Say Cheese! How My Valentine Shamed My Poolside Stalker Paparazzi Style

This is what a stalker looks like in the Dominican Republic.

Meet Mr. Nasty. 

Clearly, his mother never told him it isn't polite to stare. Or follow someone to the bathroom, that's tucked conveniently, and remotely, behind the tiki bar. Or blatantly change his position to get a better view. 

And I thought we were just trying to get away from obnoxious toddlers at the adult pool.

Things started off innocently enough on our first full day in the paradise that is Punta Cana. With the weather forecast predicting snow at home, my husband Andre and I were beyond amazed that here, July lives on. 

And bathing suits can be worn sans coats.

So, after a breakfast of freshness (hello papaya), we made our way into the sunshine and tried to set up shop beachside. But after a stiff 15mph trade 'breeze' managed, in 10 seconds, to coat our water bottles with a thin layer of sand, we opted to go a few yards inland to the 'adult' pool.

Clearly this classification had to more to do with height than mental age.

After first getting kicked out of a lovely shaded cabana bed, because we were too cheap to drop the $15 rental fee, Andre and I settled for two lounge chairs on the patio. The small area was completely under-furnished, so Andre had to drag them, ironically, from the kiddie pool.

Where Mr. Nasty, no doubt, would have gotten arrested.

Here's the thing: I understand, as a woman, a bit of appreciative observing comes with the territory. File it under 'Harmless Bikini Watching In A Tropical Environment'. And trust, I also understand, or at least thanks to my husband telling me a million times, that men are more visual than women. 

But anyone with an ounce of class, or self-respect, would take in the picture with a sweeping glance. Then go about their private business. Especially when that includes a lovely lady at your Nasty side, who by all classifications, would rate as hot. Especially in her very non-American thong.

Not Mr. Nasty, whose party of two arrived on the scene minutes after us. 

"This dude's acting like he's watching tv," said Andre. 

So Andre and I made adjustments. I took the lounge chair the furthest away from my stalker--believing the psychological intimidation of putting a muscular black man in between the offending party should do the trick.

'Cause damn it, it usually does. 

Not this time.

Things were peaceful for a while, when another couple had the tremendous misfortune of picking the spot between us. But when they abandoned their seats, at the same unfortunate time that it was for me to reapply sunscreen, Mr. Nasty clearly lost his damn mind, leaving the comfort of his chair, to settle on the steps of the pool.

Facing us. Literally feet away.

For my husband to notice at all is bad. For him to comment on it, then it's really bad. 

"I'm gonna pop this guy," Andre said.

I turned to look at Andre over my right shoulder. My back was to my husband, as well as Mr. Nasty, as I attempted, in vain, to apply sunscreen hidden from prying eyes.  "Why don't you take his picture?" I said half-kiddingly. 

Andre's a photographer. And my protector. As well as a fierce champion of treating women with respect. My words, and essentially my permission to make a different type of scene, sparked something awesomely beautiful in him. 

Andre pulled out his camera and started to shoot.

Behind my sunglasses, I closed my eyes. Because even though I had tolerated a good two hours of being 'eye-raped' by Mr. Nasty, I was uncomfortable with what was going on behind Andre's viewfinder. I fought hard to quiet the teeniest part of my soul that felt bad that Mr. Nasty was now the subject of my husband's impromptu photo shoot.

With his hyper-application of zinc oxide on his lips, giving him the appearance of a sadistic clown, and expansive gut, Mr. Nasty is the type of dude who is going to get stared at for all the wrong reasons. I felt pity for Mr. Nasty, to the point that I was willing to continue to subject myself to his blatant leering, so that I wouldn't make him feel self-conscious about his own looks.

Even when he was doing the same thing to me.

My husband? He didn't have that issue. Andre just continued snapping frame after frame of Mr. Nasty until 'he slinked away like the Lock Ness Monster'. 

And we were finally free.

Happy New Year

Today, I am overwhelmed by peaceful love. Indeed, it could have a bit to do with the fact that I went to bed at 11:20pm last night, minus any alcohol pulsing through my veins, and woke up completely clear headed and well rested at 8am on New Year's Day.

(Don't judge; I don't plan on making it a lifelong habit. My husband Andre and I are saving for something HUGELY EXCITING. Another truly magical blessing that defines our lives, for which we're both outstandingly grateful. (And no, it's not a pony.)

So, here, in the quiet of my cozy home, as the rest of the world sleeps off their hangover, (like my drunk dialing, 12:30am girlfriend to end all girlfriends, deep in the heart of Texas) or their ulcers, I've been engaged in my annual tradition of prepping my hot pink, patent leather, Kate Spade planner for another year of service.

Out with the old. In with the new.

Someday (maybe) I'll stop dreading what I initially view as a completely clerical task of transferring appointments from their sad paperstock cards to a more proper calendar form, and embrace it as a beautiful exercise that it always becomes. 

Because, once again, as I flip through the pages of 2013, I'm able to see not only the highlight reel of the year (EARLY morning college tour with my mentee, D'Angelo, Rebirth, Jose James and Ms. Emily King all killing it live, the wine and truffle tasting in some dude's basement, a vacation to paradise), but also the major defining moments of my life.

And 2013, you had many....

Some crowning moments that completely changed me as a person: I learned how to dance salsa, the beautiful start of not only symbolically dancing through life, but also courageously and systematically killing off the first of many long standing falsehoods about myself that really had nothing to do with me.

Boo-yah.

I celebrated with my favorite non-paying client, yeah, that'd be Andre, trust, I've got more than one, whose year of photography sales included, among others, a piece featured on the Boston WGBH PBS Fine Arts Auction. (Mystery buyer. You got good taste.) 

And last, but certainly not least, our diet overhaul, of completely cutting out the processed, helped us shed, drum roll please, SEVENTY POUNDS, which today is currently split right down the middle at 34.5 lbs each. (How did that work? Dunno. Guess we're equal partners like that.) 

So what's on tap for 2014? Hopefully more beauty, light, love and growth. (And a published book would work out a-ok too.) And while we'll have to wait another year, to see the whole picture properly flush out, I leave you with the (perhaps wine-soaked) wise words of my best friend Shelly, slurred, I mean, spoken, to a year only a half hour old: "The end of 2013 went out with a bang; I hope we just continue to trend." 

Amen.

xo

Black Friday Shopping? Please. Get A Life.

This year I almost bit (it). 

And I'm kinda embarrassed. 

Thanksgiving is a day I like to spend reflecting on what I am grateful for in my life -- a whole lot--and, duh, eating. Instead, I came outstandingly close to gobbling my dinner, leaving the dishes piled up in the sink and hightailing it to the nearest Connecticut big box, to wait outside for hours, like a loser, in a Black Friday line. 

At 6pm on Thanksgiving Thursday. 

'Cause all of that just really screams me.

Trust. I'm not in need of holiday gifts. I've already said, thanks, but no thanks, to the sad hyped up machine o' consumerism that brings Christmas to a retail outlet near you 'round September. I was in need of something way bigger. 

A new TV.

Our current viewing situation? Literally, a 'tube'. Stop laughing. We had the outstanding good fortune of replacing our hardware just as prices came down on HD units. Remember the days when they used to cost close to a grand? Me too. 

But now we're ten years out. With a 27 incher that refuses to bite the big one. Truth be told, we'd probably continue to suck it up, if involuntary picture cropping hadn't become part of our reality. Never witnessed this phenomenon? Few have been so lucky.

The skinny: Apparently, since 2009, the 16:9 aspect ratio has reigned supreme as the measurement of choice around the world for HDTV programming. Our boob tube? Not exactly wide screen friendly. Consequently, we're clearly missing some info with our viewing. How much? No one knows for sure. And that joke has gotten old. 

So when I heard, recently, that Black Friday circulars were available on-line for my browsing pleasure, nearly two weeks before the big event, I decided to check out the options. You know. Research and all.

And, indeed, there I saw it. A 32-inch HDTV advertised for less than a Benjamin. Granted, I had never heard of the name brand. Ever. But with a price so low that we could even pay cash, I thought about going to check that bad boy out in person.

Until I abruptly returned to my senses. 

It was the actual Black Friday theme song on the site that irritated me first. (Seriously AC/DC? Did you really just sell out like this.) And then I methodically started the calculations: How many hours would I have to stand outside? In the Northeast chill? I estimated four. Which, depending on the weather could quickly feel like eight (teen).

What time would I have to eat dinner? Around noon. Or 8 PM, if I still had an appetite. 

And the big one: Why in the hell was I doing this to myself? 

I'm a shopper. A good one. I know the actual price of things, as well as the value. That, ladies and gentlemen, is the real key. So I started investigating the specs of this TV to even see if it was really worth it. That'd be a negative. The resolution wasn't up to par, nor was it a Smart TV. I browse on.

The truth of the matter? No matter what lies you're telling to yourself, I don't think Black Friday is about shopping at all. The internet provides amazing opportunities, with coupon codes AND free shipping. No one stands out in the cold, or gets trampled, and you can save a huge amount of cake. 

In fact, I'd go as far to argue that Black Friday is all about frantic fake anticipation--best served to the millions of people who don't have any means to generate excitement in their daily lives--by big business. A Sisterhood of Shopping if you will, that every single year, millions of already cash strapped people fall for.

Hate on me if you want, but I know Black Friday is all about living on the edge, for those who never take the opportunity in their everyday lives. It's about doing something crazy, like waiting in line while it's still dark and rest of the world is asleep. It's about the adrenaline that comes from rushing inside after the doors are unlocked. Like a way sadder Running With The Bulls--only the prize is an overloaded bin of $1 fleece scarves. 

I don't want any part of that. Ever, but especially this year, as Black Friday blurs into Turkey Thursday and more givens, like the once simple concept that everyone, even minimum waged retail workers, could enjoy a whole day of rest with their families, get eroded by greed. 

This Thanksgiving, I am outstandingly thankful to live in Rhode Island, where our blue laws restrict retail store openings on Thanksgiving and Christmas. (Yay to you Massachusetts and Maine for also continuing the tradition.) Because these so called bargains? They're costing all of us way way more than you even realize.

Turning The Page

Everyone remembers their first big job. You know, the one that bumped your pay grade just enough to indulge in stuff other than groceries or rent. And I, I, was working towards one thing. That single splurge that would mark, to me at least, that I'd made it. 

Cue the Hallelujah Chorus: A subscription to The Providence Journal. 

Delivered daily. 

To. My. Door.

Go ahead. Call me a journalism geek. I'll take it. (And probably deserve it, especially once you add in the fact that the second indicator of my world domination was being able to subscribe to Newsweek--at the same time!) Eventually, I MADE it, wildly flaunting BOTH subscriptions. 

But then, things slowly began to change. 

Newsweek got cut from the roster first, after gradually deviating from its oddly successful model, of, well, promoting news, that had sustained it for over 80 years. Kim Kardashian. Not news. It's on-line model, to me, was a shell of its former self. I didn't renew. 

And earlier last month, after an agonizing decision, I reluctantly decided to let my beloved Providence Journal go as well. (Ironically, or not so much, it was the same week that this column appeared in the Providence Phoenix. It's so not my imagination.)

For me, it went back, just as it came in, to economics. An outstandingly bad timed quarterly payment to the newspaper, rolled up alongside taxes and life insurance premiums, made me look at the budget hard. The value for the information received just wasn't there anymore. So, I substituted the e-edition for print, wondered when exactly people stopped being able to pay weekly, and tried to be okay with not physically turning the page. 

I'm not.

In fact, I'm not really cool with the pace, in the twenty years since I graduated from college, that the industry has changed. This short attention theatre stuff is killing me. Where's the details? The art of the long form? The investigations? The building of the story? The getting lost in it? The learning of something? Anything.

I know it's all just business. Like it was in 1992, when two daily editions of the ProJo got folded into one. And in 1997 when the independent locally owned newspaper got sold to a media corporation in Texas. And in 2008, when the ProJo closed their local bureaus, and ending neighborhood zone coverage. 

It's all just business. But it still makes me sad.

Kindness of Strangers

You may have seen me in Narragansett Pier last Saturday afternoon. 

I was the chick shuffling along the seawall in flip-flops and an aqua cover-up, balancing my beach bag in one hand, while clutching this lovely white floral centerpiece, along with its glass vase, against my right hip, trying not to spill too much water.

The theme of the day? Kindness of strangers.

It was our first visit to the beach this year. Sigh. I know. We live in the Ocean State. But I've realized that giving yourself complete permission to mark off a single day on your calendar, to sit in the sand and watch the waves lap at the shore is something that most people beyond the age of 22 rarely do. 

It's more adult, read: productive, to run around on these beautiful days and do errands. Or laundry. Or clean the house. 

Completely wrong. We will fix this.

Narragansett is an outstandingly special spot for Andre and I. Way back in the spring of 1992, when I was a student at URI, and in the midst of my daily walk on Ocean Road, someone shouted from the window of a passing automobile, "Hey, sexy!", then stopped 100 feet ahead. (He'll deny it.)

A girl with street smarts would have turned around when they didn't recognize the car. But I wasn't finished with my work-out, so I continued on my path, naturally, while peering out of the corner of my eye at a safe distance. Thankfully, it was only Andre, my co-worker from the Showcase Cinemas, who also lived in the neighborhood.

The start of our special place.

Last Saturday, Andre and I were looking for a spot to sit on Narragansett Town Beach (the BEST in the state), when someone Andre used to work with spied us. We've run into Vinny before near the beach, but truthfully I don't even think he knows my name. There was a couple minutes of small talk before Vinny said:

"I'm glad you guys are still together."

Aw. Beyond sweet. His words, along with the truly perfect weather, was more than enough to make this beach day memorable. But there was more to come.

On the way back to the car, we walked beneath The Towers, where our wedding reception was held back in 1999. Pure magic. The door was open, so we went inside to look at the pictures of the historic casino that were hanging in the lobby.

Maybe a minute after our arrival, I could hear someone struggling at the front door with something heavy. I turned to Andre and said, "Maybe someone could use your help."

The someone was Towers coordinator, Kate, a passionate steward of the historic building. She remembered us from over 14 years ago, and our passions--photography and writing. When I commended her on her memory, I occurred to me that maybe it wasn't so much her recall, but our stories, and who we are as people, that made us stand out.

She took us on a tour of the upstairs banquet hall, set up for an evening wedding, including a stop on the truly breathtaking outside deck, with its panoramic views of the shore. Here, Kate pointed out an osprey in the water and told us how when the seagulls followed fish at night, they look like white butterflies fluttering over the water. 

When we were leaving, Kate presented me these flowers, leftover from a reception the night before. I was beyond touched by her beautiful gesture. And I was once again struck by the fact that some of the most powerful positivity in my life has not come from traditional sources, but from surprising places when I least expected it.

It was also a further reminder that if you listen to the universe, it will always give you what you need. 

And what you deserve.