New Year, New Site

Moving on over to http://shouldabeenastripper.wordpress.com/ for the new year. See you there?

Yes.

I say no alot. Do you want to have kids? No, I don't know, maybe, we'll see. Do you want to live in New Jersey? Not really. Do you really want to be a doctor? No. Do you think this makes me look fat? No. Should I get bangs? No. Do you mind if I go to a bachelor party? No. That last one is in my fake life, where strippers make less than me and have bad skin and haven't yet discovered Pilates.

And let's not forget that the Emergency Person has said no many, many times. For example, in the years prior to our "dating" I would suggest (not less than twice) that perhaps we shared more than just friendly emotional feelings and might benefit from exploring said feelings and he'd respond with a cool "no" that would bring me back to Earth. Of course his reasons were always rational. Always made sense. Always hard to debate. Always made me kind of sad.

So life happened (and many, many long conversations and many, many bottles of red wine), and eventually fate (or maybe a few pushy friends and the Las Vegas dry heat) brought us together. Not a smooth ride by any means, but who wants that anyway? Despite it all, I like to say that I knew that the EP was the guy when I met him. Who would stick with me as I called the Bellagio operator at 3 am, barefoot on Las Vegas Blvd and demanded the fountains be turned on? Who takes a girl to a 5 star restaurant, lets her order the wine, and then points out the hot girl who flies up in a harness to fetch the wine ("wine angel") having cleverly seated himself with a perfect view? Who LIKES that guy? Somewhere between Las Vegas Boulevard and San Diego, likely during a long conversation on a long drive down I-15 on one of many road trips, I fell flat on my face head over heels you know what with this man.

Fast forward to 2010. In my thoughts this year have been many of my dear friends who have dropped everything, picked up and moved to a place unknown because of boys. The outcomes are never the same, and the warnings are always there. The authors of He's Just Not That Into You have made a fortune out of this kind of warning. And frankly, I have given this kind of warning (then again, I have also said “it is your life, and you will kick yourself if you let this guy go now” more often than I have given the warning so maybe I am just a big sap after all). I have even heeded the advice in similar instances. I get it. I do. I get it. The risk of emotional carnage is exponentially higher when you add in a big move with (ahem) no ring.

“So what,” I said. So what? And I packed my shoes, left my (awesome) puppy with my Mom, and I moved to Abu Dhabi. Not for a boy, but for a job A job that is pretty interesting and pays enough to make me not broke and able to buy shoes frequently enough to satisfy any need for retail therapy (though all of you said it was for the boy, I know you did. I can read your faces…). Regardless, this was a big deal and very exciting and I was able to shut up the voice in my head (which was reading all of your faces) long enough to get on the plane. And I couldn’t have been happier. Then the boy came too and that was great. I thought to myself "well this is fantastic” and I started planning trips all over the place because my GOD it is hot here so I need to get away.

And then the funniest thing happened. I arrived in New York on June 29th, delayed 3 hours and the EP was there, with a car service, ready to burst because I'd been delayed. Cranky and cantankerous, he was not the picture of what you want to see when you have traveled for 24 hours and are meeting your guy in an airport that permits public displays of affection (my new appreciation for this will not go unrecognized here). Nonetheless, we proceeded to go out with friends and have a drink. Clearly, we were very thirsty because I awoke the next morning with a headache and jetlag.

In an effort to keep it honest, I will note here that I needed the hotel room key as I had to meet a dear friend for breakfast. Instead of waking a sleeping giant, I chose to rumble through the EP's jeans. The man heard me moving around and DOVE for the trousers in a move we'll call "not smooth" and proceeded to lecture me about going through his things. Hmmmmmmm.

With an air of suspicion, I bit my tongue and met my friend. Returning to the room, I was told we had ten minutes to pack because we were going to miss our flight. May I note here another reason that my guy is my guy: he plays with airport fire like NO ONE I KNOW. I have missed a flight or two because of an insistence on a sandwich, or a cocktail, or an extra 20 minutes of sleep. Nonetheless, we made our flight (despite a hilarious yet stressful drive through Manhattan to JFK courtesy of one of our favorite people in NYC) and in no thanks to the people at JFK (including the gal in front of me who thought that it was acceptable to wear club clothing with metal pieces to the airport, thereby setting off the metal detectors and resulting in the security lady yelling 'female assist').

Arriving in Boston was fantastic because the EP calmed down. Not sure whether it was the forthcoming trip to Fenway or the soothing sounds of PTI on ESPN provided by JetBlue’s on board DirecTV service, but the EP was back to normal. We checked into our hotel without incident and headed toward Faneuil Hall to fetch our Red Sox tickets. Of course, the EP wanted to take the scenic route and I basically said, in more than so many words, "you don't take the Charles to get there, even I know that." Clueless despite my earlier suspicions, I reluctantly walk toward the waterfront to take the longest way possible through Boston. Then the big guy says we should relax.

Relax!?!?!?!

Family en route, tickets to pick up, lunch to eat, potential naps to take, and he wants us to take a break and relax.

"Let's sit here on this bench," he says.

"What?" and as I turn around, as a lady who doth protest too much is want to do, I see this guy -- the guy who cooly explained to me that we were colleagues and that was more important than a romantic something or other, and then later we were too good of friends to explore a relationship, and that just because we were moving we didn't need to be married, and so on and so forth -- holding a gorgeous sparkler of a piece of jewelry and insisting I sit down on a bench for just a minute.

So that he could ask me to marry him.

"Are you SERIOUS?!!?" I said.

(Note: This is when you're supposed to say yes).

"You're supposed to say yes," he stammered.

And as much as I always knew it, and as much as his attempts at secrecy were faulty and as much as I want to be able to say something utterly profound about it, I was floored. And I continue to be every day. Some people call it "glowing" - I call it being knocked back on my heels. Because as hard as I fell years ago, he knocked me back on me heels just as hard when he looked up at me and proposed marriage. Marriage. MARRIAGE. He wanted to marry ME?! ME!? Well that's fantastic.

So I said yes.

Holy wedding bells, Batman. We've got a ballgame.

An Open Letter to 30.

You’re cute, you know. You've been taunting my friends, me and generations of women for years. It’s cool, though. I would taunt as well if I were on my way out of business.

That’s right, I said it. You’re going out of business.

Don’t deny it. Look at the people turning 30 this year, they are a bunch of kids:

Famous people born in 1980:

Jessica Simpson

Christina Aguilera

Macaulay Culkin (really!?!)

Venus Williams

Jake Gyllenhal

Gisele Bundchen

Laura Prepon

Chelsea Clinton

Jason Schwartzman

Michelle Kwan

Chris Pine

Jennie Finch

Willie Parker

Ok so I don’t have a gold medal and I haven’t won a super bowl and my Dad was never President and I didn’t play a gay cowboy and I haven’t married a Backstreet Boy or whatever Nick Lachey called himself back when he was famous. I think I’m ok. I did GO to a Super Bowl (January 2008 – “The Catch” – Glendale, AZ – Best. Day. Ever.) and I have seen Home Alone a few times and I went to Wimbledon (when Williams won it!). Have these people ever formatted 10 organizational charts in one day, or thrown together a really awesome Happy Hour? Have they moved to Vegas on a whim? No. Ok maybe they have, because I can see some of them doing that. Still. You get my point.

You could add some brilliant women I know to this list. You could. But you won’t, will you? You will basically remind us that we don’t measure up, that because we’re without money or real estate or careers or degrees or babies or husbands or (gasp) boyfriends, we’re failures. Right. You expected to have all of those things by now, didn't you? Sure you did. As Hugh Grant said to Margaret Thatcher in Love Actually, “You saucy minx…”

I’m not afraid of you, just like I am not afraid of the streak of grey hair that has taken residence on my crown – that’s right, I have a lot of grey hair. But 30, I have had it since my early 20s and, sure, when it grew in copious amounts in my late 20s, I took measures to correct it (including some blonde highlights that we’ll call “The Worst Decision of 2007”). Right now I don’t have a colorist, which is another brand of torture that we can discuss in another conversation, but that’s ok, 30.

I have a longer CV, a legitimate income, some world travelling under my belt and yes, I find myself saying “when I was your age” to my 23 year-old friend. But have you seen me lately? I am glowing, and not because I am pregnant. Sure, there are two lines appearing on my brow because it tends to furrow (which I attribute to the fact that I work with mostly men, and they say some ridiculous things), but I am a happy person. Disgustingly so, some say. It’s delightful, really. Except when I have the occasional breakdown about living halfway around the world from my mom, I am exceedingly pleased with my lot. I feel like Harry Potter on his first day at Hogwarts: in awe of it all. This is naive, you say? Tsk tsk.

30, even if I weren't such an obnoxious ball of joy, you are not what you used to be. Neither is your big sister 40. For that matter, I think my mother took down your other friends (they know who they are, one of them rhymes with nifty and is a real bitch) pretty easily with her awesomeness, her charm and her (hopefully passed down to me) good looks and ridiculously slow visible signs of aging. Do you want to know why you and your people are getting taken down one generation at a time? Because you are not dictating our life plans. Personally, you are the least of my concerns. At the rate of natural disasters we’re experiencing of late, age is not something that scares me. Got it?

Ok, good.

With that, I am asking you to please bring it. That’s right. Bring it on like a white cheerleader dancing to hip hop. Leave the jazz hands at home (they just make you look weird).

I am looking forward to this decade and I would like you to get your little dance over with so I can proceed with my life. I have some travelling to do, and I have some people to meet. And I live in Abu Dhabi and it’s hot, so I have to spend at least a minute or two every time I think about going outside considering how quickly I can return to an air conditioned space so I don't have time for your nonsense about growing up. After this maybe I’ll go back and get (yet) another degree or completely change the course of my career. Maybe I’ll forgo children so that I can travel the world and feed ones that don’t have hope of Angelina adopting them. Or maybe I'll just forgo children so that I can buy some shoes. Lots and lots of shoes, 30. Jealous? Yes I think so. Despite all of those decisions, maybe I’ll have love, too. Yes, 30. I probably will. So will my friends -- and most of them I think you’ve essentially got zero on because they are incredible women and have managed to become successful parents to boot – what’s that, 30? Got nothing? I thought so.

After all that, if you think we are even-steven here, methinks you probably feel a little bit like the English after the USA came out and tied them because their goalie kinda blew it. Like a sucker. You feel like a sucker, don't you? Because you wanted to win. And I am happy with a tie, 30.

So bring it on, and then get out of here. 40 will start to do her thing soon and I really don’t have time for both of you.

Also try not to make a mess. I can do that myself and fully intend to this weekend.

xoxo

-one of millions of women who wish you'd just shut UP already

But Dorothy is my middle name! (Or: I wish three clicks of the heel would bring me to Jersey)

Last night I was a stranger to sleep. I think eventually I dozed off, but every time I had some moment of clarity I would reach over and check my phone.

No calls. Work emails and coupons I cannot use at stores in the States, but no calls. At 3:51 AM my father called and the elation in his voice was telling.

“We did it,” he said, “We won big!”

Overcome with relief and exhaustion, I fell back into bed after quick congratulations and slept well for the rest of the morning. Everything would be ok.

I have spent the past week using email and Facebook to do what I can about an election in my hometown. I don’t expect most of my contacts to really care, at all, about this. That said, I think it might come across as rather bizarre that, from halfway around the world, I was losing sleep over a municipal election in Long Branch, New Jersey.

I was born just a few blocks from my parents’ house in Long Branch thirty years ago. The day they moved into that house, according to my mother, was the day she realized she was going to have a second child (yours truly). For better or for worse, my parents still live in that house. It has changed colors, lost trees, endured a broken window from a ball or two, hosted many a party (whether my parents were there or not) and served as a sort of gathering place for friends and family over the years. This house will forever be home to my family.

Bigger, though, than that house is the City it lives in. You could say, to some degree, that Long Branch is the fourth child in our house (she could be further characterized as my older, wiser, weathered sister). My parents live to serve her, my grandfather lived to serve her, and yesterday when her future was on the table, I sat halfway around the world trying to escape the anxiety I had over the election of the mayor and council (who happen to be my father’s employer). Let me take a moment to clarify – this is New Jersey politics. This is not The West Wing. Throw in diversity, the state of the economy, various pending bribery investigations, arguments over eminent domain that go back as long as I have been a legal adult and add in a few crackpots for good measure and you have yourself a ball game, friends.

While the campaign was ridden with Willie Stark-like caricatures of politicians and the games that are played, the people on the good side of it all (forgive my bias, it is wrought with facts, history and most of all, acknowledgement of progress) are close to my heart. I am a lifetime supporter of the incumbent team, and the recent history of our town is fascinating because it tells the story of a town going from the kind of place I was mildly ashamed of to the kind of place I am proud to call home.

This is where my father comes in. Thirty years is a long time. My father, a patient man, tries to always tell me that things take time. Progress does not come overnight. When I was seven, my father, uncle and grandfather closed the family business on Broadway (this was mostly due to the growth of malls and the speedy decline of the economy in our town). I didn’t really understand what that meant until I realized I never really went back to Broadway as it was kind of a depressed place. Around that time, the amusement park on the pier caught fire and the damage was irrecoverable. I cried that day because my parents hadn't ever taken me there and it was gone so I'd never get to see it.

When I was in middle school, my father was appointed the City Business Administrator and his days and nights became consumed with the City. In high school, I was the school mascot. This pleased my parents, I think, because it kept me involved with sports (since my athletic abilities were on par with your average nerd). I loved it because I spent alot of time celebrating -- our town and our basketball team won two State Championships during my tenure as the mascot, so it was tons of fun. Clearly we were those people (my family) -- we were fans of this place and the people in it, despite the burned down pier, the crime levels and some other minor flaws.

When we went on college tours to big cities, Dad would always point out similarities to our town, speak incessantly about its future, about it being a destination, not something people would avoid. In fact, I avoided Long Branch myself as much as possible around that time. I would drive to the neighboring town’s McDonald’s when my best friend and I needed a hot fudge sundae (seriously they are tasty and cost like a dollar) instead of the McDonald’s in our town because of the “sketch” factor. There were a number of “sketch” factors.

During my senior year of high school or thereabouts, there was a master plan for the City's redevelopment that was slowly beginning to take shape. I left home at that point for college and came back a few times to see more and more progress each year: cleaner streets, new storefronts, beaches spanning for a few miles with no garbage and much less “riff raff” – and I am not talking about one neighborhood or two, but a makeover of sorts - a complete overhaul of different parts of the City. (Note: my parents both got much more gray hair during this time).

Seeing as this is my home, as far away as I would go, it still mattered to me. It still matters to me. Maybe a little too much, but that’s not a bad thing. Growing up with your parents so involved in your town (my mother's contributions are an entirely independent post), it is natural to have a vested interest in these things. So every four years, the elections are kind of a big deal. For one thing, who knows if the other guy would have employed my father?

Further, I didn’t want to see the progress come to a halt. I didn’t want this story to end. The people running against the Mayor (and the people behind them) weren't all that honest, weren't all that hard working, and they clearly didn't have a passion for my hometown. To take a job that pays very little but requires a ton of your time, you have to give a damn. All the time. You have to care ALL THE TIME. There are costs to this and most people aren't willing to do what it takes to do these jobs well -- to do unpopular things, to do things that cost money, to do things that people are afraid of to make progress happen. I didn't want someone responsible for my home that had no intentions of taking care of it and no regard for the progress to date. Our Mayor, amidst a negative campaign and armed with his record and all of those things that people who lead have to have, was steadfast, motivated and took nothing for granted. He asked the people to believe him, to believe in him and to vote for him to keep up the good work of the past 20 years. And they did. By a large margin. It was inspiring to hear my father telling me this news on the phone. It was inspiring because I remembered why I am here and why I do what I do.

I have never, in my life, known what I wanted to do with myself. I have never, ever been consistent about what I want to do with myself (the number of times I've changed majors, changed apartments, changed my mind about what to have for dinner, etc. is ridiculous). I never will be and that haunts me sometimes. On days like this, it haunts me because I have clearly made some decisions that have led me to be so far away from home and it is troubling when I cannot place the reason behind those decisions.

I will say this – I sit on a very corporate side of an industry that lets me travel the world to experience everything that I love about cities by contributing a small amount to them. And everything I love about cities I learned by sitting at a table in my parents’ house and listening to my father tell me about what was planned for our town and how it was going to happen, or on a call with him from wherever I was living, him telling me about some major step towards progress (an approval here, a contract signed, a groundbreaking, a successful event, a positive NYTimes restaurant review, etc.). I love knowing how these things happen and I love being a little, tiny, insignificant but excited part of it all.

So what the hell made me move to Abu Dhabi (or even Las Vegas before this) when I am so interested in what’s going on in New Jersey? Honestly, I fell into this job I have. I really “stepped in it,” as my Aunt would say. I applied for a marketing position on Craigslist in 2004 (when I think it was invented) and I got the job. Real Estate and Construction was cool, I had this love affair with developments and cities that I wanted to pursue, though at the time it was not really clear how that was going to work out. I was beginning to realize then that I was kind of obsessed with seeing something through – since I never finished anything myself – from concept stages to reality. I was no engineer, I was no architect – I never will be. But there are stories in cities. There are stories in buildings. There are stories in the people who see them before they are even drawn on paper (and let me tell you, some of those drawings change so many times your head would spin). There are stories in the people who build them, live/work/play in them, change them, and sometimes even the people who implode them. I just wanted to be the part of my own story, I guess, and go to new places.

There are also stories about the people who want stop progress, for one reason or another, in its tracks. In Long Branch, those stories are popular. In Long Branch, like any place, any story with controversy is popular. Unfortunately, there is also an untold story: that of the team of people who have spent literally, most of my lifetime, trying to make it a better place. My Dad is one of those people. My Mom is one of those people. The newly re-elected Mayor is one of those people. And their stories are not ever told from their own perspective because they are gifted with the kind of humility and grace that the people who have thrown some mud their way of late clearly do not know. You don’t hear about the long nights they spent pouring over ideas and plans and regulations and budgets to make things happen. You don’t read in the paper how much time and effort it took to plan events year in and year out and wait for people to come and worry that they wouldn’t – I think my mom has nightmares of empty shops and restaurants and poorly attended events on behalf of the town’s small businesses on a regular basis. And the physical progress is not just in oceanfront developments. Parks, cleaner streets, new businesses all over town, fewer empty and run down storefronts, more events, more visitors, more money flowing into the restaurant owners, more things for kids to do, more things for people to do. A better place, a better lifestyle, a better home.

Much to the contrary of the aforementioned respect and passion I have for this home, I have traveled further away from it than anyone in my family. This is silly to friends who spend a good deal of time patiently listening to me tell (long winded, disconnected, irrelevant) stories about home and how great it is, but to me it is the life I choose to lead. I don’t have to live and breathe home to know it, to love it and to miss it.

Of course I’ve discovered many great places on the journey that brought me from a little City on the coast of New Jersey to New York City (which you can see on a clear day from our beaches), to North Carolina, all around Europe, Washington DC, Las Vegas, and now to Abu Dhabi. I am no true world traveler (trust me, the people I meet here daily look at me cross-eyed because I haven't been to Thailand and I am like, "let me tell you about this little place in Jersey..."), but on a certain level, Long Branch is not altogether different from here or any other place. The pizza there kicks @ss and you cannot beat the Italian Ice from Strollo's or the hot dogs from a number of competing summer hot spots. But in the end it is a City -- full of some great people who want to keep it clean, vibrant and healthy.

The messy and equally frustrating part is what it takes to actually build (or rebuild) a city, which is what is happening in Abu Dhabi. It is not clean, it is not always “win/win” for everyone at every moment and it is not, by any means, happening overnight. There’s a plan. Some if it is going to work, some of it isn’t. People with money have power and people with power have influence and people with the vision to see it all through have hope. And still the cranes go up, skylines change, and time passes. In Las Vegas, the new skyline brings with it a good amount of political and financial drama. In Abu Dhabi, the new skyline is full of cranes. Down the street in Dubai the cranes have stopped moving but flying into the city at night, you see the tallest building in the world and wonder how they did that. This is what does it for me, I guess. And the stories of how these things happen continue to draw me in, like they did on those long calls with my Dad -- and I will continue to play my small part in places all over, get a little travel done in the process and see some cool cities evolve while I am at it.

I am infatuated with these stories, like a novel I cannot put down, I fall in love with city after city and plan after plan and I move on occasion to find a new story. But Long Branch will always be my first. It is, forever, my home. And I am happy to report that the heroes are still winning, progress is underway and the hope is still there. I heard it in my Dad’s voice at 4AM and it made me miss home, and him, more than ever. I’ll see it again on the 4^th of July and I cannot wait.

Stupid American (OR: There’s a mouse in my desk)

I am not a calm person. I am not a quiet person. I am not a person who reacts to things in a logical manner. I know this. Most know this about me within minutes of our meeting. The mouse that’s in my desk knows this. Little f*cker, as I call him.

That said, I pride myself on my ability to keep my mouth shut or my eyes in one place (in lieu of rolling dramatically) in extreme situations wherein I know better than to express myself openly in a given situation. With regard to the mouse, my discovery of his residence in my cabinet involved me opening the door, watching him chew through my papers, and then screaming bloody murder. This was completely acceptable behavior under the circumstances. One of the “pros” about the Emergency Person being in the office with me right now (and let me be the first to tell you, there are not many “pros”), is that I was hoping he’d immediately come to my rescue. Pacifist that he is, my Army vet EP, all I got was a chuckle. A chuckle, friends. I have considered putting a snake in the bathtub to make my disappointment known.

Alas, some cases are not like the case of the mouse, and it is better to roll with the situation quietly. Especially when you are in a foreign country, I’ve learned. Boys and girls, it’s story time!

Before he arrived in Abu Dhabi, the EP and I talked via Skype on a daily basis, and as my frustrations with my new home grew, his frustrations with packing up his recently renovated home in Las Vegas were also increasing. We decided that we’d need a vacation sooner rather than later and, with the UAE being an incredible hub to the rest of the world (See: Google Earth), we went back to our list of places we wanted to see while living overseas.

Quickly, we chose the island of Cyprus, which was a three and a half hour plane ride from Dubai and about 30 degrees cooler on average.

Cyprus is an island in the eastern Mediterranean, west of Syria and Lebanon and south of Turkey (sidebar: very cool to see the plane bypass Iraq when you are watching the on-board flight status map). It is known in some circles as the birthplace of Aphrodite (awesome!) and has a Greek and Turkish side (see more info on this here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyprus). Very interesting. It also has ancient ruins and other old stuff in various locations, and we checked those out. One highlight: I got my chance to stand on stage in an outdoor amphitheatre overlooking the Mediterranean. The lack of audience notwithstanding, it was a big moment for me.

Needless to say, we had a fabulous weekend. We stayed at a lovely beach resort, and I was hoping to catch some rays and have some spa time for most of our trip. To my chagrin, this hope was a veritable pipe dream.

Just as some people (like the EP) are gifted with the ability to endure any situation seemingly unstirred and others (like myself) lack that ability…there are people who can relax and just plop down on the beach with a book for hours on end while there are other people who start twitching if a) there’s no cocktail server on said beach or b) there are no other activities other than relaxation to embrace.

The EP is not a book on the beach guy. I have known this for years, as even before we entered into a “mature, adult relationship” we took road trips and vacations together that were action-packed (and please keep your minds out of the gutter: baseball games, walking tours, winery tours, 3 hour tours, etc. are all PG. Jesus, people.) I think on a trip to St. John for my cousin’s wedding, the EP’s one day on the beach resulted in a lobster-like complexion for him for a few days. So why in the world I expected to have more than an hour two on a lounge chair in the sunshine, I don’t know. A girl can dream.

Given that the water was too cold for swimming or snorkeling and we’re not certified scuba divers, activities were minimal.Enter: the rental car, the guidebook, a map with no street names and a bottle of aspirin for the navigator (me).

After the day of ruins, the EP wanted to head up to some mountain villages, which supposedly held a lot of charm. We hopped in the rental car, which, funny enough, was about half the size of a Ford Escape and the steering wheel, like every other one in Cyprus, was on the right side of the vehicle. That’s right, we’re driving on the other side of the road. Fantastic for everyone, right? Yes, everyone except the navigator, who as the EP veered along the left lane line on every highway, saw her life flash before her eyes half a dozen times. We headed toward Mt. Olympus (which is not, um, the “real” Mt. Olympus...this was disappointing for the EP).

“This place is going to be neat,” said the EP. Neat. I was psyched (or faking it) and as the clouds darkened and the rain began to fall on the windshield of our clown-SUV, I thought to myself, “well at least I am not on the beach.” The windy road up the mountain was a great drive – in fact, the vistas of Cyprus are reminiscent of Northern California, and rolling hills of grapes are scattered all over. Once you’re high enough, the views of the cliffs on the edge of the Mediterranean are stunning. Unfortunately due to the fog, we saw about 10% of that, but the ride was gorgeous nonetheless.

The “charming” mountain villages, however, were another story. We stopped at one, realized things were not open, and became frustrated. Consulting the Lonely Planet guide, we were reminded that Saturday was a holiday. Accession Day. Big deal for the Cypriots, apparently. Thus, we proceeded along to Troodos, which is a pretty place with crazy houses on cliffs and hills and lots of stairs and old British telephone booths.

This was the highlight of Troodos. If we were equipped with appropriate gear, this would be a great place for a hike. We weren’t, naturally (read: I packed a bathing suit, a big beach hat and a book). But besides a few kitschy tourist shops and some lousy restaurants, not much to see. At this point, we’d been driving over 90 minutes and needed a break and some food, so we wandered the streets looking for a snack. One man offered us some "erotic" wine (note: his store had "erotic" everything: fruit, umbrellas, maps, etc.) and said that drinking his wine "will bring you three babies this night! THREE BABIES!" I nearly vomited as I drank the free sample of erotic wine and we headed up the street, picked a lousy restaurant and went in. Noticing we were out of cash, we asked the nice lady at the restaurant if she accepted Visa.

“No problem,” she said.

Of course, “no problem” can mean about 10,000 different things, as I’ve learned in Abu Dhabi (that is to say, "no problem" can even mean "actually lady, that is a major problem but I don't want to say that to you because our cultures are different and we don't just drop the bad news and disappoint people, ergo, I am telling you it's no problem"). So who knows what it means in Cyprus?! What I do know is that two bad sandwiches and a gross round of cappuccinos later, we handed this lady our credit card.

“No machine!” she said, “Next door.”

Well OK then. At this point, the EP takes one for the team and goes outside in the rain and walks down the small street into every shop and restaurant looking for an ATM. He returns after a fruitless search, shaking his head. While he was doing this, I was checking out the restaurant we were going to likely end up working in for the rest of the day to pay for our rancid lunch. This place sold sandwiches and traditional Cypriot fare, but also Barbie dolls, ice cream cones and Kit Kats. Seriously. Anyhow, our new friend the Greek Lady was pretty nice and let us leave to go drive to an ATM so that we could pay her 20 Euros (which is excessive, but I’m beyond that now) for our lunch. So we get in the car, drive back down to the next village, find an ATM, buy some stuff to break the larger bills, and return to the Greek Lady with 30 Euros. I use the restroom quickly after I hand her the funds and return to realize she has not given me change, or a receipt. “Ummmm”, I say, trying to figure out how to say “I don’t want to give you a 50% tip for a bad lunch no matter how nice you are” and she looks at me like she is reading my mind and saying back, “I didn’t make you wash dishes, missy. Did I? You’re welcome.”

Ergo, I thanked her, I jumped back in the car and I looked at the EP and I said, “take me away from this charming mountain village, please. This day is a disaster.” He asks me where the change is.

“No change. She kind of didn’t give me any.”

“WHAT?!”

“Sorry, can we go? I’m so over this place. What bullsh*t.”

As he pulls away from the restaurant, we sit quietly in the car listening to the rain fall on the roof. Quietly until he says to me, “the only bullsh*t is that you didn’t get change.”

This, friends, is one of those moments where I have trouble with the eye rolling and the running of the mouth. It’s true. I am bad at this. As we commence a heated debate over whose fault this debacle was, the nice Greek Lady is waving goodbye from her window.

“Stupid Americans,” she’s thinking, counting our change and smiling at us as we drive out of that godforsaken town.

Our final day in Cyprus yielded a good hour in the sun after a morning of quiet spa time. It was lovely. But, to give credit where credit is due, it was the EP’s idea. After two full days of driving, walking tours, exploring ruins, arguing over Greek mythology, dead end searches for woodfire pizza and decent local shopping, etc., we had a quiet afternoon by the water. It was perfect (well, save for some of the European bathing suit choices, which at least provided for some good people watching).

Not a bad place to take a long weekend, Cyprus was gorgeous.

Meanwhile, in Abu Dhabi, I’m sure, sometime in the midst of our trip down that mountain, the little f*cker in my cabinet was just getting settled in, chewing himself a nice little corner between the proposal I just finished and my expense reports. It’s cool. I’m cool with it. I didn’t just wipe anti-bacterial all over my desk for the 10^th time today. Nope. I am calm. I am saying nothing, I am rolling with it.

I’m gonna get that mouse. And he’s gonna regret he ever took one step toward my expense reports.