A trip to Hawaii has always seemed “blocked” to me: too pretty, too exotic, too far… too whatever. I never thought I’d get there.

Do you have blocks like that? Those things you feel you can’t have even though they’re technically within the realm of possibility and do-ability? I’m beginning to suspect that most of us do. Other blocks for me that I’ve gotten over have been living in New York and owning a well-fitting bra, both of which I TOTALLY do now, no big deal. Funny, right? A lot of people have one about finding love; I do it with lingerie and the 50th state.

So that’s why I put it out there at Mighty Camp that I wanted to go to Hawaii in 2012, because it’s a block for me, and a DUMB one, too; you know how to be the kind of person that goes to Hawaii, right? You buy a plane ticket to Hawaii.

Still, out of the five things from our Life Lists we were invited to share, it was my “reach”, because of how expensive it is to get there. A place to stay was taken care of, so I figured it would be a matter of putting bits of money aside here and there until the dollars added up for plane fare.

However.

Daffodil Campbell – the very lady who offered her guest cottage in Maui to my then-pipe dream – tipped me off to fares on Hawaiian Air for $212.

Excuse me what?

My silly fears of going to Hawaii flipped themselves into fear at loosing that price, and I fell ALL OVER myself getting a ticket.

So, goodbye, Hawaii block! You will not be missed. And Alhoa Maui! I’ll see you in June.

P.S. For a small fee the airline gives the option of having a greeter meet you off the plane and put a lei around your neck. I was about to click past it, but… oh gosh, I’m crying writing this!… I remembered being young and thinking that was so cool, and a voice in my head, an echo of my younger self go, sighed “Oh please?”

I just couldn’t pass it up. It’s cheesy, yes, but WHATEVER.

I’m totally making “getting leid” jokes, too.

I’m home!

What an insanely cool trip. Or “amazing”, which someone joked was the key word of the entire retreat. Maggie and Laura, you ladies throw one hell of a party.

I have a lot to catch up on (and I have CLEARLY failed at NaNoBloMo), but I wanted to say this because it’s important, I think, that everyone remembers this is still an option:

I opted out of the backscatter imaging at LAX. You probably know about these controversial machines the TSA has been rolling out to more and more American airports in the past few years that allow screeners to see under clothing to detect weapons. The fact that loads of people are totally fine with screeners seeing them naked is distressing to me, honestly, but I can kind of see how one would think it was not a big deal, either.

What really concerns me, though, is the radiation. The TSA and company that makes them (obviously) claims they are safe, but scientists – and not the ones funded by the manufacturer of the machines, the independent ones – have said they are not good for humans. I’ve known for a while I would refuse to go through one, but have successfully avoided them until Sunday evening.

“Sorry,” I said, bracing for some sort of fight and knowing it would be inconvenient for the workers. “I have to opt out.”

There was no fight, and everyone made a big show of being Professional. I was ushered through to a separate screening area, and a woman* patted me down. It was fine; it helped that my pants sit lower on me so she couldn’t quite get all up on my crotch, but I wonder how that would play out if I had a skirt on.

She asked why I opted out, and I told her I didn’t trust the machines, that science says they aren’t safe, and she answered that the images aren’t saved on the machines and I only viewed for a moment by someone who isn’t even in the room.

Right. Are you scratching your head, too? She addressed a concern for privacy instead of safety, and it was almost as if she reached for a canned answer in her brain and selected the wrong one. Still, I smiled, nodded, and made my way to my gate, Libertarian sensibilities mostly intact.

Don’t forget, you have the option to “opt out”, too. Just make sure you say those two words, and it should be fine.

*I have no idea how they select a screener when someone has an ambiguous gender, or none at all.

Image of the Ace Hotel’s pool by Karen Wise. I will be here this weekend. You may hate me. I kind of hate me, too.

I’m gearing up for Camp Mighty this weekend. The final “Yay! You are coming!” email went out yesterday, and in it were the words “celebratory dinner” and “cocktail attire requested”, causing multiple ladies to wring their hands and shriek all over Twitter and Facebook. I started to as well, then realized that I’ve gotten my closet to the point that, if you need me to be dressed nicely on a whim, I can make that happen.

Other anxieties that are coming to the surface: making friends. I got this email from a friend who is going (darling, I hope you don’t mind, I just found it so poignant and wanted to share) that said, in part:

On the one hand, I’m so excited… and on the other hand, I kind of become the 13 year old version of myself where I’m intimidated by the people around me and no one talks to me.

Is that weird? Do you ever feel this when you go to these kinds of things?

And I had to think for a minute before realizing that I really don’t anymore. That used to not be the case – I used to go pale with fear at things like this – until I realized that everyone else feels the same “oh my gosh, am I cool enough?” anxiety. So, if I’m the gregarious one, the one reaching out and smiling and introducing myself to people, I’m not lonely, and neither is anyone else around me. Win and win. This is an exciting development for me as an adult, and a lovely “fuck you” to all the inner demons that plagued me throughout the years.

So I’m just plain old excited! It will be nice to surround myself with “my people” and drink cocktails by the pool.

I’m bringing my camera, of course, so if anyone would like to contribute themselves to my Faces of No Specific Number project (formerly the 1000 Faces Project), pull me aside and we’ll photo shoot. See you there?

I try not to complain a lot, because LAME – I hate when people moan about dumb stuff. Also, there’s not a lot of things that annoy me; I’m mellow, and pretty much don’t care what other people do. However, there are a few things that, despite having no bearing on my life, make me smh. Here are some.

Toilet paper that goes under the roll, not over. If it’s like this at your house, I am going to turn it around while I’m in there, and you’re welcome.

Insisting that The Magician’s Nephew is the first book in the Chronicles of Narnia series. It is not.

Movie talkers. Ok, these kind of affect me, but if we’re being honest, it’s mostly just indignation. What really annoys me is the fact that 90% of the time, if someone’s yammering in a movie theater, they’re perpetrating a stereo-type. You know which one.

Leather jackets. I don’t get it. You’ve wrapped your torso in the skin of a dead cow. For why?!

People who listen to music through the speaker of their mobile phones in public. It sounds awful, and headphones are so inexpensive. And you’re being rude.

Smart phones at dinner. Check in on Foursquare, sure, then put it away or risk my irritation. (dun dun dun.)

Rude receptionists, and, while we’re at it, rude phlebotomists!

What bugs you? (And don’t say bloggers who cheat at NaBloPoMo by making quirky lists.)

If you live in New York, you’re bound to end up crying in public eventually; there just aren’t enough private places.

Last week I had my first ever New York City public cry. This is a bonafide right of passage for a New York City-dweller, mentioned both in the New York Times and on How I Met Your Mother, an authoritative look on living in New York City at in your late 20′s and early 30′s if there ever was one. Still, I never thought it would happen to me, and then, of course, it happened.

I’ve been going for weekly blood tests for seven or so weeks now, ever since that thing happened (we’re distancing this week), and I’ve gotten a pretty good system of not having it hurt that much. You inhale just before the poke, exhale with the jab, and for the love of god look anywhere but at the needle. Everyone has been nice; they recognize me now, and it doesn’t feel so scary any more because I know the ropes. Then, last week, there was a new phlebotomist. She didn’t acknowledge me when I walked in, opting to continue chatting with her friend. I shrugged it off and sat down anyway, and when the time came I did my usual breath in. She stopped with the needle hovering over my vein and rolled her eyes at me.

“You’re cryin’ out, and I didn’t even touch you!”

“Wha…?” I said, totally shocked.

She inserted the needle while I was still thrown off, and it hurt because I didn’t get to do my thing, and it was awful. I squawked, and she shook her head.

“Still carryin’ on.” she said to her friend, and they cackled at me.

Oh my god! Bitch and bitch!

Listen. I’m a pretty tough lady. But when you’re jamming a bit of metal into my vein, I expect you to figure I’m at least a tiny bit vulnerable.

I complained, but honestly, the whole hospital experience has been a series of bad attitudes and worse book keeping, and no one cares.

So anyway, I kept my shit together until I got to the street, and then just lost it. I don’t know why it bothered me so much; part of the reason is probably because they send me to Labor & Delivery every week to pick up the order for the blood work, and that’s really tough to deal with. I have to walk by a waiting room full of families moments away from or currently celebrating their growing one larger, and it’s a sharp, sad reminder of what almost was.

The snotty-face-on-the-sidewalk was the worst, but oh how I love New York: NO BODY LOOKED AT ME. New Yorkers will never, ever, ever turn their heads to stare at someone, unless there is something they can do immediately to help, or the person is actually carrying a weapon.

I like it here.

Last night’s Charity:Water event went well! As of writing this, I haven’t seen the photo booth photos, but I peeked at them in-camera, and they look good. I’ll show them off soon.

THANK YOU to everyone who came out – it was fun! We spent half the time in the photo booth and the other half trying to figure out if our waitress’ breasts were real (they were; we asked. If you’re wearing what she was wearing, we figured, you don’t mind people inquiring about your boobs. And she didn’t.)

My offer still stands, and will until the 10th of November: if you donate dollars to my PayPal account, I’ll write you a poem and put it in the mail as a thank you. (theambershow at gmail, and leave me your mailing address).

A few folks have already done this, and I wrote on Facebook that I have “write poems” on my to do list. Jen responded with a poem I wrote as a joke in high school and gave to her. She still has the hand written piece of paper in a box that I gave her, and snapped a photo of it for me to see; that’s it above. In case you can’t make it out, it goes like this:

Cow, cow, cow
By the water hole drinking
gin.
Cow got drunk,
Fell in. Sunk.
Aren’t we glad we aren’t him?

A poem like that could be ALL YOURS.

Today is the day of my Charity:Water event!

I’m nervous and excited. There’s going to be a photo booth, and if it’s successful, I’m making it part of my business plan. Setting up a photo booth is something I’ve been dreaming about since this March; it’s overdue. Panic over logistics set in yesterday, so I texted my friend Clay who is another smart photographer, and he helped me brain storm it down to a manageable project. Thanks Clay! You seriously saved my behind.

Will I see you there? You still have the opportunity to RSVP on Facebook.

If you can’t make it but you still want to donate, you can PayPal me dollars (theambershow at gmail dot com) and leave me your address. As a thank you, I will write you a poem and put it in the mail. It will be awful, but will probably make you smile anyway.

**
The details, again:

Billy Hurricane’s
25 Avenue B (btwn. 2nd and 3rd street)
New York, NY

open bar from 7 – 8pm, $5 suggested donation
raffle prizes
drink specials all night
full burger menu
a photo booth that hopefully doesn’t suck

I’m going to attempt NaBloPoMo for the (fourth?) time this year, but no promises; mama’s got a business to run. Speaking of which, here’s something that’s a bit of a bummer: I missed the first anniversary of my starting a business. My very first paying client was in October 2010. (It was on the way home from that photo shoot that I fell over onto my hand and borked it. My hand is fine, thank goodness, but there’s still a scar on my knee, which I’ve made peace with. It’s a reminder to not be stupid.)

A whole year! It feels like I’ve come so far, and am still only just beginning.

Remember the time I starting a painting? Here it is, hanging over our bed. I might add to it eventually (the big orange splotch in the left corner just doesn’t look right to me), but it was sitting in a corner for a month and a half “to be finished later” until I just said, “Ah, fuck it, I’m not touching it anymore.” and hung it up.

(I don’t think you’re supposed to say “fuck it” when it comes to art.)

Viola!

p.s. In looking at the photo, it is very obvious to me that I painted this through a very happy and then very awful stage of my life. You see it? The right side is SO much better, and happier, and the left side is… not that great. Totally weird that even though painting isn’t my medium, the art was revealing anyway.

Oh, this week. It was a good one.

I booked lots of new clients, did a little math, and realized I’m on a trajectory to out-earn Rob’s current salary in a year or so, something I plan on doing without the tiniest bit grace and all the smugness I can muster. (The high road can suck it.) And he is proud of me.

I got to go to my first haunted house that wasn’t a Hell House. Instead of being told about the dangers of homosexuality and beer drinking, I was subjected to New York City’s finest community actors scaring the bejesus out of me.

And we had Taco Tuesday at our house, where hilarity ensued.

Happy weekend.