7/29/11: take me down to paradise city, where the walls are orange and the drinks are pretty

-
I’m writing this from our orange formica stateroom on the Riviera deck of the Carnival Paradise. There’s a little cubby hole with two round windows, so I guess we got upgraded to an “ocean view” room. Maybe the ship isn’t full. Rumors of violence in Northern Mexico have an upside, I guess.

When Stephanie and I took this same cruise, more or less, in like 2004, we thought our room steward folded our towel into an animal shape each morning because she’d decided we were extra special. We were so naïve. Today Pedro and Stephen noticed that from the front, our towel seal looks like a vagina. AK named it VagiSeal.

When we boarded she looked around and said, “This looks like the Titanic, but much, much tackier.”

“And with more lifeboats,” I added hopefully.

I made everyone sit through the Welcome Aboard! show because did I mention this is research? (Ginger and Amalia work on a cruise ship when the circus goes belly-up.) There were some amazing break dancers, but mostly there was the screechy cruise director who cackled at his own jokes, and a group of vaguely theatrical dudes in red jackets, known as the Fun Patrol.

At dinner we ate with a crew of recent high school graduates, all blond, beautiful and polite. Did your high school have a handful of popular kids who made being Mormon seem awesome? This was them. Also at our table: a mother-daughter pair who waxed nostalgic for the days of the onboard VIP steakhouse, and Kurt and Hector, an outgoing middle-aged couple from San Diego.

When we went to the “LGBT Meet Friends of Dorothy” “event” in the America Bar, Kurt and Hector were the only ones there, leaning against the red, white and blue walls (with bas-relief murals of the Grand Canyon and other landmarks). We hung out with them until we were outnumbered by straight people, including a lady pirate whose schtick was to put a plastic sword against people’s throats during dinner, take a picture and charge them for it. I mean, I guess I don’t know for sure that she was straight.

Comments

Holly said…
I peed my pants reading this post. Luckily, I had a VagiSeal to help me clean it up! Thanks, VagiSeal!!!
August 2, 2011 at 10:05 PM
Cheryl said…
VagiSeal: friendly *and* absorbent.
August 2, 2011 at 10:18 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

soleil for a day

-
Image
1. cirque love Since starting gymnastics at age five—or at least since reading Geek Love in college—I’ve wanted to run away and join the circus. Actually, the problem was that I wanted to join the circus but I didn’t want to run away. How fortunate, then, that AK found out about Cirque School , where you can lea rn the trapeze arts without ever leaving L.A. She gave me a class for my birthday, which I finally redeemed last night (after reading up on it, I decided it sounded kind of hardcore, and that I needed to build up some flexibility and upper body strength before going—I’m not sure that happened, but a month passed, I was a little closer to reuniting with my left splits and I was itching to take the class). The classes are held at Absolution L.A. , a small West Hollywood studio walled with honey-colored wood and stocked with pilates machines, trapezes, a climbing wall, red vinyl chairs and other items of expensive-looking fu rn iture. It reminded me, I told AK later,
Read more

seasons of love

-
Image
Everything Cheryl does, she’s totally joking and completely serious.             --AK 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million moments so dear 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure, measure five years? In new jobs , in boob jobs , in blog posts, in cups of coffee In coffee, more coffee, in coffee, and tea In 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure five extra years? How about love? How about love? How about love? Measure in love Seasons of love 2,628,000 minutes 2.6 million plans gone awry 2,628,000 minutes How do you measure public places I’ve cried ? In grants that I wrote, and novels on the side   Facebook rabbit holes are no source of pride It’s time to kiss Dashaboo Though he’s sticky with jam Let’s celebrate, remember five years Of making people deal with who I am Remember the love Remember the love Remember the love Measure in love Rent rent rent rent reeeeennnnnnt! In diapers, in houses In homies , in couples t
Read more

tops of 2023

-
Image
Recently one of my therapists (plural) told me I talk too much. Well, technically she said that while doing EMDR, she needed to interrupt my highly intellectualized storytelling more, so that we could prioritize reprocessing rather than letting me tip into re-experiencing trauma. And she said it very nicely. But a little part of me heard "You're too much for your therapist, and now you have failed," and of course that kind of thinking is why I'm in therapy. Today I listened to this episode of This American Life, in which Yousef (above, with his family), an incredibly determined, kind, and good-humored Palestinian man, talks about how his two-year-old son wants "a thousand kisses" before going to bed. He laughs and says he doesn't mind. In nearly the same breath, he says he regrets having kids, because what's the point of having children if you can't protect them? I wanted to jump through my car radio and hug him, or some other useless action, be
Read more