Category Archives: Shoutout

Bonne Fête des Pères

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY
…to the man who taught me to travel, love, laugh, cry and passionately pursue the moments that make life worth living (be it halting your career to go to Cannes every year or wearing short shorts while biking).
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I love you, Daddy!
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Happy Mother’s Day (The Terrorists Win)

Every year around Mother’s Day marks the time in which I venture over to France for my annual two-month stint at the Cannes Film Festival and the Cannes Lions Festival of Creativity. Since 2006, like clockwork, on my way out of Hartsfield Jackson I drop a Mother’s Day card in the USPS mailbox en route to my gate.

This year, however, this would not be the case. For, the terrorists have won.

Blame it on me. Blame it on my procrastination. I blame the terrorists.

Leading up to this year’s departure was old hat and hectic all at the same time. I’d planned ahead and bought my M-Day card last May, but I still hadn’t gotten around to writing the inside message by the time I arrived at the terminal this year.

The first leg of my journey to France, from Atlanta to New York, would allow for the perfect chunk of uninterrupted time to write my Mother’s Day card(s). And birthday ‘thank yous’…from last month. And (gasp!) wedding ‘thank yous’…from *cough cough* six months ago..*cough cough cough*. (Again, the procrastination factor…)

Fast forward to our cruising altitude of 30,000 feet and the flight, as planned, was perfect for my pen to paper time — two hours, all forty (yes, 40!) respective notes complete, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. That is, until I enter that special corner of hell known as JFK Airport.

What is it about this place that makes everything miserable? Seriously?! Improper signage (if there is any), minimally functioning (or English-speaking) workers, no A/C. For real! JFK is the worst!

Blame it on the North. Blame it on whatever. I blame the terrorists.

My mission is simple: locate gate of my next departure, find food, drop notes in mailbox. Not difficult. Or so I thought.

“Where can I find a post office dropbox,” I ask a JFK worker at my arrival gate…and at a newstand and in the bathroom and while mid-terminal-traversing and at my new departure gate and at a Chili’s and so on and so on and so on.

Finally, now completely and uncomfortably sweaty and flushed (thanks, terminal-without-air-conditioning…I mean, is this still America?!) I haul my carry-ons, my cardigan and scarf (that I have removed amidst my pre-menopausal Sahara-esque heat stroke), and of course my perfectly pressed stack of 40 notes and expensive stationery that is becoming moister by the minute over to a Currency Exchange booth to inquire about that GD post office dropbox again.

I could just barely hear the reply of the one semi-English speaking worker over the other one’s scoffs and laughter. “Oh no, there aren’t any here at all. They got rid of all of those.”

First of all, who is “they?”

Second of all, what the $%%(@#&!)%#%Q(*%#$()?!?!?!?!??!?!!?!?!!?!

Seriously, IS THIS STILL America?! Land of the “free” (as in drop your mail in the appropriate receptacle at an appropriate government-run facility sans hassle), home of the “brave” (as in unafraid to maintain logical placement of said receptacles at said facilities)??

I was pissed. I was red (not so much from anger, but more so from still being in the un-airconditioned hell hole that is JFK).

Congratulations, terrorists. You win.

Are you happy?! You’ve taken our liquid carry-ons, you’ve taken our cute and colorful swiss army knives off our keychains, and now you’ve taken our in-airport mailboxes. You (collectively) are an ass.

notes

It must be so satisfying knowing that I now have a beautiful array of pre-stamped, pre-addressed cards sitting in my South of France apartment (shown above) that I now have to rely on the notoriously shoddy international mail system to ship BACK to my husband in ATL so he can drop them in his hopefully-still-in-tact work mailbox for me.

Because, you know…next to Jihad and explosive vests the most effective form of terrorism and general ne’er-do-welling  is preventing my mom and new mother-in-law from receiving their Mother’s Day cards on time. You guys really are heartless, aren’t you?

Well, in conclusion, sorry Mom and sorry BJ. Hopefully your Mother’s Day cards will be there by Father’s Day.

Terrorists : 1

My efforts/Mother’s Day : 0

JFK Airport : Negative infinity

mday m

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!!!

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So Me

The below photos sum up my birthday today – and, basically, my entire life in general…

bday stitch

***

Now, for a brief step-by-step timeline of events:

1. Receive surprise delivery of flowers and chocolates from husband at work

2. Eat one of the aforementioned chocolates because it’s sitting on your desk and looks so damn good

3. Notice your top right implanted molar feels funny then touch with finger to confirm it wobbling all about

4. Proceed to dentist for emergency appointment

5. X-rays confirm loosening of previously implanted crown; dentist instructs you to pull tooth out yourself

6. You pull your tooth out yourself and photograph it in your hand (obvi – the internet NEEDS to see this)

7. Have crown replaced with super duper cement

8. Kill two birds with one stone when you also decide to have a mold of your mouth made for a new bite guard (might as well – you’d been putting it off and you’re already in the chair)

9. Take unflattering “selfie” with mold paste in your mouth and text the pic to husband and best friend

10. Receive text back from friend that she has wet herself and has tears streaming down her face from laughing

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What I can take away from this

1. It is expensive to have dental work done.

2. It is ironic to have dental work done on your birthday as a result of eating a bday treat (how “Seinfeld”-esque?!).

3. It is priceless to have friends and family who you can count on to laugh at it all with you.

***

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!

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I Am Woman

Social media and popular news sites are telling me it’s “International Women’s Day.”

Well, ‘WHOOPEEE’ and ‘WOOOHOO,’ I guess. Do I get a prize?

I’m a woman. I came from a woman. My dog is a woman. Lots of my friends are women. What do we win?

Well, since I am totally dense on the meaning of this day besides the general acknowledgement that my gender is awesome, I suppose there’s nothing left to do than stare at the wonderful works of Georgia O’Keeffe, listen to the bangin’ hit below by a dearly departed woman (RIP, Whitney), and reflect. Oh, and get me a present!

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Music, Pink and Blue by Georgia O’Keeffe

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My love language is food

This is how romantic WE are…

Step 1 Google image search. Step 2 Microsoft Paint an extra message. Step 3 Email to husband.

And finally, Step 4 Lunch @ my fave dive.

will_you_be_my_valentine__by_ssgirlo

Jealous??

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