Maggie, Author at Maggie Ink - Page 34 of 72Maggie Ink

My flips went flop

November 13, 2011

R.I.P. old, navy, Old Navy flip-flops.

I try to avoid getting too attached to objects, but losing this pair of shoes actually snags my heart a little. This $2 pair of flip-flops is what propelled me around the world.

You guys, if these shoes could talk … well, first they would say some pretty filthy stuff. But then then would tell you all about their extraordinary adventures.

These shoes have been up the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu, on safari in South Africa, through rice fields in Uganda, around temples in Cambodia, inside pyramids in Giza. They took me down the beaches of Goa and to the top of Mt. Sinai. I inappropriately wore them to a nightclub in Argentina. One flop got washed away down a gutter in Chiang Mai during Songkran; I chased it down in the murky moat water.

They have stepped over fish heads, garbage and cow dung. They have been across insect-encrusted floors, inside countless nasty bathrooms and showers, over layers of filth I still refuse to acknowledge. There’s a good chance they are infected with typhoid.

When I befriended tigers in Thailand, I was warned to keep my shoes on, “in case you have to run for your life.” Not that I was ever going anywhere fast in my flip-flops.

My flip-flops have been called many names by new friends all over the globe. They are “thongs” to Aussies, “jandals” to Kiwis and “ship-ships” in Egypt — because that’s the sound you make as you walk through the sand. “Ship … ship … ship …”

These flip-flops were a part of me for so long, you can still see the imprint of my foot in them.

After I returned from my trip, The Husband begged me to throw them away.

“You can’t just wear flip-flops every day for the rest of your life. Also, they smell,” he said. “Let me buy you some new shoes.”

“These are all the shoes I need!” I snapped, and I continued to wear them.

Until one day I didn’t. I was lured out of the house without my trusty flip-flops, betraying them with a sultry pair of Nikes. And of course, that was the day my dog decided to get her chew on.

So it’s all my fault. I left my flip-flops alone and vulnerable, instead of on my feet where they belonged. Now I have to pay the price.

Just know how much I’ll miss you, Shoes. You were a trusty and loyal companion. You were sturdy and reliable. You flip-flopped my heart, and I’ll never be the same.

Poops, I did it again

November 9, 2011

There comes a time in everyone’s life when you have to suffer for the one you love.

For me, that moment arrived yesterday when I got a bag of poop in the face.

In order to explain, first I need to tell you a little bit about my dog. When I got her from the animal shelter, her name was Iris. I thought she was given that name because she’s fancy. Turns out, it came courtesy of her fucked-up irises.

This dog was born completely deaf and about 90 percent blind. Her left eye is tiny, ice blue and completely useless. Her right eye is brownish, and she can use it ever-so-slightly. She can see well enough to get around most of the time, but not enough to avoid walking into the occasional mailbox or telephone pole.

Her eyes actually float in two different directions, like a cartoon dog that’s been hit in the head with a frying pan.

This is why I named her Lemon. Because she’s a wonky used car.

That said, she’s also brave and spunky. She literally stops to smell the roses, and she loves nothing more than burrowing under my knees when I take a nap. Her life is entirely scent- and cuddle-driven, which is admirable. For a dog, she’s pretty good at teaching people to enjoy the succulence of life.

Lemon also loves to hit the hiking trails, which is why I take her up the Lykken Trail about once a week. I suspect someone in her family tree once mated with a mountain goat, because she’s a surprisingly good hiker despite her ridiculous low-rider legs.

Yesterday she pooped four times as we approached the trailhead (Aside: Do you think dachshunds poop more because they are stretched out and therefore have longer intestines? This is my theory). I picked up each pile in a plastic bag and secured the bag around the handle of Lemon’s leash. So I was still carrying it with me, but I wasn’t actually holding the sack of nasty.

Another dog approached us, which always spooks Lemon. It doesn’t matter how friendly the dog is, imagine getting your salad tossed by a cold nose that you didn’t even see coming.

After the dog passed, Lemon was a little frantic and skittish, but we still progressed up the mountain. At a particularly thin point of the trail, I noticed two women barreling toward us. I imagined the ladies getting caught in a tangle of dachshund, the whole ball of them tumbling all the way down on rocks and rattlesnakes, eating cactus for lunch.

There was only a slight outcropping where Lemon and I could pull over. And just in time too. The women rounded the switchback as I was scooping up Lemon into my arms. And in that motion, the bag of poop launched itself off the leash and smacked me directly in the face.

It would actually be no big deal — after all, there was a layer of plastic between the poo molecules and my cheek — except that these ladies happened to be filming some kind of reality show. One woman had a helmet cam, the other a handheld device. When I ran into them at their car later, they said they were with some kind of TV production team.

So if you happen to see footage of a sweaty hiker chick getting a bag of poop in the face on YouTube someday, that chick might be me.

But remember that I did it for the Lemon I love.

San Diego miscellany

November 4, 2011

My dad came to visit me recently, and I was skeptical about how it would go.

See, I didn’t always get along with my family, thanks to my snappy temper and poor decision-making skills. Though our relationship drastically improved with time and I’m a happy, healthy, well-adjusted adult now, I’m still wary out of habit.

Thankfully, the whole visit with daddy-o was fantastic from start to finish. Maybe our best visit of all time. Maybe too good.

We attended my dad’s military reunion in San Diego, and we stayed at a super weird Holiday Inn. We hung out with Steve, who was the best man in my parents’ wedding. Steve also briefly dated my aunt Hedda, long before she moved from her native Germany to North Carolina and achieved the weirdest accent ever. (Like Southern-fried schnitzel, y’all.)

My dad hadn’t seen Steve in 50 years. They swapped stories about heart attacks.

We took a tour of the USS Midway.

Pops was happy. He likes this kind of thing.

Excessively large military boats aren’t exactly my bag, so I found other ways to keep myself amused.

And then I made my dad pose for photos around the ship.

Including the jail. This is for The Very Bad Thanksgiving in 1997, Dad!

Every evening we had dinner at restaurants by the water, like the San Diego Yacht Club and the random place pictured below. And every night I ate pasta, boiled broccoli and salt, because that’s what vegans eat in San Diego. (Unless you go to Sipz or Stephanie’s, but my dad’s friends weren’t interested in those places.) Luckily I love salt.

My dad also wanted to go to the zoo, because he remembers seeing a lady from the San Diego Zoo on Johnny Carson.

I know most, if not all, vegans are anti-zoo. But I’m not one of those people. I used to be a volunteer educator at the Cincinnati Zoo, and I’ve seen firsthand how zoos can help animal populations and contribute to conservation efforts around the globe. Plus, I think zoos play an extremely important role in educating people who might not otherwise care about animals.

That’s not to say I’m 100 percent on board. There are still far too many abhorrent places out there that simply cram creatures into boxes without any concern for their welfare.

But the San Diego Zoo is one of the good ones.

My dad’s visit also included a drive through Pioneertown, a trip up the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway and a Steve Poltz backyard concert.

My dad ended up becoming completely obsessed with Steve Poltz and is now anxiously waiting for him to come through Dayton, Ohio — even though I’ve made it clear to Dad that he is NOT allowed to go to a bar in downtown Dayton by himself. He’s grounded. So now he wants to drag my sister Monica into this mess and force her to go to Steve Poltz concerts, which sounds like the very worst idea of all. And Steve Poltz isn’t even playing Dayton, Ohio, so it’s a pointless discussion anyway. I’ll fly home and take them to the Ice Capades instead.

Overall, I think my dad’s visit went a little too well … because he’s coming back for two weeks in January.

And I’m actually looking forward to it.

The ethics of what you share

November 3, 2011

This morning there were five images of starving Africans in my Facebook news feed, and it really bugged me.

I realize that the people who shared these images had the best intentions. I know they’re trying to put things in perspective. I even agree with a lot of the sentiment. This isn’t a personal attack on any of my friends.

I just don’t like it when people are used to further a political agenda. It dehumanizes them. It exploits them. And it’s irresponsible, because such photos often misrepresent the entirety of the population. Africa is not all distended bellies and children covered in flies.

Most importantly, it does nothing to help the very complex issue of hunger in developing countries. Why not use a different kind of image to achieve the same goal and serve that community? Why not show a farmer who achieved success thanks to a microloan? Why not depict a family getting fed? (Along those lines, when’s the last time you saw a photo of a successful African, besides a dictator or Charlize Theron?)

I’d like to think images of suffering aren’t the only things that motivate us to help others.

Also, it still nags at me, this idea of sharing an image of someone because it makes you feel better about your own life. It’s like saying, “At least I’m not THAT guy.” It’s misery porn.

These photos also perpetuate the myths that all Africans are starving, all poor people are black, and all poor people are miserable. And that’s simply not the case.

Just as a gentle reminder, there’s a lot of happiness out there in this world.

There’s a lot of beauty.

And there’s a whole lotta fun.

La-la-lame

November 2, 2011

I am compelled to sing to celebrities.

Specifically, I sing to musicians.

Even more specifically, I sing THEIR OWN SONGS TO THEM.

You guys, this is no joke. It is my secret shame. I’m almost too embarrassed to even write about this on my own blog, but they say the first step to recovery is admitting that you have a problem — and oh boy, I do.

It all started when I met Ludacris at a red carpet event. I happen to be intimately acquainted with Ludacris’ work, which is my fancy way of saying that I have a lot of his songs on my iPod. His words have been inside my ears — so we’re practically BFFs.

So I gave Ludacris a nod, smiled and said the first thing that popped into my head, which was, “Move bitch. Get out the way. Get out the way, bitch.”

He kind of stared at me, and I figured he was confused. Perhaps he did not recognize his own song. Maybe he thought I was simply asking him to step aside.

I tried again with lyrics from “Roll Out,” which is clearly a much better conversation starter since it involves interrogative sentences:

“Now where’d you get that platinum chain with them diamonds in it? Where’d you get that matchin’ Benz with them windows tinted? Who them girls you be with when you be ridin’ through? Man I ain’t got nothin to prove, I paid my dues breakin’ the rules, I shake fools while I’m takin’ a cruise.”

He just shook his head and moved on. And then I prayed for the red carpet to swallow me whole.

Then there was Usher, who had the misfortune of being seated next to me at President Obama’s inauguration. I’m sure my rendition of “You Make Me Wanna” assured him that he did not, in fact, wanna.

It happened again at a Warner Music industry party. I was a couple of wine glasses into the evening when I was introduced to David Foster. And I think we all know where this story is going … a Chardonnay-soaked female doing a screamy version of “St. Elmo’s Fire (Man in Motion).”

“You remember that one?” I said.

“Yes. I wrote it,” he said.

“I know every word.”

“I believe you. But you don’t have to keep singing it,” he said. “I wrote it.”

At the same party I ran into Josh Groban. I thankfully managed to avoid serenading him, only because I don’t know what he sings. Instead I just said, “What up, Groban? I saw you on PBS,” and then threw down a random gang sign.

I know. This thing I do is crazy horrible, and I wish I could stop. Unfortunately, I’m a lot like an overflowing washing machine. Once those bubbles start to rise up, there’s no hope of pushing them down again.

Believe me, I feel awful about it. Look at how miserable I made poor, delicate Sean Lennon.

Now check out how much Josh Homme wants to kick my ass.

At least the British are polite. Upon meeting Gavin Rossdale, I suggested he sell the song “Glycerine” to Listerine. And then I sang his song, substituting the name of the mouthwash for the real lyrics, just in case he didn’t quite get it the first time.

This is him pretending to be amused.

I just hope Prince never crosses my path, because I have an entire medley prepared — from “When Doves Cry” to “Gett Off” — and I’m ready to go. And that includes choreography.

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