… you don’t work in something that looks like this:
For fans of Arrested Development, this makes you think that perhaps George Michael (with his phallic banana stand) actually does have a soulmate in this world. And she happens to work right here, at Pineland Marina, in a yellow vented M&M.
On the way to Captiva Island...
After three months of anticipation an many hours of planning the logistics, this morning Alan and I left for a week on North Captiva, a barrier island located off the coast of Florida (near Fort Myers) on the Gulf of Mexico. I’m lucky enough to work for a company that has a beach house here (and another in Hawaii) for employees, so that’s how we chose this destination.
Both Alan and I tend to be workaholics, so the prospect of closing our laptops and disconnecting for a week has kept us buoyed for months. The place could easily sleep ten, but with so many moving parts (shuttles from airports, water taxis, fax ahead grocery lists, etc.) we decided to keep it simple and just come ourselves. I’m so glad we did.
As I type, I’m sitting on the deck watching (and listening) to the waves crashing on the beach below me. The sun is starting its descent to the horizon, and I have a margarita beside me. Other than plugging in the golf carts to charge overnight, there is nothing expected of me.
So this is what they call vacation. Please sir, may I have another?
A couple years ago, I read “The Time Traveler’s Wife,” and enjoyed it. It was a mind-bending premise, but the author managed to write so convincingly that I suspended disbelief and found myself rooting for the couple to defy time and find their slice of happiness. In “Her Fearful Symmetry,” Neffenegger again tackles the theme of star-crossed lovers playing in another dimension – this time blurring the line between life and the after-life.
OK. I really wasn’t going to go here. I swear. Please forgive me.
The other night – in preparation for my tropical vacation next week – I had an appointment with Nora at Corte Salon. Nora is famous in DC for being perhaps the best waxer inside the Beltway. (And no, that wasn’t a pun, and by famous I mean she’s actually had entire articles devoted to her waxing prowess.)
My two best friends also visit her, so whenever I have an appointment, among other things we spend the thirty minutes catching up on what everyone has been up to. That definitely helps distract from what could otherwise be an awkward experience.
As someone who considers herself fairly well read, it’s something of an embarrassment to admit that I enjoy peeling through a Dan Brown book in the bathtub. I like them for three reasons: first, I’m usually able to predict the ending with 300 pages left; second, they make me see places I’ve traveled (Paris, Rome) or live (DC) in a more mysterious light; and third, the bite-sized chapters make it easy for me to demolish a 500 page book in 2-3 days. Dan Brown’s latest book – The Lost Symbol – didn’t disappoint on any of those three points.
Even so, it was – overall – disappointing. I should’ve loved it – especially since it’s set right in my city and most of the action takes place within a ten block radius of my home. Instead, I found it a bit heavy-handed on the God-talk and a bit long in the symbolism. Add to that overly-predicatable plot twists, a very unsympathetic villain, and it was cookie-cutter thriller material at best.
Perhaps the only good thing to have come from that investment of time? I’m now inspired to tour the Masonic Temple of the Scottish Rite that’s around the corner from my house on 16th Street, and the next time I walk past the National Cathedral, I’ll definitely crane my neck to see if it really does have Darth Vader as one of the gargoyles. Otherwise, The Lost Symbol will go down as simply lost time in my book.
pithypants 