wife drink soda.” I exhaled. 

It was a story with absolutely no pay off whatsoever, but Sharpie marker’s accent was hot, so, I hoped that he had more long and boring stories. 

We drove through isolated, fascinating and breathtaking landscapes. If you’d like more descriptions go here. I’m not a travel writer, remember.

Many internationally famous locations were pointed out to us like where Justin Bieber shot his music video, “I’ll Show You” and where Tom Cruise’s tour de force, “Oblivion,” was filmed. I know, who cares, right? Just keep talking Sharpie. 

We reached Langjokull Glacier, suited up, and climbed on board our snowmobiles. I’m fully aware of global warming and leaving my exhaust-filled footprint on that glacier, and I can honestly say that I won’t be doing it again. But it was friggin’ awesome.

I asked the guides how they felt about tourists traipsing over their glacier. They said that it was so ginormous that they weren’t concerned. I’m sure Antarctica felt the same way once upon a time. I told them that they should limit the traipsing if they could help it. 

We reached a stellar peak and stopped to take pictures. Sharpie approached me and asked if I could take the young Iranian boy, who was on the tour with his family, on the back of my snowmobile because his older brother crashed the snowmobile that they were both on. “Of course,” I said. Anything for you. 

Wait, I wondered, don’t the parents want to meet me? They were on their own machine a fair distance away from me. When I caught their eye, they just smiled. They didn’t say anything about me taking their son under my preverbal wing. 

The young boy climbed on the back of my snowmobile. 

I thought, wow, they must really be trusting people. They didn’t ask for credentials, or have me sign a waiver. They just let me drive off with their son. Then again, where was I going? It wasn’t likely that I’d make a break for it and motor over the 360 square miles of white and ice by my lonesome. 

I drove forty miles an hour taking hair pin turns and racing the other drivers up and down hills. I kept my passenger and myself alive, and in smiles. I felt a sense of responsibility; for someone else’s child, and for US and Iranian relations. The optics couldn’t be ignored. People were watching.

Maybe we should all carry strangers on our back, so to speak, in the middle of nowhere, where nothing matters but staying upright because you’re laughing wildly with delight. 

Revenge Travel: Part Deux

Revenge travel part two


For my second installment of Revenge Travel, I chose Providenciales, (Provo) Turks and Caicos in the Caribbean. If you haven’t read Part One, you can read it here. 

I wanted an island experience; an island where I had never been to before, and where I could read, relax and feel clean white sand between my toes.

It’s important to note that the Turks and Caicos only came onto my radar because American Express Travel sent me an e-mail offering a sweet deal at the resort, in the time frame that I was looking for.

My plans came together pretty quickly once I had made my decision, and so naturally I took it as a sign; a positive sign. A sign that said, yes, this is where you should go next. I thought it was a good idea to be away for my birthday, as it was the first one after my break up.

Somewhere between thirty-thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean and waiting forty-five minutes in line at customs, I remembered that I actually didn’t want to be traveling. Instead, I wanted to be still. I wanted to address the trauma of the demise of a seven and a half year relationship, and it’s by-products, and fall-out, including, but not limited to, how I was going to see the kids.

However, after I found out that my ex had taken off to Europe (how original… I said to no one), I was compelled to take my passport out of the drawer.

I felt old and lost among the hundred or so tourists whose vacations had begun on the flight from New York and who were already wearing their sarongs and Kappa Sigma muscle T-shirts, in  line at the Provo airport.

Fully dressed from head to toe, I waited for my passport stamp. Trust me, it was the only thing keeping me alive. Anyone looking around the hoards of people in customs would have easily picked out which one of us did not belong, due to her, I am not in a vacation mood, puss on her face.

What was I thinking? Revenge be damned. The last thing I needed was to lie on a chaise lounge with a drink in my hand, watching lovers frolic in the sea while I contemplated my navel. I had spent more than enough time in deep contemplation, and the only thing that my navel yielded was a lint.

Unfortunately, these admissions were late in coming, and instead I smiled up at the passport stamp man.

I was now stuck on an island with college kids, the recently engaged, honeymooners, and parents who had escaped their asylums for a few days—and each and every one of them were drunk. It felt eerily similar to being at one of my brother’s parties that he’d have at our house in high school, while our parent’s were away. I stayed locked away upstairs in my room, studying, writing sad poetry, or composing love letters to Bobby Emerson. My point is, I was profoundly out of place.

I checked into my hotel, and I was instantly upgraded to a spacious suite with an ocean view. This would have been a wonderful surprise, had I been on tour with The Partridge Family, and Reuben, (including the musical instruments). I did not need that much room. It only depressed me further, and I felt even more alone than I already did.

I went through the motions of being on vacation, which was a lackluster attempt at best. I walked into breakfast each morning, and quietly sat at a table set for two, pretending that my non-existent companion had the shits, due to a contaminated lettuce leaf, and couldn’t leave the suite. Telling myself this story made me feel only slightly better, as it was like acting in a play.

I read several books on the beach, and romped in the ocean on a paddle board until my skin shriveled up like a prune. The hotel staff was scattered and inattentive with just a hint of rudeness. I was convinced that it was because I was flying solo.

On the afternoon of my birthday, there was a knock on my door. I had no idea what or who it could have been. I didn’t order room service, and no one, including my parents, even knew where I was staying. That probably wasn’t a good idea. If there was an emergency, or a hurricane for instance, and the resort was washed away, nobody back home would have known that I, too, had been washed away.

For half a second, I thought that perhaps my ex had hired a private investigator, or had done his own sleuthing and had found me. Yes, I was still romanticizing, and the hot sun had made me loopy.

I opened the door to find a staff member holding a tray with a piece of chocolate cake on a plate. “Happy Birthday” was written in white frosting along the rim. What? How the f’ did they know? He came into my suite and placed the tray on a table in the entryway, and looked around the cavernous room. “Oh, no family?”

Was he kidding me? How did he know that my family wasn’t frolicking in the ocean or rehearsing in the beachside cabana? How rude, Mr. Cake Man. Now if you don’t mind, please extricate yourself from my presence.

The pit in my stomach, which was the size of Toledo, never dissipated the entire time I was on my dreamy Caribbean getaway. It was a dreadful experience, and I was miserable. Taking a trip alone to a resort that mainly catered to couples certainly was not the healthiest, or wisest, decision that I had ever made. And if I were to guess, it probably wouldn’t be my last.

The experience reminded me of the time that I went to a podiatrist because I got a coupon in the mail. I was shocked and dismayed when the doctor (and I’m only guessing that he was an actual doctor, because I never actually saw a framed degree on the wall) said that I needed surgery to remove both of my bunions, when I only had one.

I guess sometimes a deal isn’t. And sometimes what you think is a sign, isn’t.

When I returned home, I put my passport back in my drawer, hoping that I wouldn’t have to use it for awhile. And I didn’t… until I did.

Revenge travel would see more miles and more stamps.

To be continued…

Revenge Travel

Revenge Travel


It was a hard choice to make but I knew that some of my precious literary babies wouldn’t make the final cut and that they would be left out of my upcoming book, THE GIRLFRIEND MOM: KIDS? NO, THANK YOU, I’M NOT HUNGRY. It wasn’t personal, they simply didn’t serve the bigger picture. Don’t be sad for these unfortunate outcasts, as they will live on here in this blog. 


The Captain and Tennille, the famous singing duo from the ’70s that were known for their love songs, lied. Their hit “Love Will Keep Us Together” was a sham. Love will not always keep people together; those two are now divorced.

For a while I fantasized that my boyfriend and I would find our way back to each other. I even romanticized the breakup. I thought that once he saw the ass-ness of his ways, he’d make a YouTube-worthy gesture, and we’d live happily ever after. I wouldn’t stop believing that love conquered all and that our relationship could survive the quirky way he disobeyed traffic laws (stop signs were so pesky), or the fact that we didn’t have much in common, or that I had sacrificed a part of who I was to be with him, would all prove inconsequential in the face of the love and passion that we shared.

Experts say that staying busy helps get over a breakup or maybe it was Oprah—hallowed be thy name—who said it. For me, travel had always been a salve. However, if you’re traveling after a breakup, you probably shouldn’t go to a place that you have been with your ex in the past or that he’s been to with his new girlfriend or to a place where the native language is that of your ex (if it’s other than English).

My ex knew that there were few things in life that made me happier then getting a new passport stamp, so it was therefore deplorable, and an act of utter betrayal, when I learned that he had taken his new paramour overseas and stood by her side in customs while she got stamped. It was an act of treason that cut me to the quick. To punish him I would travel without him, and collect so many stamps that I’d run out of pages, and have to request new ones.

Revenge travel was born.

I wanted to be classy in the days and months following the breakup, but I fell short, like way short, like Martin Short, short.

Sorrow cost me a lot of frequent flyer miles. Seven months after we broke up, my ex went to Brazil, and I went to a yoga retreat in Mexico. A retreat had been on my to-do list for a while, and now I had the extra motivation that I needed to book my ticket.


Haramara Retreat in Sayulita, Mexico, had no electricity or Internet, and guests were gently, but firmly, asked not to flush their used toilet paper. Instead, you were encouraged to throw it in the wastepaper basket next to the porcelain bowl. I found this curiously fun. It did take me a couple instances of “Oh, crap, I forgot” before I got on a roll. I was afraid that the retreat police were going to knock on my hand-built, environmentally “friendly” cabana door and make me fish it out with my bare hands.

I don’t know why I was surprised that there were three yoga classes a day during the weeklong yoga retreat. It was a goddamn yoga retreat! The sessions were wonderful, but I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t just a wee sick of downward-facing dog and child’s pose. I was a Pilates girl. I went on a yoga retreat to help me get my head out of my ass, and funnily enough, by the end of the week, I was able to put my ass over my head.

All three of the daily meals included fresh, local, organic food and fruit that I had never heard of before nor could pronounce. The wellness center was built into the forest and was surrounded by unpaved trails, a private beach with climbing rocks, and an infinity pool that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. It was not low rent.

Sharing the property with the human inhabitants were scores of gulf crabs that seemed to be suffering from dyslexia. These crustaceans would trek up, or rather side-shimmy up through the lush hillside, and stop when they hit the dirt trail. Unfortunately, they’d shimmied in the wrong direction. They should have headed toward the ocean, but instead they had landed on the footpath, where they would take their final crustacean breaths and expire.

Interesting fact: crabs’ teeth are inside of their stomachs. I would have thought that my stomach had teeth from the gnawing and crushing that I was feeling.

Each night we walked back to our rustic (constructed without machinery) cabanas by flashlight and literally hopscotched over what looked like the remains of a massive crabby suicide pact. It made me think of my ex’s kids and how they would binge watch and quote from SpongeBob SquarePants.

The ocean was rough and loud, which, gratefully, lulled me to sleep each night. I luxuriated in the open-air shower with its unobstructed views of the whitecaps. I was not at all concerned with my hair shedding and clogging the drain, because there was no drain. My strands slid freely off the shower floor into the jungle.

The resort informed us that we were among a mélange of wildlife. I knew that they didn’t mean freewheeling lemurs like in Madagascar, but what specifically was considered the wildlife wasn’t exactly clear. Every bed had a net that hung from the ceiling, and I closed mine every night to protect me from the animals, even though it was hot and humid, and it made it difficult to breathe. There were no actual cabana walls but I convinced myself that the netting would protect me in case of an attack.

I shared a room with my yogi friend, Carla, and one evening I got up to go to the bathroom. It was pitch-black, and I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face. I stumbled into the bathroom half-asleep, and I sat down. It wasn’t until I felt warm liquid dripping down my legs that I realized that I was sitting on top of the toilet seat cover and not on the actual toilet seat. I was peeing myself. “Shit!”

Carla yelled from her bed, “What happened? Are you okay?”

How does one respond with dignity? “Nothing. I’m fine. I just peed myself. Go back to sleep.” I cleaned myself up and laughed because it was funny…and gross. I hopped back into bed, returning to my cocoon, but I couldn’t sleep. “Carla, are you awake?”

“Yeah, are you okay?”

I was trying hard not to let my ache completely envelope my body. “Yeah,” I lied. “I can’t believe I peed myself. Although I can’t say that it was the first time.”

Carla laughed. There is no greater satisfaction for me than making someone laugh. “I can’t stop thinking about the kids. The whole fucking thing is so unfair.”

I could see Carla’s silhouette turn toward me in her bed. “It’s going to take time. For what it’s worth, I think it’s so cool you still want to be in the kids’ lives. They’re lucky to have you.”

“Most people think it’s weird. I don’t understand why. I didn’t break up with the kids.”

“That’s probably because most women wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

I could feel hot and sticky water pool in my eyes. “I’m not sure I can either.”

“But you are. I’d get up and give you a hug, but it’ll take me ten minutes to get out of the netting. Try to get some sleep.”

I thought again about peeing myself and I fell asleep with a grin on my face.


By day three, I was as relaxed as I was ever going to be or wanted to be. I tried to keep my mind still, being on a yoga retreat and all, but my thoughts continued to drift. I’d swing back and forth from despair to anger. Was I being a fool to think that I could maintain my relationships with the kids without cracking up in the process?

I strolled down to the ocean (unlike the crabs) and sat on a large, jagged, and uneven rock (ow). As I teetered off-balance, which was an obvious metaphor for my current state, I watched the waves; beautifully balletic, as they washed onto the shoreline and then flowed back out. I tried to breathe in time with the sea.

I was in a pristine and tranquil environment: healthy, fortunate, and surrounded by like-minded people. I had to change the tape that played on a loop in my head. I refused to piss away my time with negativity and the past. I didn’t want “breakup stink” to penetrate the remaining days of my retreat. Obsessing over my relationships with the kids, while perched on a craggy rock, that was dangerously close to sticking me where the Mexican sun didn’t shine, was not productive.

Before I left New York, I dreamed that Mexico would provide me with answers, signs, or something to tell me why the caged bird sang. Praised be that sweet, sweet Jesus when the owners of Haramara said that they were offering their guests the opportunity to take part in a temazcal ritual, or sweat lodge. I was the first to sign up. The sweat lodge is also known as a house of heat and is used in Mexico and Central America for spiritual and health reasons.

I would surely be released from my emotional shackles and purified, thus emerging anew. Perhaps I’d stop using phrases like emotional shackles as well. Carla and I joined forces with a few women from San Diego who were on their own retreat, and we got our spiritual on.

There were thirty of us gathered in front of an igloo-like structure, which symbolized Mother Earth’s womb. The female shaman told us the history of the temazcal. I was only partially listening because I was imagining how claustrophobic it might be in the womb, and then I started to panic thinking about the heat. Was it going to be like Bikram yoga hot? How hot exactly?

When the shaman finished her introduction, she assured us of our safety (which had the opposite effect) and said that if at any time during the ceremony anyone needed to leave for any reason, they could simply get up and do so. She instructed us to drop down to our knees and kiss the ground before entering Momma Earth’s womb—out of respect, like knocking before entering a room…or womb.

Actual volcanic stones were heated outside of the igloo in a fire pit by a fire man (I forget what his actual title was) who then carried them into the womb one by one, which made me sweat just watching him.

The stones were placed in a shallow pit in the center of the igloo. When the last stone was lowered down, the shaman had us yell in unison, “La puerta.” Fire man stayed outside, closed the makeshift door, and then covered it and the hole in the ceiling with thick Mexican blankets.

We were now in the darkened, moist, and steamy womb. Huh, just like I remembered it. The shaman talked about respecting the earth as she poured water onto the hot stones, which instantly became steam and turned up the heat. It was like Bikram yoga on steroids. Okay, that’s enough water, shaman lady. I get it. It’s hot. 

Every crease, orifice, and nail cuticle was sweating. I wanted to release as much shit as I possibly could, but I couldn’t catch my breath, and I could have sworn that my eyebrows had been singed off.

I took deep and deliberate breaths while telling myself that I could leave at any time. We sang, we introduced ourselves, and we shared our reasons for coming back into the womb. I told the group that I wanted to move forward. Some confessed that they were stuck either in their personal lives or in their careers, while others talked about family struggles. Again, I stopped listening. I was too hot to focus on their babbling.

After what felt like an hour, but was probably more like fifteen minutes, the shaman instructed us once again to yell “La puerta!” and the door magically opened.

We crawled out of the womb one at a time and drank in the fresh air as fast as we could. There were three more rounds of this, and I didn’t think that I could head back in. I heard others declaring the same.

Carla and I smiled at each other because we knew that, although it was extreme, that we would go back in. After a second drink of water and a little time, we slithered back into the womb. This time, I put my head down on Mother Earth’s lap, which was a lot cooler and less disorienting.

By round four, I was certain that my brain had lost mass, and I didn’t have any to spare. The shaman asked us to go around the womb and, with one word, express our wishes for humanity or some such esoteric sentiment. We began, and the words started to fly.

“Love.” “Peace.” “Kindness.” “Animals.”

After six or seven people had gone, one word turned into paragraphs, prayer recitations, and postgraduate theses. Did they not hear the shaman’s directive? I wanted to scream, “One word, people! The sooner we do this, the sooner we get out. Step off the soapbox, and let’s wrap this shit up.”

If this sweaty lot of people were truly spiritual and solicitous, they would have been less preoccupied with the shrinking polar ice caps and the extinction of the Iberian lynx, and more preoccupied with the fainting bodies beside them.

Unfortunately I didn’t leave the retreat any more centered, grounded or forgiving, as when I had first arrived. I did, however, work on my tan. Even in such a peaceful and meditative environment I couldn’t shake my rage and disappointment. I knew that I had to stop clinging to the past as if it was my lifeline, but the thought of letting go, and moving into the unknown, was downright frightening. I wasn’t entirely convinced that I had the energy, fortitude, or cojonas.

I had no regrets going on the retreat and shedding five pounds of water weight in that igloo, but I came home less enthusiastic about traveling. That was, until my birthday rolled around four months later. It was my first birthday post breakup, and I didn’t want to be in New York alone, knowing that my ex was in Spain with his girlfriend—as if packing my bags and leaving my apartment would somehow make me forget.

Revenge travel continues next week.

A Dolphin in Dubai

I’d like to think that my teaching skills improve with each and every, “Pull your navel to your spine”, that I utter. I’d also like to think that I can still become a professional dancer. One of my private client’s is pregnant and I had her do a modified upper abdominal curl. I swear on my dead dog Little Ricky, that I saw her baby rise to the service and pop her belly out. I almost had an aneurism. I don’t think that should’ve happened. I kept my cool and quickly moved on to another exercise. Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing after all.

And then I yelled at a client. She was bitching (and not the first one to do so) about how she couldn’t feel anything when we were doing an exercise on the Reformer. She wanted to use more springs to make it heavier. I said, (and I may have raised my voice a wee) “You don’t feel anything because you’re not doing it right.” I realized that this wasn’t Pilates Boot Camp or a military drill, and immediately started back pedaling. I think I sweet talked my way out of it but I realized that I might have gone too far. My reaction truly came from my passion. Okay, maybe it also came from being a ‘control enthusiast’ but my heart was in the right place.

I have to blame the following faux pas on my education, or there lack of. I told my Serbian neighbor, and co-worker, that she was wrong when she said that Washington D.C. was the capital of the United States. I went on further to say that, “The United States doesn’t have a capital.” I asked her if she learned that in Serbia. I said that I wasn’t sure if D.C. was a state. This was not, I repeat, not, one of my finest moments, and if my parents are reading this, they must be very proud. I said that I was confused and not to hold me to any of it, but inside I was almost certain that I had never heard of the United States having a capital.

I Googled as soon as I got home and sure enough, the Serbs were correct. I have yet to apologize for my gross and embarrassing error and I hope to ‘Allah’ that they haven’t already gone and spread the word in Belgrade. It is Belgrade, isn’t it?

I went to Dolphin Bay at Atlantis in Palm Jumeirah this morning. It’s a man made island in the shape of a Palm Tree. WHAT?!! I wouldn’t normally do something like this but, please, a man made island in the shape of a palm tree. You have to. I also knew the water would be cool (they have to keep the dolphins breathing) and so what the hell.

It turned out to be really fun. The weather wasn’t too bad and I was able to walk around without taking a humid sweat shower. I latched onto an Indian couple from England, who were on their honeymoon. C’mon, who doesn’t want a little Dani action on their honeymoon.

They were very sweet and true to being newlyweds, when it came to buying the stupidly expensive pictures (that they try to sell you when you’re still feeling a high from swimming with dolphins), the husband could only think of their budget. He made a comment about their wedding photographer being cheaper than the photos. She wanted the full tilt boogie on a CD. Ah, marriage. It was such a racket. I bought three.

We all had a chance to hug our dolphin, whose name was Danita (it was meant to be), for a photo op. My hair was blowing in the wind so I shouted (as only a New Yorker can) at the photographer standing on the beach, “Wait, my hair.”  I fixed it, and then, “Okay. Now.” Please, this could be my next headshot. I’m always thinking.

When I got home, I stopped off at a local restaurant for lunch. It’s getting a bit tedious to constantly hear, “Will that be ONE?” Or “Are you ALONE?” every time I go out. The best was the woman who checked me in at Dolphin Bay. When I walked up to her podium to give her my name, she immediately said, “Oh, I think your husband just went inside.” When I looked at her like she had three tits, she said, “Oh, I’m sorry… I thought he was… Never mind… Just one then?”