Not Your Average Gal

Copywriter. Content Creator. Constant Sassypants.

Archives for September 2014

Oooohhh, a shiny object!

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I write for a living. Sometimes the last thing I want to do when I get home is write some more. I mean, I write some kick-ass marketing copy during the day. That takes brain power, people.

I say sometimes it’s the last thing I want to do, because almost 100% of the time, I have all of these crazy, weird ideas in my head of what I want to write about.

But, I get distracted.

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OR

I put my copywriter hat on

and re-read the post 17 times before I decide to change three words that were CRITICAL to the blog being understood.

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Both options suck.

Distractions are the worst. I’ll sit down to write what I know may be a more time-consuming post, like this one on My Travel Essentials, and I’ll easily get distracted. Distracting things include: my cat, a commercial, “Did I get the mail?”, Facebook, the news, a golfer missing his shot so I can run to the window to make fun of him (we live on the 13th hole) or needing to pee and then forgetting to come back to the post.

I’ve also had to make a concerted effort to not be so hard on my writing in this here blog. It’s fun writing. I can relax more. You people are my lovely clients and you’re a blasty-blast! So if I miss a comma, just know I did it on purpose.

Like the gangsta’ I am.

If I know it takes some time, instead of breaking it down into smaller writing sessions, I’ll just actively avoid it. Since that’s what mature adults do.

Like the gangsta’ I am.

How do you avoid distractions or blogger’s block?

I’d love to hear your input or ooooohhh shiny object!

A Balancing Weekend

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The hubster is all about learning how to save lives and take care of patients. Sometimes, that makes our alone time few and far between. For instance, I probably won’t be with him on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Saving lives and taking care of patients won’t stop for the holidays, you know?

Did I mention he’s in his 3rd year of medical school? Yeah. He’s not a doctor yet and we’re figuring out this fine balance of studying so hard that he doesn’t sleep for over 2 days and, you know, saying more than hello and goodbye to each other.

We’re actually pretty darn good at the balance.

We take the time when we need it. Sometimes that time has to wait until exams are over and sometimes it needs to happen. right. freaking. now. because. I. want. to. talk. to. you. I’ve often said that there isn’t room for both of us to be stressed out because med school is pretty mother-effing stressful enough. That’s accurate sometimes, other times it just feels like that.

When people are hard on him for not having time for them, I sort of want to say, “Take a number!”

He’s doing really well in his rotations this year and putting all the studying to good use on actual real-life situations. It’s nice to hear his stories about how his input was valued (or not valued) with patients because he sees that what he’s worked so hard for, for the last eleventy billion years, is panning out.

I’m sure I can go into it more about how being a med school widow wife is one of the toughest things I’ve ever willingly done…and I actually love my alone time more than most people! Perhaps I will write about it more. My husband is loving and flexible and that makes it a whole-heck-of-a-lot easier during this time period.  But needless to say, it requires work to schedule time and not come across as a nag (can you PLEASE ask me on a date!) and also be cognizant of school needs.

So, with that said, we left for the weekend and headed to the in-laws glorious place on Marco Island.

It started off very much like most of our trips…with some unexpected, fun entertainment! Like, we drove an hour and a half to the other side of the state and both asked who brought the key to get in. Yup. Neither of us. So another trip almost back to Ft. Lauderdale (big thanks for the Father-in-Law and building manager who rounded up another key for us) and we finally got in. We settled in and started enjoying the smell of the Gulf, gazing at the stars and also watching a pool-house have a minor explosion. No, I’m not making that up. Again, we travel to entertain everyone else.

But after those minor hiccups, we enjoyed a weekend full of:

“I love you.” 

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“I’m really having a good time.”

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“I may actually like the beach, but don’t quote me on it.”

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“I can’t get over this sunset. I’m so glad we’re here together.”

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“Pass the wine.”

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It was much needed, maybe more so than we realized.

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How do you balance and reconnect? PG answers will do just fine, you naughty people. .thankyouverymuch.

How Not to Train for a Half-Marathon

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Did I mention I’m running a half-marathon again?

No?

Oh yeah. That’s because I forgot I signed up for it.

But I’m doing it right this time.

In my post-2014-Fort Lauderdale-Half-Marathon adrenalin and endorphin haze this past February, I decided to sign up for the 2015 A1A Fort Lauderdale Half-Marathon.

They were offering a great deal for 2014 finishers if you signed up for the 2015 half-marathon then. I’m a sucker for a great deal and thought it would continue my motivation to keep running.

I’m still running.

Just not as far and as hard as I did when I trained for my first Half.

So, I need to get my boo-tay in gear. Starting right meow.

Last time I trained, I left about 3 months. I say “left” because that’s how much time I had once I decided to sign up. Ha! If you’re not a runner, you need to give yourself more time than that. Hence, the name of this post.

Also, I use the term “runner” more loosely than some purists. I’m not a fast runner. Very often, I’m not consistent with my pace. I don’t “look” like a runner. But, I’m still a freakin’ runner. No, I’ll probably never run 8 minute miles. For me, running is about the experience. What I feel after a damn good run is immeasurable and can’t be diminished because I don’t have a fast pace. And the people who judge other runners for that can suck it.

They probably are the same a-holes who have a 16 ingredient coffee at Starbucks. And for THAT, I judge YOU, sir!

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So, back to the plan, Stan.

Here’s what it basically looks like. I use a mix of what works for me and also what the incomparable Jeff Galloway (read: super awesome freakin’ runner) has put together. He also uses the run-walk ratio that’s worked well for me.

Half-Marathon Training

30 minute run: 2x a week
1 long run: 1x a week (with increasing mileage starting @ 3 miles)
Strength training: 2x a week
Yoga: as needed

I’ve given myself more time than the usual 20 weeks training because…life happens. Sometimes you get sick or in my case, strain your IT band. That may be because I only trained for 3 months… Often, I didn’t get the required 3 runs in per week. Which is not helpful! I’m looking forward to not squeezing in my training this time around. It’s like I’m making an adult decision or something.

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I’m going to do a long-ish run this weekend and then officially start in the next 2 weeks.

I will be mixing in strength training this time around. I’ve read reports that strength training doesn’t help with your half-marathon training per say, but I had IT band issues just weeks before my half-marathon last time and I want to avoid that at all costs this time.

That means doing weights, yoga and stretching like a mofo after each run, rolling that mofo after each run and icing that mfer down after each run.

Yeah, buddy!

What do you think? Any advice for me this time ’round?

Travel Woes: Delayed Baggage & Stolen Goods

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“Your bag isn’t here.”

No shit. “Let me take a guess, it’s at LAX?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Because I saw on the app to track my baggage that it was on the wrong flight during my layover. The agent at JFK was less than helpful about it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

And thus began 2 weeks of a delayed baggage and stolen goods headache.

I was a pretty good sport about it at first. Aside from the delayed baggage, I had just finished a great day of travel. 20 hours of traveling for me is fun. Maybe it will wear off for me someday, but for now, I’m a special kind of crazy that enjoys it. My flights from Lisbon to Amsterdam and Amsterdam to New York JFK were uneventful. I actually got some sleep, watched some movies, drank wine and chatted with my hilarious seat mate.

I breezed through customs at JFK because of Global Entry and picked up my luggage to be rechecked for my last flight to FLL (Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood Airport). When you arrive on an international flight and still have another domestic flight, you usually have to recheck your bag — it’s a simple procedure, just pick it up and take it to the baggage drop off point after you’ve cleared customs and as long as it’s been tagged all the way through to your final destination, you’re set. Easy peasy.

My bag looked fine. I re-checked it had been tagged correctly. Gave it to the Delta agent and I was on my way to my gate for my last flight.

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I was enjoying a beer and being back on American soil (No more seeking out free Wi-fi!).

While sitting back enjoying a brewski, I checked the Delta app to track my bag and I saw that my bag was on a flight to LAX, not FLL.

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Shit.

I’ll give you the cliff notes version:

The friendly agent on the Delta Medallion 800 line and the Delta app told me what I was seeing was correct, that my bag was on the wrong flight and could be pulled off. I was told to speak directly with an agent at JFK…an agent that told me I was wrong and she couldn’t (wouldn’t) help. She told me my bag was on my flight to FLL. I asked her to print that confirmation. She couldn’t (wouldn’t).

You know what happens next, my bag was indeed on it’s way to LAX. I took it in stride because, whatever, there was nothing I could do once I was home and my bag wasn’t. I was happy to see the hubster and I travel in a way that anything I check, I know I have to be willing to “lose.” So there was nothing in there like my expensive camera, photos, money, etc.

Except everyone’s souvenirs, including an earring and necklace set I bought myself in Barcelona and cufflinks I got the hubster in Lisbon were in that bag.

…and those did not arrive with my bag when it was finally returned over 24 hours later.

My bag had obviously been rummage through. If you know me, you know I’m an anal packer. Everything, I mean, everything has a place.

Before
Before, not my best game of Tetris.

My bag was opened, my TSA lock was torn off and not given back, either by TSA (no notice was left in my bag though), an airport employee or the company that delivered my luggage to my house.

After
After

Oh yeah and they stole my shit.

The jewelry set and cufflinks were in the same portion of one of my eBags packing cubes. It would have been a relatively easy “grab” once you opened it to see what was in it.

That’s when the bitterness set in. This stuff can be replaced. It simply is materialistic crap. But the feeling of being taken advantage of is what sucks. This ONE agent set the whole thing in motion that I tried to prevent. Not to mention the ahole who took stuff.

I really adored that necklace and earring set. I rarely buy “nice” stuff like that for myself. When I travel, I usually find myself looking a fun jewelry and scarves. I don’t buy a lot of the touristy souvenirs. Except for cheesy shot glasses. That’s our “thing.” I have no idea where we’ll display them when we grow up. In fact, I’m not sure I want to. We look like world-traveling alcoholics. Wait a minute…

I absolutely will not let this situation ruin my opinion about an airline. You have one bad apple in a bunch. Shit happens. I have always had great customer service with Delta. Say what you want about airlines, but the people who serve you food and answer your dumb questions are people too, and more often than not, I’m met with a friendly smile and helpful answer. Everyone at Delta I had to go through, except the one lovely diva at JFK, was apologetic and helpful.

I filed a claim, heard back about 10 days later and will be reimbursed for everything. I should expect a check in about 14 business day. I’m very thankful for that. The frustration in most of this was that it took quite a few calls to get a status and a few too many emails explaining the situation, but it got resolved. It was too time consuming for my liking, but it’s finally all figured out.

Everyone I bought gifts for got their things, too. (Except the hubster and his cufflinks. I bought him other stuff too and he’s got me…GRAND PRIZE!) But the one bottle I bought myself of cherry liqueur from an area in Sintra, Portugal world renowned for it…smashed into a million pieces on the floor this past weekend when I dropped the bag it was in.

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I wasn’t meant to have gifts from this past trip. Just freakin’ awesome memories. And I’m pretty sure I’m okay with that. You can’t take any of this crap with you when you’re gone.

I also may or may not have busted out some straws and started sucking the cherry liqueur off the floor…

Worth it.

La Gordita

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That’s what I got called while I was running to catch a cab in Barcelona.

(My friend says they could have been saying it to her, too. But it’s doubtful.)

It was my first night on this trip (which I shall write about soon). We were having a wonderful time in Barcelona when we realized after 45 minutes of trying to get a cab back to our hotel that ALL of them were occupied. Calling cab companies became fruitless because our broken Spanish didn’t help. We walked for blocks trying different roads. We looked at bus routes. We finally gave up for a bit and settled on sharing a cider. As any normal person should do in times of despair.

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Dinner that night. Prior to needing a cab.

We explained our situation to the waiters and they were incredibly nice. They even called cab companies for us and it looked hopeful…until they explained there was a medical convention in town with 30,000 doctors. Good for my two single gal-pals, not so good for finding a cab. He told us walking was too far as our hotel was in a residential area (Barcelona is big, by the way) and the metro was closed. So, just as we were getting directions on which busses to take back, our waiter spotted an OPEN cab!

He went running without saying a word.

My friend saw what he was doing and sprinted after him. I grabbed our stuff and my other girlfriend went to pay the tab.

I took off huffing, throwing my camera in my bag mid-run.

I passed a table outside of about 10 men, eating, drinking, enjoying the night.

That’s when I heard it.

“…la gordita…”

I knew it meant chubby or fat. I knew in the tone it was said, it wasn’t a term of endearment.

I remember taking one more step in my run, asking myself, “How the HELL are you going to respond to this? Ignore it? Try to spout off broken Spanish?”

You have to put this in context. I had flown and traveled over 21 hours that day. I was tired. I was bummed we couldn’t find a cab. I was pissed these a-holes thought I didn’t understand what they had called me. I felt an obligation to stand up for all “las gorditas.” No one looks good mid-sprint! Especially after 21 hours of travel. Regardless, it’s totally shitty to say to someone.

So I did what any hot-blooded American would do.

I stopped dead in my tracks. Turned around with the precision of  a soldier on her heels, ready to stomp to attention. Looked at all of them in their eyes. Raised both of my hands up in the air.

And gave them the glorious one-finger salute.

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There was an awkward pause. Then solid laughter and pointing from his friends at the jerk who said it.

I wasn’t laughing. It’s not funny.

But I definitely smirked as I turned around and walked back to our cab.

 

An Ode to Barcelona

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I met you 11 years ago. I liked you enough. For 3 days, I walked up and down Las Ramblas and drank cervezas by the beach with my girlfriends. I said I checked you off my bucket list and felt no need to return.

But, this weekend we reunited again.

I must say. You’ve changed. Or maybe I’ve changed.

Or both.

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Because, quite honestly, I love you.

You’re amazing, Barcelona. For 4 days you wooed me. I’ve traversed your ancient-city Guadi walls, walked cobblestone sidewalks, watched tango dancers, sipped Catalonian wine, filled my belly with mas tapas than I care to admit and most of all, I fell madly in love with your culture.

You eat lunch at 4pm. You chat over dinner for 3 hours…starting at 8pm. You share laughs over wine-stained tableclothes and pass around tomato drizzled bread. You don’t require me to tip. Although I do a bit, because I’m American and inherently feel guilty for not tipping such a fine place.

If I sound like a food-obssesed lover, you’re right.

But you made me so. You did this to me.

I sat across from my girlfriends reveling in the moment under a sun drenched umbrella in a small, colorful plaza next to a church. “This is it,” I thought. “This is why we travel.” I so wish my husband could meet you. He would love you too, mostly because you offer the best football team in the world. But also because he appreciates the great things in life. Like you.

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Every corner of you offers something different to discover. Vastly different buildings juxtapositioned next to each other. Neoclassical apartments sitting right next to Guadi filled mosaics. You’re fascinating.

The Spanish I learned in middle school and high school suddenly came out of the dark, dust-ridden corners of my brain. I’ve surprised myself. I may not speak as eloquently as you. But I tried. And you happily, sometimes with a giggle, obliged and let me attempt your beauitful language.

Your people, especially, bring your eccentricities to light. They love you. They want to brag about you.

I can understand why.

I’m taking off for Lisbon now. But don’t worry. I’m not cheating on you. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart. Like a moth to a flame…I shall return.

Muchas gracias, Barcelona. Until next time.