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Posts Tagged ‘travel’

Can we speak about swimsuits for a moment?

Monday, July 5th, 2010

There is no item of clothing more polarizing than a swimsuit.

When you find a suit that makes you feel good, and comfortable, and attractive, you’re chillin’ like ice cream fillin’*. For whatever reason, looking good in your swimsuit is better than looking good naked. Maybe because when you’re naked you’re (mostly) with people you love. Maybe because there are so many more pictures of people in swimsuits than there are of people naked (in the non-porny type media, that is) to compare yourself too.

Maybe just because we female American types love to find ways to make ourselves feel bad.

Who knows.

That being said, I ended up taking up three suits on my trip.

Suit 1) Strapless black one piece, single stripe across my ribcage.

I bought it last summer (at Target yay!) because it had that retro vibe that I so enjoy and also itwasonsale which, ya know, is my favorite thing and absolutely needs to be a word of it’s own.

I rarely wear it because as a small girl, I need to be lengthened and this suit does the opposite. Crockett repeatedly assured me that it emphasizes my “curves”. Curves. Ha.

There's a reason there are very few pictures of me in this suit. And that I'm burning these shorts. That's that I get for buying $4 shorts in the juniors section of Wal-mart.

2) My ModCloth suit, particularly purchased for this trip.

While I’m sure there are pictures of me in it, there are none on my camera.

It’s a polka dot two piece, with possibly the single most flattering top I have ever worn and an… acceptable… bottom. Those skirt bottoms make your thighs look big and pale in a matter that seems to be unrelated to how big and  pale your thighs actually are. The suit is charming as all hell and my favorite, but perhaps more in my head than in real life, if that makes sense.

3) This throwaway brown and pink string bikini I bought several years ago and put in my bag as a last minute addition.

It was Crockett’s favorite.

There are quite a few pictures of me in it. They’re all on his camera, which is currently in Buffalo with him.

Finally, after all the snorkeling, I bought a technical suit so I could swim at the rec center here without exposing myself to the high school boys who lifeguard. Because trust me, they’re watching for it. I’ve seen them.

This one.

I wear a size 8 in this suit.


My height and weight are not conducive to an eight, people. I have five extra pounds as far as I’m concerned, but they’re the five pounds that take me from a 00 to a 0. Not because I’m super thin, but because I’m five damn feet tall and small boned and there ya go.

I’ve written about the difficulty of finding swimsuits when you’re plus-sized before, but REALLY? If I’m a zero normally and an 8 in technical suits, what is a woman who is not part of a seriously petite lineage supposed to do? If you wear, say, a 16 in day clothes, are you supposed to skip technical suits all together?


In summary, swimsuits are fun but sometimes? Too much hassle. We should all swim naked.


this one time?

Saturday, July 3rd, 2010

I realize that it’s Saturday. Saturday, July 3rd. The Saturday of a three day weekend.

I’m not sure why you’re reading this, but bless you.

I am bound and determined to finish telling you, Biscottis, about the sailing trip, before I forget it all.

Now that I’ve gotten the whole ‘I hate boats the way Maida loves whateverthefuck is hiding under my strawberries that’s requiring her to DIG THEM ALL UP’ thing out of the way, let me continue with the actual stories.

Guess how many times I had to yell her name to get her to look up like this. No, guess.

Crockett and I got in Tuesday afternoon and didn’t meet up with Cap’n Dave and Rachel and Baby Cap’n until Wednesday night. In the spirit of me-being-the-one-who-plans-ahead, I made reservations at this little place called Galleon House in Charlotte Amalie.

I picked it less because I found it to be the most charming or the best deal and more because it was the only place I was able to reserve using a major travel website. Charlotte Amelie is America, but not AMERICA America (you know what I mean, don’t lie) and so picking a place that wasn’t recognized by the Internets seemed unnecessarily risky.

It turned out to be freaking adorable. When we first got to our room, I strongly associated it with a patio that they’d built walls around and put a bed in. Outdoor tiling on the floor, palmyfrondythings hanging into our balcony – basically the kind of tropical fabulousness you want your first night in town. Had it been several nights, I probably would have enjoyed a little more poshness, but there was a pool, breakfast, and a showoff lizard.

Also, gunshots. No, really. Somewhere below the hotel.

The lizard that enjoyed having his photo taken. Not pictured: gunshots.

Charlotte Amalie is not just a hotbed of lizard gang activity. (In retrospect, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out earlier. Look at how shifty that guy looks! I’m pretty sure that blue is actually his gang color.) Charlotte Amalie is a major port for cruise ships, and most of the activity during the day is focused around the up to 8 ships that come into town with up to 6000 people each. That’s an entire city that descends at 9 am and leaves at 5 pm.

As much as Crockett and I would have loved to hang around and make cruisey friends, we decided to catch our ferry to Road Town. Which, since it’s like TWENTY MINUTES AWAY, is clearly a different country, requiring passports and declarations and body cavity searches and very uncomfortable interrogations that involved shining lights in our faces and asking us why we’d ever consider going sailing since anyone looking at me could see that I would clearly be seasick*.

After that, we needed painkillers.

Of course, I had to break through a haha sexism is so FUNNY barrier before I could get mine.

The red text says "Note that #4's are not normally sold to ladies unless they insist, or are accompanied by a captain or a man". #4's are the strongest drink. Ha. Aha ha. Ha. Damn funny amirite.

I'll show you, Pusser's Rum people.

After this, I pretty much had to take a nap.

#4’s are strong.

Not cause I’m a lady. They just are.

*The only part of this that happened was the passport/declaration part. The British Virgin Islands people were very nice.

P.S. You may notice that all the posts that I wrote now say they’re written by biscuit rather than emmanation. People call me biscuit, so I decided to make the change. Well, some people. Ok, two people, but I’m embracing it. Biscuit it is.

I’m back, bitches

Friday, July 2nd, 2010

I don’t really think you’re bitches, you guys.

But I’ve been wanting to say that all day.

I am back. I’m not moving super quick, and I’m trying to sift through ten thousand emails, but I am back.

I’m becoming more liberal with the delete key every second. If it was important, they’ll follow up, amirite?

Everyone wants to know how my vacation was, which is super sweet, but it’s a really tough question to answer. Day to day life, while it seems like it would logically be more boring, has an arc. There’s a narrative, which means that interesting tidbits can be imparted with relatively little explanation. Vacation stories aren’t like that. They exist, but they’re harder to make coherent, you know?

Because I love you, though, I’m going to give it a shot over the next couple of days.

Vacation Vignettes

First? Boats are awful. Awful.

I’m not even kidding.

No one mentioned to me that being seasick is exactly like having the flu while in a youth hostel with a shared bathroom which is located in the far end of a mirrored funhouse with moving sidewalks.

Every morning Crockett and I would wake up in our teeny tiny berth, pressed against opposite walls in order to reduce the chances of accidental skin-to-skin contact (not because we didn’t like each other, but because we may have never been able to physically separate if such a travesty had occurred in that humidity).

Stern berth of a 39.3 foot monohull sailboat

This is not an optical illusion. The foot of our berth was in fact about 18 inches wide.

I would lay there, feeling like a very very overheated baby being rocked in a very large cradle, and I would think – this isn’t so bad! Maybe I got my sea legs in my sleep!

I would get up, put the coffee on, swim off the back of the boat and then shower standing right there on the back of the boat. It was a hard life, people – somebody get me a medal, stat.

I’d go into the galley (please notice all of the sea-type words I’m using, by the way. I’m exceptionally proud of myself) and make breakfast for everyone. As the non-sailor, I considered it my duty to act as galley wench. One time, I even made bacon. In a kitchen the size of a very small bathroom. While wearing a swimsuit. Because I’m kind of retarded. It came out well, despite Cap’n Dave (who had been the chef on his previous sailing excursions) turning down the heat on my bacon pan when I wasn’t watching. He clearly wasn’t familiar with my kamikaze method of bacon makin’, but I showed him. I know this because every time I turned around to eat a piece of the bacon, it was gone and he was looking innocent and licking his fingers.

Dave would give me the warning and I’d take my Dramamine/Bonine/Benadryl/dear-god-someone-find-me-a-drug-that-works-drug and slap on my pressure point wrist bands. We’d start sailing and I’d think – it’s working! I finally got used to it!

I never did. The first day, I laid on the side of the boat (on a line we needed, turns out, but at the time it could have been an IV for Crockett and I still probably wouldn’t have been able to move) and thought about getting off and spending the week drinking painkillers on the beach while the rest of my folks sailed. I was in a puddle of water and when I moved, it looked like I peed my pants – and I didn’t even care. Having people think I peed my pants is basically the WORST THING THAT COULD HAPPEN TO ME, and yet I did not give a flying whoopdedoda. If I actually had peed my pants, wouldn’t have cared. My skin was hot, my hands were so shaky that I couldn’t close them, and I couldn’t decide which end of me the tragedy would start with, but I was pretty sure it’d end up coming from both ends at some point and I had no idea how the fuck I would make it below deck to use the restroom.

So it was awesome.

By the end of the trip, I was able to sit up straight every so often when the boat was moving, and sometimes even turn my head and talk if something seemed interesting enough. More like getting-over-the-flu than full on flu-face.


Does anyone else get seasick? Is it always that horrible?

P.S. Crockett did better than I by quite a bit, but was not unaffected. However, I stopped swaying on land after a few hours, and when I spoke to him (he’s back home in Buffalo right now) he was still at it – since we got off the boat on Weds, that’s a pretty serious swayover. See what I did there? Swayover? Like hangover… but… ok, you get it.

Back in the US, back in the US, back in the USVI

Wednesday, June 30th, 2010

I’m sitting in our hotel room in St. Thomas, waiting for Crockett to find food more appealing than both of us laying on the bed in the air-conditioning wearing nothing but… Well, nothing.
Clearly, it’s going to be a few minutes.
Tomorrow, I fly home. I am so fucking excited, you guys. So excited. I’ll get to see my puppies and my house and my bed and my cauliflowers that I’m growing even though I don’t really like cauliflower and am mostly growing because I like how it looks like brains coming up out of a leafy center.
Wait, what’s that you say? There’s no beach in Colorado?
Surely there must be one or two. I mean, I never looked before because I was unaware of how glorious a beach can be, so there’s probably one right up the street from my house and I just never noticed. Right?
New plan. Someone (Kim? Star?) put the puppies in a carryon and get your ass down here.
And if you think of it, bring my cauliflower.

Hilarious things you’ve missed

Thursday, June 24th, 2010


I couldn’t get into the dingy after snorkeling, because that shit is hard. Instead I VERY convincingly claimed that I wasn’t TRYING to do it THAT WAY, I have my own way that’s WAY BETTER.
My way resulted in (several) unexpected backwards somersaults directly into the ocean.

Turns out I do get seasick. And the place I laid down to ride it out was on top of the line that Cap’n Dave needed to raise the jib. I was (apparently) unrousable.
In other words, I am adored by my shipmates.
In my defense, Crockett threw up four times in three minutes on that same crossing.

Boat toilets are AHEM not ok. They drain INTO THE OCEAN. Like, directly. The eww of that is, well… ewwww.

We watched people play beach jenga – regular jenga but supersized – and theft thought you could take blocks off the top level. Honestly.

Crockett beat Cap’n Dave at beach Connect Four in five moves.

That’s all you’ve missed. Otherwise, this vacation is no fun at all. (Obviously I’m lying to make you feel better that you aren’t here. I hope that’s ok.)