TRAVELING – the fun we can find

I have always liked traveling; always liked visiting different parts of the world, experiencing it all: the countries, the cities, the people, the sounds & smells, cultures, food and so on. We never have to look far to find fun stuff and new experiences while “out there”; such a big part of dragging a suitcase around. Here are a few examples from a recent trip I made.

I visit my Mother in Denmark at least once every year. She’s 92 and in a home. She has dementia and is not that mobile; with the use of a walker she can slowly move around in her room and still function without a lot of help from the staff. For longer “excursions”, somebody will roll her around in a wheelchair.

I had invited my Mother and some friends of hers to lunch at a local restaurant. To get her there, I had to stuff her into a wheelchair, roll her to my car in the parking lot and (gently) get her into the passenger seat – piece of cake.

Without incidents I parked her in the chair next to my car. To make room for her I had to move stuff from the passenger seat to the rear seat; didn’t take more than perhaps 15 seconds. After I was done I turned and was shocked to find my Mother gone. Now acknowledge that she could not have disappeared by her own strength. So I quickly looked around and there she was, powered by gravity, rolling backwards towards the other end of the parking lot, while quietly saying: “I’m afraid” (in Danish, of course).

I immediately sprang into action by laughing hysterically as I stormed after her. I tell you, I found it so hilarious, though my Mother stated several times that she did not think it was. All went well and due to her dementia, she had forgotten it within minutes. But I had learned a very important lesson: Wheelchairs have brakes – now, how convenient is that?

I stay with my childhood friend Claus and his wife Kirsten when I visit Copenhagen. Claus wanted me to see some new, architecturally unique buildings that he likes. We needed to take the METRO to do so. I had never used this subway system in Copenhagen, so that would be cool to try. Claus was eager to show me how fantastically well it worked.

Taking the escalators deep into the ground was rather awesome; the design, the platforms and a lot of people. Claus proudly talked about how perfect the system had been from the beginning; perhaps with a bit of bragging in his voice?

But now we found the platforms packed with people like sardines. Claus’ face showed surprise and a bit of horror. “What the heck is going on?” he said in Danish. This otherwise perfect METRO system was failing him, just as he wanted to show me how grand it was.

We quickly found out that some of the lines had been closed due to signal failure. Claus was stunned and his pride nicked a bit. But he hesitantly switched to plan B – the Copenhagen bus system that you can always rely on 100%; though taken the METRO would have been a lot cooler.

Considering that about 35% of all the people working in Copenhagen bike to and from work in any weather, the bus system carries the vast majority of the rest. With gasoline at approximate $9.00 per gallon, cars are not you major mode of transportation; and we whine about $4.00? So we waited for bus number 2A, which arrived moments later.

The busses in Copenhagen are really fabulous; clean, on time and very efficient. So off we went. I have always enjoyed riding the busses, safely sitting there watching people and all the stuff passing by outside; so we were rolling along, chatting away and now laughing about the non-functional METRO.

But after about 15 minutes, a huge bolt of the bus, glass shattering and the extreme crashing sounds you only experience when a large moving bus hits a much smaller van (or what now used to be a van). And then the bus came to a stop and all went quiet.

Now, what you would expect would be passengers running around trying to find out if everybody was okay. But it seemed like all were well. The doors swung open and then everybody quietly got out and headed for the next bus stop which was about 50 meters ahead. Nobody went over to the smashed van, perhaps because they saw the driver, seemingly alive, walking towards the bus. No, they were all focused on continuing their journey, getting on the next number 2A bus.

At this point Claus was shaking his head, so for safety reasons we decided to walk the rest of the day; kind of funny, though, as nobody had been hurt other than perhaps a bit of Claus’ pride.

As the METRO had failed and the bus had crashed, we decided to comfort ourselves with a mid-morning beer. This is actually a Danish concept, making it legal and in some cases advisable (like after this morning’s events), to drink a nice, big and cold glass of beer

We quickly decided to do so at Hvid’s Vinstue, which is a pub/tavern that opened in 1723, therefore much older than the USA, by the way. After involving two waiters in fun conversation, drinking the aforementioned beers, we were off on our somewhat adjusted quest – while having a grand time; Claus and I always do.

We went down the pedestrian street Stroeget and quickly ran into the marching Royal Guard. They march through Copenhagen to Amalienborg, where the Queen lives. I assume they guard her from evil things, huh?

They are kind of cute with their big, furry hats and are a charming part of life in Copenhagen. Claus and I stood there and admired them, while they were waiting at a stop-light (yeah, they actually stop for red lights – go figure). Suddenly we were grabbed by three policemen plus two real soldiers and pulled to the side; we quickly found out that we had been standing where the guards were going. In retrospect I did think it weird that there was so much room. What else could go wrong? Actually the rest of the day went well and was very enjoyable.

(The soldier stepping on the white line, was shot the next day)

(ONLY KIDDING)

Flying long distances are not fun for me anymore. I get kind of bored, no matter the entertainment I try to occupy myself with. But things were a bit different on American Airlines flight 1711 from Chicago to San Francisco Sept. 19, being the connecting flight that would finally bring me home. After 9 hours from Copenhagen, that was what I needed.

I sat in row 24, which is economy. If you ever fly economy, I highly suggest that you do NOT bring your legs along, okay? Anyway, two flight attendants rolled the drink-cart down the aisle from the rear to the front of the plane. With 24 rows of 6 seats to serve before getting to me, I figured I’d be home in bed by the time it was my turn to get a drink. But then J.P. flew in on the scene.

J.P. must have worked her magic on the rows behind me before I noticed what was happening. Suddenly she was there, smiling and all. “What do you want to drink?” She asked. “Two gin and tonic, please,” I answered. She asked other passengers around me, and as fast as she had shown up, as fast she disappeared – and as fast she got back with all the drink orders. I was so totally taken by the way she worked the aisle, getting the drink-orders, serving the drinks – back and forth – full speed.

If I’m not totally off, she single-handedly served half the plane. It was fascinating to see how she worked in her own zone, no doubt. It all happened in such a blurry speed and efficiency – and smiling was a big part of it. I really like watching people being effective about whatever they do; J.P. was way beyond that. Next time I fly, I’m making sure it’s a flight J.P. is working – I can highly recommend it (of course, I’m not sure that’s her real name).

When we go with the flow the opportunities traveling constantly serve us, we can find fun in so many unexpected places. I do believe that I get the most out of my trips, no matter how boring some aspects are (flying; except with J.P.) But I am also very fortunate, because as much as I like traveling, as much I am looking forward to return home. That’s a combination that is hard to beat; don’t you think?

Till next Monday: Bon Voyage…

CHEATING – not a nice thing to do

 “If you stray, you will pay (eventually)”, is the realistic consequence if we get involved in unfaithfulness of a sexual kind. We rather casually call this infidelity: cheating.  If a cheater believes he or she can cheat without being noticed (aka: getting caught), wouldn’t you consider that person ignorant? When we look at cheating not just being a sexual encounter or sexual relationship with somebody who is not our significant other, we find it is way beyond just breaking sexual trust. Overall, cheating is not a very nice thing to do; don’t you agree?

Of course it was the French who came up with the term cheating; perhaps they really needed it? It popped up in the late 14. Century, but was more so used as a trade term. If you are taking notes, cheating is from Old French. But today we consider cheating a rather different animal.

So Bob (not his real name), has been married 12 years, two kids (one of each), cable TV, life insurance, trampoline in the back yard, as well as a couple of neutered pets and bowling every Wednesday. If you ask Bob, it’s a comfortable life – rolling along.

On one of Bob’s business trips, he ends up sitting next to a hot number from Kentucky. She is going to Chicago for a few nights – just like Bob. During the three hour flight, several small bottles of wine, gin and tonics, lots of chatter, laughs and (yes) innocent flirtation, they exchange hotel information and cell phone numbers as they pick up their luggage.

In retrospect, Bob would have been happy leaving it at that, though he did think about her energy and freshness, packed in a hubba hubba body. He giggled a bit intoxicated as he grabbed his suitcase; and then Bob moved on – after all “I’m married”, he more so assured himself.

After a full day of meetings, Bob ended up in the hotel’s bar. It was lively and loud and full of fun. As he was chatting with a colleague through several drinks, his cell vibrated and it was her. She was in the neighborhood, so could he buy her a goodnight drink. In all fairness to Bob, he did hesitate a second (though only a second), but slurred: “Come on down”; and she sure did.

As I consider all my readers top-notch intelligent with grand imaginations to boot (how could you?) let’s save time and cut to the next morning.

 Bob’s hotel room looked like it had been the center of a wild and hot night (notch notch). She was still sleeping as he quietly did the shower and getting dressed thing real fast. She opened her eyes and smiled, and Bob smiled back, but not his true Bob-smile. He actually felt terrible and not just from the alcohol, but from massive guilt. He was fully aware that he had strayed and now it would be time to pay.

She had to pay as well, by dealing with her husband back in Kentucky. As Bob, she had no idea what to do, because as Bob, this had been the very first time she had physically cheated beyond heavy flirting; she realized, as did Bob, that the next step was not going to be fun. They both thought: Oh my God, but smiled bravely. I hope this does not ring any bells with you out there, huh?

Linda (not her real name either) and Bob all of a sudden acknowledged, that getting to the sex part had been easy as they had been physically attracted to each other within the environment and under the circumstances they had met. Waking up the proverbial morning after was so totally different and filled with guilt and many: “Why did I let this happen?” and not related to how great or not the sex had been. You see, the sex part of the cheating is of course the sole reason for the massive complications that one moment of lust creates. I think that if we (actually) thought about those consequences BEFORE hopping into bed with someone other than our significant other, cheating would become a rarity – I fully trust it would; perhaps a bit naïve? And don’t give me the “but I was drunk” bit – it doesn’t count.

What Linda and Bob had done was breaking a trust they used to have with their respective spouses. The core of any relationship is trust; if it’s in a marriage or union or partnership, girlfriend/boyfriend, and any other “agreement” that includes “just the two of us” and that “till death do us part” thing (or I kill you, cheater - perhaps?) To me, a broken trust is extremely tough to repair.

It’s not just that Linda and Bob momentarily were (miss)-guided by organs other than their common sense, but if they had thought about it for a few moments, alcohol or no alcohol, they would have seen the havoc and complications a night of selfish frolic would cause their lives and not just THEIR lives, but so many lives (and neutered pets) around them. But they did stray and now they realized it was time to pay –oh my, oh my.

The ones being cheated are basically getting screwed even more; okay not the same way Linda and Bob went about it, but you know what I mean. Besides broken trust, the believability of Bob has gone; his blatant disrespect for his wife Carole (actually her real name), is hurtful and seriously makes her wonder: “His first time? Will this continue as a (cheating) affair?” As an otherwise role-model father, how could he even fathom that his inconsiderate ways of showing lack of responsibility concerning his children would ever be forgiven? So you see it’s not just the moment of the roll-in-the-hay, but much more the aftermath that must and should make us think: “Is this really going to be worth it?”

Bob keeps pleading with his wife, asking forgiveness and expressing in tears how sorry he is – how much he loves her and confess he is a moronic idiot (which Carole fully agree with). Though we can more so easily forgive, we can never as easily forget – that’s the tricky bit; and that is precisely the core of the future rocky days in Carole and Bob’s marriage, which used to be close to perfect. So Bob, was it worth it?

Of course situations vary. Some cheating is expanded upon, referred to as affairs, lasting longer than the one-night-stand. Cheaters have thousands of “excuses” why they cheated or cheat; for them valid reasons, for others pathetic irresponsibility. But the why will not negate the eventual day they have to fess up and pay, while acknowledging the collateral damage, if they are not too ignorant.

Apropos these days: Especially cheating politicians are pathetic; is it because they feel they have some kind of “power” immunity? Or do they float above the (stupid?) voters feeling nothing can touch them and they will be forgiven when their infidelities are bared? How about they start realizing that they are also screwing their voters? It’s pathetic and so utterly ignorant. But as most cheaters, they are more so guided by egotism and genitals, when they should follow common sense, decency and brains. So if they can’t figure that out, how about asking Bob?

Handy Footnote: Linda was devastated. As Bob, she could not hide her indiscretion and confessed to her husband as she returned home. Though he was shattered, as he loved her so dearly, they found a way to move on. Linda now realized her husband to be even more the man she had been in love with all those years. (Gee, I’m such a sucker for happy endings; aren’t you?)

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BEING SHY – but being in control

As a young boy I became aware of how extremely uncomfortable I felt in the proximity of other people and how I suffered in unfamiliar situations. The label SHY was quickly stamped on my forehead, and that was pretty much how shyness was treated back then; other then: “you’ll grow out of it – eventually”. Of course being teased or ignored by your peers were just added parts that effectively helped remove self-esteem and eliminated whatever scraps of confidence you had left. Ah, those were the days, huh?

As you continue reading, please acknowledge that I am not an educated expert concerning shyness or treatment of same; nor do I claim to be one. I am only expressing opinions and thoughts, based on my experiences concerning my conditions and my solutions. So legally, this statement should cover my butt – don’t you think?

Shyness is explained as being somewhat genetic and can stem from many things: abuse, lack of family, a dominant family member and so forth. Personally, I am not sure if we fully know where shyness comes from.

I grew up with a loving mother, a father and an older brother. As I was born in 1946 (Denmark), my developing years were in the 1950’s; innocent times, really. Not a fertile breeding ground for shyness, huh?

According to social psychology, shyness as a condition is when we are overwhelmed by apprehension, the lack of comfort, awkwardness (mentally and/or physically), insecurities, self-consciousness and anxieties – just to name a few.

For the most part, shyness is brushed under the rug by those who are not shy. But for those who are shy, it is not that easy to ignore, if at all. It is overwhelming for some and it can devastatingly interfere with an otherwise well balanced life, especially in a shy person’s younger years.

If the above garden-variety shyness evolves into extreme shyness, which includes depression, social anxieties, social phobia and other nasty things, professional help is warranted – and the sooner the better.   

I never suffered from extreme shyness, but it was most certainly enough to make my life very uncomfortable and painfully so, in too many situations. I didn’t function well socially and school was agonizing in the early years. At family gatherings I clung to my Mother. My childhood buddy Claus, was the only friend I felt comfortable with. I would also experience depressions – and never figured out why I was depressed; and then one day…

I must have been around 13; now my shyness was getting in the way of meeting girls. Oh my; that pushed me over the edge. At this point, my Mother was all done and very angry watching my constant pouting, moping around, all sour and so sorry for myself, as in heavy duty self-pity. So Mother’s proverbial foot came down and hard.

“Are you going to stay boring, dull, inactive and pathetic the rest of your life or are you going to change into the person I know you can be?” Then she turned around and left me sitting there – absorbing and sobbing: “But I thought you loved me…” I whimpered; later on I realized how much she did.

I did not want to feel shy any longer. Obviously the: “you’ll grow out of it…” didn’t hold water, so waiting and hoping it would go away, was a waste of time.  As I assumed that shyness was not an illness that could be cured by a magic pill, but that it was something I would have to deal with for the rest of my life, I had to find a way to make it insignificant.

I knew my shyness was controlling me; didn’t take a genius (like me) to figure out. When something is controlling us, we can either continue to be controlled or we can get off our butts and at least make an effort switching it around. I decided to get off my butt; now it was MY turn to be in control. And that became my master-plan.

I wrote down every situation I could remember being controlled and bothered by shyness; every WHERE, WHEN and HOW much I was handicapped by it. The list was long and horrific. Then I went back and wrote down HOW I would have liked to function in those scenarios. It was an extremely sobering and eye-opening experience; then I wrote down how I felt I could change it in the future.

I quickly found that the most essential point, and biggest challenge, was the urgent need to get connected with myself. I had to face my insecurities, anxieties, awkwardness and the extremely warped self-consciousness of me, me and me. The need to acknowledge and deal with that thick and tall wall in front of me was crucial concerning any hope of breaking through to control any part of my shyness.

It was a rather interesting trip, really. I dealt with a lot of unknown emotions and factors; on the way, evil doubt showed up a bit too often. But I approached it by doing the easier parts first and built from there on. I practiced more than I theorized – there was no other way around to success; at least I thought so. Was it painful? It was the hardest and most difficult thing I have ever done in my life – seriously. Becoming more and more stubborn sure helped me along – and the prize was right.

Approaching and communicating with girls? No big deal (he tells you while his nose is growing). I wrote and rewrote and edited and spoke out in front of mirrors for hours on end. I smiled the most shaky and nervous smile ever, and gave up millions of times. And when I thought I was ready, I practiced a million times more – until the first practice run – oh, my…

She was finally alone in the schoolyard; cute as ever. I was sweating waterfalls, and if it had not been for the obvious physical shaking and the feeling that at any moment I would projectile puke, I was fine – thank you. My legs refused to move, my tongue was wrapped around my tonsils, but I was finally standing in front of her – kind of. My world exploded as she looked at me and smiled with a giggle.

“What took you so long?” she said.

“ghouedkbaobhielo” I mumbled.

“You have been staring at me for so long.” She was still smiling while I gasped for air – any air. I finally had some of my prepared script at the tip of my tongue – but not in the correct order.

“I really like you…” came out shaky – like violently so… She kept smiling and nodded her head; while I was escaping by running away, she shouted:

“Meet me after school?” At which point I was in shock, but had enough sense to nod that blushing head of mine – while running even faster, looking for a place to hide.

My master-plan suggested small steps for small successes (or small failures). My first attempt had been a giant leap for Peter; the significance of that moment was tremendous. With this surprisingly new achieved confidence, I started smiling a lot more, stopped mumbling and started talking, bit by bit; greeted my classmates, looking into their eyes – yes, even the girls.

I still prepared myself for rejections and they were plentiful. But the more I faced rejections, the better I got at dealing with them. I simply removed ME from the equation, by trying to convince myself that it was not all personal – but it was, for the most part. I kept telling myself that we learn more from our failures than we learn from our successes – I learned a lot and I learned it fast.

I started hanging around groups of kids that I had successfully avoided socializing with for years. At first they looked at me with suspicion, but I just smiled and then one day I said a few words and they looked at me with surprise, like they were saying: whatever. And on I went, adding new daring projects every single day; some days were tougher than others, but I hung in there.

When I got low and didn’t feel it worked fast enough, I thought of the years I had spent in self-pity, cowering behind my shyness - all that waste of precious time. So I worked even harder. I accepted that it was always a gamble of either shine or suck, but I was willing to take those chances by applying determination & hard work. And slowly I was reaching those goals of mine; slowly but surely.

I like the person I became; meeting me for the first time, you wouldn’t know that I’m shy – none of the people who knows me believe I am. I worked the transformation so well, that I now categorize myself as an extrovert, which is also a term used concerning shyness. The person is more so outgoing (and loud at parties – another reason I’m never invited) to cover up being shy. I talk with people everywhere and make riding elevators fun and challenging. I still straighten up a bit more when walking around other people; I have made many speeches through my life and only the first few moments are still tough, but then I’m okay; I’m constantly working on being in control of my shyness – every single day, and I will till the day I die (and perhaps longer, huh?)

I did all this and you can too, if you are shy as I am. It just takes the desire to change, hard work and willingness to accept failures as well as successes on the way; and that’s a true story.

Till next Monday

THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT NUDITY

I think our attitudes towards nudity are weird. Among them, we find: embarrassments, insecurities, sexual inclinations (which is actually not so weird); anxieties, expectations, disappointments, fascination, exploitation, curiosities, pride, disgust, obsession, nausea, uptight moralities, hang-ups, confusion, laws, shyness and the list is long. Why do we have such a strange relationship with our bare bodies? I mean, we are all naturally naked underneath; aren’t we? So what’s the problem?

We all know that the technical explanation for nudity is: the state of being unclothed and that naked explains: the state of nudity. I’m sorry to inform you, but that’s pretty much where the simplicity ends and confusion begins. Not much about our naked bodies goes down easy from this point on and I really think that’s a shame – to some extent.

All this nakedness starts rather innocently. We are born unclothed, stay naked a few minutes and then we are stuffed into blue or pink and some even get a beanie on top. From that moment on, we will cover up this innocent nudity the biggest chunk of our lives; and isn’t that a pity?

Babies cannot be any cuter when lying on a soft blanket in all their glorious nakedness; their cute, rounded behinds, red faces and adorable smiles, the drool and happy giggles. We fully embrace those innocent moments (sigh).

Now, if you picture that cute baby’s great-grandmother posing nude on that same blanket, drooling, red-faced (due to gas, no doubt) and giggling for no apparent reason, wouldn’t that seem a bit awkward to you? I thought it would. And don’t you think it’s weird we feel that way? The baby is naked, and great-granny is naked, so what’s the big difference?

Okay, I admit it’s a different look, but isn’t nude and nude the same? Of course it’s not, because society has accepted naked babies as being cute and great-grandmother Caroline’s nudity to be disturbing – we can only hope she was a bit drunk; the great-grandmother, not the baby.

We are the only species covering up by getting dressed. It is primarily to protect ourselves against the elements. As an example: Eskimos do not wear Speedos or bikini thongs in their natural habitat; only when vacationing in Hawaii.

There are billions of ways we dress to cover our nudity; layers upon layers of clothes depending on the occasion, season or reason. We dress in ways to show off our bodies, not particularly our naked bodies, but our body shapes – which will get vivid imaginations going – and are intended to do so, for the most part. Some are proud of their bodies and want to show them off, and there are plenty who wants to take a look – or three; I have no problem with that – do you?

Though we cover up a lot of skin, a lot of skin is also voluntarily being exposed to us; bits of nakedness. Low cuts and cleavage, snug short skirts and tight jeans, body-hugging outfits that underline the naked shapes underneath. We see Speedos and thongs on the beaches, with not much left to the imagination. But we stop in our tracks if those little scraps of fabric blow off. But really, what’s the difference? Well, the difference is rather big for some.

The moralities of decency most of us were brought up with caused us to become violently sick if we saw a naked parent or two. I mean, what could be worse? - You tell me… Okay, seeing great-grandmother Caroline on that blanket might top it. The things we were taught about nudity, presented us with a very confused relationship with our own bodies; what we could do, show and “those” parts to keep undercover at all times. And then we matured and became a bit more relaxed – or did we?

To some extent we like watching naked people – if nothing else (hubba hubba), we are guided by simple curiosity. This watching thing is based on sexual preferences for the most part. But we are also very selective (discriminating?) as we prefer that near perfect body over the weight & age-challenged and what not.

Though we are fine watching naked people, we don’t want to be watched in our birthday suits, do we? We find it inappropriate and utterly uncomfortable and perhaps nauseating for some. But what is it precisely that makes it so weird?

We have this belief, obsession if you will, that we must not, should not and legally cannot liberally show our naked genitals or those female breasts (dang it) to just anybody, other than partners, wives, husbands, doctors and what else you have under the umbrella of consensual peeking. We feel utterly uncomfortable when strange people run up to us to show off those parts of their bodies, going: “see what I got – na na na na na na”, while you are frantically trying to call 9-1-1 (or your mother); somewhat the backside of frontal nudity, if you ask me – because I’m not so sure why that is.

For some awkward reason I feel that we have been taught that those “private parts” are not called that for nothing – they are as private as anything gets. Don’t you find that a bit weird – really? Those things are just “parts” of our bodies, so why is it that we are hell-bend about nobody getting a peek, other than the aforementioned group of people?

When I was in school back in 1822, we had to shower together after gym; me and some 40 other boys. I did it only once and then I refused to ever do it again. I was 8 at the time and due to my heavy pleading to the principal, I was finally granted group-shower immunity. I told her that I was so weirded out seeing all those little wieners swinging back and forth – and a few had even curly hairs on them. My Mother was with me; she told me years later that the principal had laughed so hard.

The point is, that whatever values of decency or morality I was given early on, just the sight of somebody else’s little penis, grossed me out and made me feel utterly uncomfortable; in retrospect, was that good? Shouldn’t it have been: It’s as natural as is?

I appreciate (most) naked bodies. I have always found gratitude in the human and especially the female-human shape and form; and NO it’s not like I’m constantly exposed to some or get in a position to be exposed to such. In Miami Beach, Venice Beach and many such places, as well as in movies, it’s the occasional hot female body strolling by. In art, naked females have been featured for a few thousand years. I have always observed in a celebratory fashion – and for the most part without serious drooling.

I’m fine with nudity; the naked truth about it and all. It’s not really that big of a deal. I believe we make it a much bigger deal than we actually feel it should be, but we are still cowering a bit behind laws and our bare insecurities.

I believe the naked truth is also that only a small number of people are fully satisfied with their own nakedness – even the ones I deem beautiful, men or women. Looking in the mirror, very few go: “WOW that is hot…” I often do that WOW thing, but it’s quickly followed by: “I gotta do something about that…” Sounds familiar?

Overall I’m okay with what I see, as I actually do something about it. That my fitness club visits, long walks with the dog and trying to eat healthy, doesn’t shape me into a more acceptable body, is okay - it really is.

But, do I appreciate nudity enough to accept the vision of great-grandmother Caroline, drooling and giggling, with a body that clearly has lost the fight against gravity? Nah, I think I’ll pass – wouldn’t you? But otherwise, when she’s sober, she’s a really nice lady.

See you next Sunday – yes that’s right. Next Monday I’ll be on a plane to Europe that does NOT have Wi-Fi. So this will break a streak of 70 Mondays in a row, publishing new posts – dang it… I hope it’s not going to ruin your day, huh?