Road Trippin’ Down Under: To Board and Not Be Too Bored

If you were hoping that this post will be the one where you finally get to read about Australia, I have bad news for you. We’re not even halfway there yet.

But don’t despair. As a wise if somewhat aimless individual once put it: Life is supposed to be a journey, not a detonation.

If you are chuckling to yourself, I thank you. I am deeply grateful to you for embracing the whimsy. If you’re irked rather than amused by the reference to explosive devices, please accept my condolences on your flagging sense of humor. If you have no idea what this section of the post is about, you should probably take a nap and read it again when you’ve had some rest.

Interestingly enough, I wasn’t the least bit worried about detonations before, during, or after this trip. Despite the 96% chance that Homeland Security had failed to detect a bomb or gun on the person of one of our fellow travelers (as discussed in Travelers’ Advisory on March 4 of 2016) I was less concerned about someone hijacking and/or blowing up the plane than literally any other travel hazard you could name. Same goes for mechanical failure and operator error. None of that even entered my mind either before or after we’d made it through security.

No. Boredom was going to be my real enemy that day, I knew. Followed closely by discomfort. Which is why I arrived armed to the teeth with reading material—six magazines, one paperback and a Kindle loaded with multiple novels and an electronic Scrabble game—and pain reliever, eye drops, facial wipes and chewing gum. If I was going to survive this trip, I was going to need plenty to do, and I would need to do it without a throbbing head, dry eyes, oily skin, and furry teeth.

The Jarhead had suggested that I lie lay down and try to sleep. According to him, I would handle the heat, the crowds, and the lack of a shower during our 11-hour layover in Abu Dhabi better if I were well rested. Of course, we both knew that what he meant was that I would be a much better travel companion if I was well rested. But we both also knew that sleep for me was not an option. I find it hard enough to sleep at my usual time in my own bed and in an empty room, so there was zero chance I was going to fall asleep in a cabin room full of strangers at five o’clock in the evening.

And so, I kept to my own game plan and spent just over 12 hours reading, eating, drinking, playing Scrabble, and trying not to watch the clock. Aside from trying not to obsess about the time part, it reminded me a lot of my babysitting days when I would stay up all night doing whatever I wanted—only better, because it involved champagne, French Cheese and fine chocolates instead of soda, Cheez Whiz, and frosting, and because these things they were delivered to me personally by well-dressed people with great hair and exotic accents. I felt like an extra on the set of a Bond movie, or a passenger on the Orient Express. It was fabulous.

And the fun continued for several hours AFTER we landed in Abu Dhabi. For those who are unfamiliar with the city—as I was until I looked it up on Wikipedia—it is one of seven emirates that comprise the United Arab Emirates. It is the largest of the seven emirates, and sits on an island in the Persian Gulf.  According to Lonely Planet ( it boasts “The world’s largest hand-loomed carpet, the fastest roller coaster, the highest high tea, the tower with the greatest lean, the largest cluster of cultural buildings of the 21st century” and “isn’t afraid to challenge world records.”

Now I don’t know about any of that, since we never left the terminal. Although it might have been cool to take a tour of the city, we would have had to find a driver to take us around since, as I understand it, the traffic there is about as bad as it is in Naples. On top of that, we would have had worry about getting back to the terminal and through security in time to make our connection to Australia. So it just made sense to enjoy it from within the confines of the business class lounge.

I know. Poor us.

Seriously, though. Walking into that place was like stepping into the most elegant hotel room on the universe’s most elegant space station, or wandering into the most elegant secret lair of the world’s most elegant evil overlord. Decked out from top to bottom in ultramodern architecture, furnishings and artwork it felt more like we had landed on another planet instead of another country, or walked onto the set of some futuristic film instead of an airport, and I kept expecting the cast of Gattaca or Oblivion to come walking in and sit down to at one of the extravagantly appointed dining areas.

But no luck. In fact, besides the impressively neat and efficient staff (who kept whisking away our used dishes, napkins and tableware almost the second we set them down) the only other folks we saw, were other tourists (although, for all I knew, they were famous tourists but just not famous in America.) Which was probably a good thing since I was wearing rumpled traveling clothes, no makeup, and nearly two-day old hair by that point. Not exactly how one imagines oneself when running into famous actors—from any country.

So instead of chatting with celebs and becoming the next Hollywood It couple, the Jarhead and I lounged around and sampled the food and drink on offer at each of the three—yes, three—international dinner buffets. Avid fans of ethnic cuisine of all descriptions, we happily devoured all the familiar Greek, Indian, Middle Eastern, European and Asian food we could find, and eagerly—if gingerly—sampled several of the unfamiliar ones—and found not one bad bite in the bunch.

The only down side to enjoying a lavish meal in a lavish setting with lavish seating, is that it puts the Jarhead in a state of lavish sleepiness. Consequently, it wasn’t long before he was struggling to hold his eyes open and I was struggling to hold his attention and maintain my sanity.

And so, with a headful of flat hair and nothing else to do but use the ladies’ room (which turned out NOT to be the relaxing experience one would expect to have in such an gloriously outfitted facility, owing to the presence of an irritatingly fastidious attendant, who kept walking up and down the room and furiously sweeping, wiping, and scrubbing the stalls almost the second they were vacated, making it very difficult for some folks—not saying whom—to do their business) I approached the salon and spa, to see what fun there might be to have there.

The options included manicures, pedicures, facials, massages, and hair care. Since I needed my hair washed more than I needed my nails painted, my skin resurfaced, or my body manipulated by someone who hadn’t at least bought me dinner, I decided to go for a wash and blow out.

I almost didn’t go through with it, to tell the truth. Even though it was only going to cost me about $35, the thought of waltzing into a salon and paying someone to shampoo and style my hair sounded downright decadent to me. So, hoping he would talk me out of it, I walked back over to the semi-conscious Jarhead (semi-conscious only because the news was on and he was half-listening for the weather before allowing himself to drift off to sleep) and laid out my plan. To my dismay, he said that sounded like a good idea if it would make me more comfortable.

Damn him, I remember thinking. I had hoped he would have forgotten how much I hate the feeling of flat hair. Now I had no reason not to take the plunge. Oh well, I said with a shrug as I headed back to the salon. At least I would look lovely and refreshed when we landed in Perth.

I’m not sure what went wrong during the conversation between me and the gorgeous Syrian man who stood behind me at the stylist’s station, but SOMETHING sure did because I definitely did NOT look lovely and refreshed when he finished doing my hair. In fact, although I hadn’t thought it was possible, my hair looked even flatter than it had when I first entered the salon. I literally looked like Janice from the Muppet Show: all face, no hair.

I kid you not. All I would have needed were a pair of false eyelashes, some lipstick, and a couple of wires to attach to my wrists, and people would have been clamoring for my puppet autograph. It was that bad. So bad, in fact, that I almost went to the bathroom to wash my hair. And I probably would have it I hadn’t been worried that the stylist would walk through the lounge later and have his feelings hurt upon seeing my freshly washed and wavy hair.

So, instead I walked back over to where the Jarhead was dozing and waited for him to open his eyes and start laughing.

If I didn’t die of boredom waiting for him to wake up, that is. Which was a distinct possibility. But his reaction will be totally worth it, I told myself as the minutes ticked by. Just hang in there.

An hour later I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I bumped his foot with my purse and pretended it was an accident. He opened his eyes and I said I’m sorry. And when his fog cleared, he opened his eyes even wider. “Have you already had your hair done?” he asked, looking at his watch and then back at me.

Although I didn’t get the shock and horror I was hoping for, at least he was awake.

“Yep,” I admitted with laugh. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s awful. It’s just…not…you.”

Aww. He was so sweet and considerate, I almost felt bad for disturbing him.



Good Golly, Mike & Molly

It may officially be just a rumor at the moment, but apparently it’s true. CBS is cancelling the once popular sitcom Mike and Molly.

As a bona fide fan of Melissa McCarthy, sitcoms, and TV in general, I should be mourning the demise of a program that brings together these three key sources of personal joy. And yet, I’m celebrating.

Yep. Despite having seen not one single episode and being wholly unqualified to state an opinion as to its entertainment value, I am thrilled to hear that CBS is giving the show the proverbial heave ho!

It hasn’t been widely reported by any of the major news outlets, but I’ve been holding sort of a one-woman boycott of the program since its debut six years ago. No one in my inner circle even knew about it except for two of my friends who have (barely) tolerated my oral dissertations on why I object to the program whenever the topic comes up in conversation.

How can I object to a television program, you might wonder, when I haven’t even seen an episode?

Rest assured, it has nothing to do with its stars. Although some of her more recent films have failed to live up to her talent and my expectations, Melissa McCarthy is a fearless and gifted comedian whom I would happily pay for the privilege of watching her read the phone book. And although I’m less familiar with her costar, Billy Gardell, I’m sure the program would have been cancelled years ago if his work wasn’t up to scratch.

My problem with the program is that both the leading man and leading woman are very overweight.

And what a shameful thing to say. Right? Especially for a woman of MY size.

Believe me, I know how it sounds. So allow me to explain.

You see, the problem isn’t that Melissa McCarthy is overweight. It’s that, because MOLLY is overweight, MIKE had to be overweight as well.

Now I understand that the whole premise of the show is that two overweight people meet cute at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting, fall in love, and then spend the new several years humorously trying to avoid pie, cakes, cookies, and so forth. Ha frickin ha.

Never mind the fact sugar addiction is something that plagues millions of people of all sizes from all over the globe. Never mind the fact that sugar and carbohydrates in general aren’t good for you even if they DON’T make you fat.

And never mind that lots of people who go to Overeaters Anonymous are not obese. Or that lots of non-obese people struggle to eat right and be healthy. Or that lots of obese people eat right and exercise but cannot seem to lose weight.

Never mind all that and think about this: The whole show depended on both leads being overweight. In fact, the show never would have gotten the green light from the network if just Molly had been overweight. In fact, I daresay the show never would have been PROPOSED with a male lead who was to be slim rather than husky.

And therein lies the rub. You see, television networks, writers, and producers have no problem with a less than perfect leading man being married to a near-perfect woman. In fact, prime time is rife with shows about men who are shallow, immature, unattractive, overweight, dopey, lazy, or grumpy (cue the Snow White soundtrack now.) And, if the networks, writers, and producers are to be believed, such men have little to no difficulty attracting—and keeping—smart, hard-working, attractive (and apparently tolerant) women. Notable examples include Jim Belushi and Courtney Thorne-Smith from According to Jim, Ray Romano and Patricia Heaton from Everybody Loves Raymond, and Simon Helberg and Melissa Rauch, who play the characters Howard and Bernadette on The Big Bang Theory.

And yet, we’ve yet to see this same scenario in reverse. No, when the star is a plus-size woman or nontraditional beauty, she never has a smart, thin, devoted man as a lover or spouse. Rather, the object of this woman’s affection—if she even has one who loves her back, that is—is always overweight.

Roseanne is but one early example of this phenomenon. Considered groundbreaking for its realistic portrayal of working class life, the show starred the notoriously curvaceous Roseanne Barr as the title character. Roseanne was married to Dan, played by always wonderful John Goodman, who was also overweight.

Like many plus sized FEMALE actors, John Goodman is good looking, talented, and smart, and his character was a decent, hardworking man who adored his wife. So I don’t object to his being Roseanne’s partner and foil. Nor do I object to the casting of Billy Gardell as Melissa McCarthy’s partner on Mike and Molly. He may not be as handsome, charming, or sharp as John Goodman, but as TV actors go, he obviously did well or the show wouldn’t have lasted for six seasons.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t even entirely object to shows where the male lead is married or romantically involved with a woman who is, by cultural standards, out of his league—be it physically, socially, or intellectually. It is often the differences between people that make for the best humor. Fish out of water comedies immediately spring to mind—such as The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and The Beverly Hillbillies, as do odd couplings, like Dharma and Greg and the characters Jay and Gloria Pritchett (played by Ed O’Neill and Sofia Vergara) on Modern Family. I know I’m dating myself with some of these references, but I’m counting on many of you to be my contemporaries and the rest of you to know how to use Google.

Again, my problem is not with imperfect characters played by imperfect actors. It’s that there are literally no shows—and I invite you to correct me if I’m wrong or simply uninformed—where an overweight female lead is paired with a funny, smart, successful or otherwise awesome man who is buff, cut, or smoking hot.

Although it may come as a surprise to the folks in Hollywood, we plus-size gals do attract wonderful, smart, responsible, funny and often hot men in real life—and many of them happen to love, admire, and even worship us. Just ask Delta Burke. Or Adele. Or Melissa McCarthy!

So I ask: If it can happen in real life, why not on TV? Or the movies? Or at least a few commercials? Seems to me that modern sitcoms should reflect reality. Like the biracial family in that Cheerios ad that got everyone so pissed off a few years ago, it’s an idea whose time has come.

And how’s this for groundbreaking? Let’s not make the show about weight or the need to lose it. And let’s not have the main characters meet at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.

Instead, let’s make it about all the same things sitcoms are normally made about, but with a star who just happens to have curves. Imagine Friends if Monica was still fat but had great hair, an amazing job, and an awesomely funny boyfriend. Or The Big Bang Theory set in a parallel universe in which the love interest is a plus-size actress and instead of making jokes about Howard’s mom’s weight and facial hair, they talk about how gorgeous Mrs. Wolowitz is and hassle one another about how stupid they act when she’s around.

Because I’m tired of the old formula. Tired of all the TV characters who USED to be fat just so the writers can mine photos and videos of their “former” selves for cheap laughs. And especially tired of shows that perpetuate the myths that fat people are miserable and sexless; that we are only attractive to other fat people; that we are lazy and undisciplined; and that you can’t be happy or successful unless you’re thin.

So get it together, Hollywood. Because if the former Al Bundy can get the bodacious Sofia Vergara, then certainly someone as awesome as Melissa McCarthy can get the delicious Matthew McConaughey. And if that lovable weasel Barney from How I Met Your Mother can land a beautiful woman every week for 9 years, then certainly his plus-size female equivalent could manage to land a few gorgeous men (or women!) on some other show. Rebel Wilson, if you’re reading this, have your people call my people.

In the meantime, I’m sorry for the fans who are losing Mike and Molly. You can blame me and my one-woman boycott if you like. Even if it means Melissa McCarthy and I never become best friends, putting an end to that show would be one of my finest achievements.