Maggie Ink

Road trip: Hitting America’s hot spots – with air conditioning

June 20, 2012

I don’t mind the heat so much. I live in a desert. Warm weather comes with the territory.

What bothers me is that my car has no air conditioning. This isn’t a problem most of the year. But in summer months — when the sun is blazing and temperatures climb above 110 degrees — it is torture.

It makes me think of when I was little, and my pastor gave ominous sermons about what awaited unrepentant sinners in hell. None of it frightened me until he got to the Lake of Fire part, which is downright terrifying. This is a lake … made of FIRE. As someone scared of both drowning and burning, it is the worst possible scenario.

What I didn’t expect was that my car would become my own personal lake of fire. My hand is scorched by the steering wheel, even through the fabric that covers it. Sweat rolls down my eyelids and pools in the bottom of my sunglasses. I once made the mistake of leaving some coins on the seat — I now have Abraham Lincoln permanently branded to the back of my thigh.

Rolling down the windows brings little relief. It’s merely opening the doors to the blast furnace. The breeze feels more like I’m holding a hair dryer to my face. I arrive at my destination exhausted, dehydrated, red-faced and soaked with sweat. I am drowning and burning, simultaneously.

And the worst part is that I’m still here on earth, racking up sins. I’m not supposed to feel like I’m in hell yet.

Thankfully, The Husband and I are buying a new-to-us car. We found a fantastic, affordable 2010 Honda Accord WITH AIR CONDITIONING! I am so grateful and so happy.

The only minor setback is that this vehicle is in Ohio, so we’re making a little vacation out of it. We’re flying home to spend time with our loved ones in the Midwest, then we’ll pick up the car and drive it back to California.

On our way back, we’re doing a mini version of the Great American Road Trip — even though it’s more like The Teeny-Weeny American Road Trip, Southern Fried With Gravy on Top.

Here’s our itinerary:

Flying: 2,106 miles

Driving: 2,804 miles

Stops: Nashville, Memphis, New Orleans, Houston, El Paso.

Along the way: Family. Friends. A former crush. Two editors. A brother-in-law. An adorable niece. Graceland. BBQ. Bourbon. Tacos.

Have any suggestions for what to see, do and eat along this route? Send them my way!

Review: Fifty Shades of Grey

June 16, 2012

Last night I rolled over in bed and accidentally elbowed my husband in the forehead.

“Ow.” He rubbed his head.

“Boom!” I said. “You’ve been 50 Shades of Greyed.”

And then I promptly fell back asleep.

I guess the book has been on my mind a lot, since it’s the selection for our new book club at UCR Palm Desert. (We meet at 7 p.m. Tuesday, June 19, if you’re interested). I’m one of the facilitators for the group conversation, so I have to read the book carefully enough to pick up discussion points. I can’t just skim it for the sexy sex parts. And let’s be honest. If I wasn’t reading this for book club, I would only be skimming it for the sexy sex parts.

For those of you who don’t consume any kind of media whatsoever, here’s a quick summary of this international bestseller: This is the story of Anastasia, a boring virgin who meets businessman Christian Grey. He is instantly bewitched by her. She is beguiled by him. Those are direct quotes from the book.

“You beguile me, Christian.”

“Oh, Anastasia. You’ve bewitched me.”

Later, Christian finds Anastasia challenging. We know this because Christian says, “Oh, Anastasia. You challenge me.”

Christian also happens to make $100,000 per hour (seriously) and showers Anastasia with lavish gifts, like books that cost $14,000 and an Audi that costs however much Audis cost.

Periodically, Ana’s inner goddess — of course she has an inner goddess — rejoices and performs some kind of audition for “So You Think You Can Dance.” Direct quote: “My inner goddess is doing the merengue with some salsa moves.” Later: “My inner goddess sits in the lotus position looking serene except for the sly, self-congratulatory smile on her face.”

Throughout the book, Anastasia remains hopelessly naive, even after getting trussed up and flogged in Christian’s Red Room of Pain. She refers to touching “his thing” and him reaching for “her sex.”

So far this all sounds like one of my childhood fantasies. I used to cut out photos of sparkly jewels from the Sears catalogue and glue them to my head. Then I would boast to my friends, “Someday I’ll meet a man who makes one billion-jillion dollars! And then we will kiss. And we will do it. With his thing.”

But whatever. Let’s just all accept that this is some terrible writing. Even the author, E.L. James, admitted this is bad writing. I started making hashmarks every time our protagonist bit her lip or said, “Damn!” — but then the margins of my book began to look like Andy Dufresne counting out the days of his jail term in “The Shawshank Redemption” and I got tired. (I say this as a person who reads and enjoys a lot of crap. I devoured nine “Pretty Little Liars” books in two days straight.)

I’m surprised this book has been at the center of such a media firestorm. These days you can’t swing a dead cat (or flog a naive virgin) without hitting a blog post or article about this book. Most of the pieces fall into the incredibly condescending “Whaaat? Women like erotic things?” category, while others are of the “Oh noes! They do the intercourse in ways in which I am not familiar!” variety. This essay by Roxane Gay is the best, smartest piece I’ve seen yet — perhaps the only smart piece I’ve seen.

Is “50 Shades of Grey” erotic? I don’t know. I personally didn’t find it arousing. Maybe I was just distracted by the fact that I dropped $15.95 on this book when there are naked people all over the internet for free. The book definitely contains a lot of explicit scenes, but it’s all hopelessly heteronormative and only serves to play up the old storyline of a broken man and the woman who gives up her own identity in an effort to fix him. And though I’m not intimately acquainted with the BDSM scene, I’m pretty sure this book paints an inaccurate portrait of the domination/submission world.

Beyond all that, I was truly confused by some of the things in “Fifty Shades.” For instance:

* How come Ana didn’t have an email address until she met Christian? I’ll give you the Red Room of Pain stuff, but a college student in the year 2011 with no email? Girl, please.

* Ana has a landline? No email, but she has a landline?

* How did Christian get an Apple product before its release date? Even Steve Freaking Wozniak has to wait in line for the new iPad.

* Why do these two email so much? Why aren’t they texting? The technology in this book is batshit crazy.

* I swear Ana has worn her roommate’s plum dress for about 10 days straight.

* Why would she get into a stranger’s helicopter? Stranger danger, Ana! That’s, like, the first rule of dating. Don’t get into aircraft with strange men.

The one redeeming thing about this whole book — and trust me, I had to work hard to find this one redeeming thing — is that Christian encourages Ana to eat a lot. And I like that in a man. Even more than a Red Room of Pain or a billion-jillion dollars.

First World Problems: Palm Springs Yelp Reviews

June 11, 2012

My father visited Palm Springs earlier this year, just as arguments about the paint job on the Saguaro hotel were really heating up. There were a bunch of meetings and angry people and letters to the editor … the whole bit.

My dad’s take? “If you’re that upset about paint on a hotel, you need more problems.”

(Here is the super offensive paint in question.)

So the other day I was scrolling through some Palm Springs restaurant reviews on Yelp, and I realized that some of you need more problems.

Yeah, I know it sucks to spend money on a meal that is less than satisfying. But to say that too much pepper on your filet mignon was a tragedy? Oh my god. You’re right. How could you possibly go on living after such trauma?

Check out some of the other ridiculous Yelps I stumbled upon:

it was the only place in town I wouldn’t feel outlandish wearing a floor length ball gown. As for the food … I should have known better than to order heirloom tomato salad in February.

***

I would like the “era” of the deceptive lobster pot pie (or pot pies that are not) to end. Serving a cup of “stew” with a bread stick is not as advertised.

***

we were offered a prix fixe choice of (yaaawn…) turkey, salmon or beef short ribs. We started with an “appetizer: ” a tiny, bland boiled potato that was advertised as having “lemon crème fraiche and caviar,” however, I think they forgot the crème fraiche on mine and the “caviar” turned out to be black tobiko. (Perhaps the similar amuse at Manressa was too fresh in my memory – simple yet bursting with flavor.)

***

we ordered a pinot noir from the Russian River Valley. But the waiter brought out the same brand of pinot noir but with California as the appellation.

***

they were subbing green mussels for the original black ones. I should have known and steered clear because green mussels are nothing like black, they are usually tough and way too gamey. But I chose it anyway and regretted it.

***

Minus 1 star for not providing us the fancy little flashlights to read our menu.

***

I ordered the Bisque de Homard ($14). This dish was utterly inexcusable. I had to let it sit for quite some time as it was absolutely scalding hot when it was poured from a cast iron vessel into my soup bowl at the table.

***

The appearance of the apples in the risotto was less than appealing.

***

They claim the Filet is 8 ounces. Bring a scale. I’m contesting the claim.

Wax on, wax … oh, dear god

May 13, 2012

I like to watch this TV show, “I Shouldn’t Be Alive.”

Do you remember those Choose Your Own Adventure books, where the reader had to make a choice at the end of a chapter? Like, “If you follow the troll into the angry dragon’s mouth of doom, turn to page 73. If you marry the princess and ride your pet unicorn into the land of rainbows, turn to page 94.” And you always had to wonder, what kind of dumbass follows the evil troll? Huh? Who would possibly do that?

The people on “I Shouldn’t Be Alive,” that’s who.

It’s the show where people make not just one bad decision, but a whole series of them. Go hiking into the Grand Canyon? In July? With your grandfather? Who has one amputated leg? And bring no supplies? Except for a can of Diet Coke? AWESOME. Let’s do that.

That’s why I sometimes refer to the show by its alternate title, “No, You Really Shouldn’t Be Alive. You Should Just Go Away and Leave More Food and Water on This Planet For the Rest of Us.”

And yet, this weekend, as I made one incredibly poor decision after another, I could have taken a starring role on the show.

Bad decision #1. Purchase an at-home waxing kit. I realize you might be saying, “But Maggie. There is a reason that salons hire licensed professionals to do this kind of work.” And I say nonsense! It’s just pulling hair out by the root. With boiling-hot wax. Anyone can do this!

Bad decision #2. Directions? Who has time to read directions? I live in a fast-paced modern world.

Bad decision #3. Oh, was I supposed to do something with that bottle of pre-waxing oil? The one that prevents the wax from adhering permanently to your skin? Whatever.

Bad decision #4. Instead of doing a sample, I should probably just put all the wax on at once. That way if it really hurts, I won’t chicken out. I’ll be fully committed.

And fully committed I was.

I attempted to pull off the hardened wax, but it had already climbed down into my pores and formed a union with my skin. With every patch of wax ripped away, a chunk of my epidermis went with it.

I have to be honest. I have never felt such pain in my life. And that’s coming from someone who donated her bone marrow. Like, doctors shoved knitting needles in my pelvis and sucked out a liter of the junk that is INSIDE MY BONES — and that procedure was far more relaxing and comfortable than this at-home wax.

It was a frustratingly slow process that went like this: Claw at a tiny piece of wax. Bleed. Cry. Tremble. Will myself to not faint.

The more I shook, the more I began to sweat. And the more I sweat, the more the wax melted against my skin. And with melted wax, it was like performing a Brazilian with saltwater taffy.

I weighed my options. The hospital was less than a block away. I could throw on a robe and walk there. But then I would always be the girl who went to the ER with a wad of wax on her vagina. Another option was to simply walk around with a wad of wax on my vagina. Forever.

I called a very close friend and blurted out, “I’m having a waxing emergency.” I described the problem.

“Just put a wick in it,” she said.

That girl is no longer my friend.

Finally, using a very complicated combination of tweezers, scissors, cotton balls, ice cubes, nail polish remover and Goo Gone, I rid myself of the wax. And most everything else. In the end, I looked like a skinned baby seal and I am no longer able to wear pants.

I know, I know. I shouldn’t have tried this at home. I shouldn’t have ignored the directions. And I really, really shouldn’t be alive.

What in the world?! Funny photos from around the globe

April 18, 2012

Here are some of my favorite funnies from around the world. Why? Because it’s tax day. And because today has been kind of a bummer anyway. And because you should stop asking questions.

Just enjoy these random bits that I collected on my round-the-world trip — like this command that was painted on a barn in Uganda.

It makes perfect sense.