Posts tagged ‘travel’

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June 25, 2012

girls of summer

by maria polonchek

I’ve probably spent more time in a bathing suit than most people. I didn’t grow up near the beach or anything—far from it, actually, in Kansas. But as soon as I could swim, which was early, I spent all day, every day at the local public pool, from the minute it opened Memorial Weekend until the minute it closed on Labor Day.

My sister and I famously (for our small-town, anyway) ate and slept in our bathing suits when we were little. My mom liked this program because it meant less laundry and she just encouraged us to take them off once in a while so that our you-know-whats could breathe.

We wore one-pieces. (Now I call them “tanks.” Classy people call them “maillots.”) My mom didn’t like it when young girls wore bikinis. One summer, when I was getting up there in age, elementary-school-wise, I talked her into letting me get some sort of strange contraption that was technically a one-piece, but with a hole cut out of the stomach and back. This was in the eighties. I can’t remember what those silly things were called.

The next year, I got a real “two piece.” It was a sports-bra-style top and modest-cut bottoms. Lime green and blacks stripes, I remember. By the time I was in high school, I was wearing proper bikinis. Until, that is, I became a lifeguard at 16 and went back to one-pieces for the dress-code.

I was a lifeguard for 3 years, until my certificate expired. Again, I was wearing a bathing suit night and day. I would wear the one-piece to work, and then change into a bikini to “lay out” on my break. (Maybe there is a post about sun-cancer in my future?)

Anyway, since the time I changed my mom’s mind about them in high-school, bikinis have been no-brainers for me, even when I was pregnant with twins. When it’s hot, I find the least amount of fabric the most comfortable, plain and simple. It may sound like I don’t have my share of body-image issues or lack self-consciousness. On the contrary, I have all of that and, like many women, annually reach a point in late Spring where I’m determined to look my best ever in a suit and do away with “problem areas” once and for all. But Spring is just so good for cocktails and grilling and block parties, so I eat and drink and have a blast and put on my old bikinis, stare at my thighs and tummy in the mirror and think, “It is what it is. At least I had fun.”

I might feel a bit embarrassed the first time or two out in my bikini for the season, but I easily slip into a comfortableness that must come from spending so much darn time over the years in a suit. And it dawned on me that our attitudes about swimwear may reveal something about our attitudes in general.

We were recently on the coast in Florida, where the temperature was in the 90′s and the humidity was so high that our towels were NEVER. DRY. Everyone on the island was in a bathing suit everywhere and it got me thinking about style. I know there are suits out there designed to hide or, at least, minimalize “problem areas.” (I like to think of my “problem areas” as “relatively normal areas,” though.) I’ve seen other people wear these styles and I sincerely think they are flattering and, for the most part, do what they promise to do. So, if you are one of those people who wears a suit designed to “flatter your figure,” trust me, if I saw you, I would think you look great and admire your classiness. (And I mean you, too, Andy-in-your-banana-hammock!)

However, if you read this blog, you know that my approach in life (and swimwear) is more, “I’m putting everything out there. People will see my strengths AND weaknesses and maybe they’ll dig it, maybe they won’t. But they’ll certainly know what they’re getting.” I’ve tried several figure-flattering cuts and I feel like a big phony in all of them. Here are a few examples:

  • Underwire Cups

Hello. I have to wear something up top, but please don’t look at my chest. I didn’t want you to look even when I had GREAT tits (Oh, if I had it to do over!) and I especially don’t want you to now. They have been engorged with breastmilk, to the extent that I could touch them with my chin, so many times that I now need a cold, hard, metal support spiking me in the armpit to prop up my boobs so that they don’t graze my belly. Whoops! A piece of wrinkly-loose- elephant-skin just slipped out the top! Let me just tuck that back in. What were we saying?

  • Ruching

I’d rather cover my midsection with three extra layers of synthetic fabric that feels like a girdle when it’s dry and then bunches and sags when it’s wet than let the folds of my belly show when I’m crouching over to get Cheddar Bunnies out of the pool. Oh, I’m not supposed to get this swim suit wet? What was I thinking, planning on getting wet at a pool? Never mind that it’s hot outside and the whole point of swimming is to cool off, I’d rather sit in the shade, constantly tugging and adjusting yards of material over my torso. Hey, Mr. Creepy-Swimming-Pool-Guy-with-the-Mustache. Can I borrow that knife in the back pocket of your cut-off-denim-shorts so I can slice open my bathing suit because I AM SUFFOCATING!!!!!

  • Swim Skirts

Um, hi. I have saddle-bags and cellulite. I have since puberty, so I don’t think they’re going away in my thirties. I’m trying to cover it all in a skirt that makes my hips look even wider than they are after having three babies. At least the cellulite is contained to my ass now, instead of spreading to my wrists, like it did when I was pregnant with my third. You didn’t know someone could develop cellulite on her wrists? Well, she can. And it’s not pretty. There is no bathing suit made today that covers up cellulite on your wrists. Thank God it went away after I had the baby. I’m hardly worried about dimples on my thighs at this point.

You know me by now, so you know I don’t mean to sound cheesy, old-fashioned, or goody-two-shoes with this next thing, but honestly? The one person I hope to impress with my body on a regular basis is the man who sees me naked every day, anyway. There is no tricking him with flattering styles. So that leaves….my kids I’m trying to impress? Ha. Other women? I’m not too worried about what other women think and here’s why: I have a feeling they are also busy feeling insecure. I realized this after years of getting compliments on my eyebrows. Women like my eyebrows and want to know if I pluck them, where I get them “done,” if they are “natural.” Before these compliments came in, I never even noticed I had eyebrows. Who looks at eyebrows? I would think, as I stared at the perfectly straight, uniform, white teeth of the woman complimenting me on my eyebrows. Why teeth? Because mine are flawed. And I’m self-conscious about them and think everyone must have better teeth than me. And I think we’re doing it all over again to one another in our bathing suits, no matter what the cut or style.

To the self-assured, confident woman who is judging me, thinking “doesn’t she know how she looks?” and never questions her own choices: Can I have the name of your therapist?

I got mine in Radio Red. This is what I look like in it. (In my mind.) (www.jcrew.com)

So, what do I wear? Here is the JCrew suit I ordered this year. No, this post is NOT sponsored by JCrew, but if you are a JCrew rep for Women’s Swimwear and you are interested in advertising on this blog, I can guarantee you….five…yes, FIVE readers a day. Except one of them is Katie’s dad, so I don’t know if he counts as the demographic you’re looking for.

Posted in beauty, culture, motherhood | 15 Comments »

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May 1, 2012

dressing to fly

by maria polonchek

Hey, gang. I’m back. Both literally (I visited Kansas over the weekend) and virtually (I took a break from blogging last week). And boy, do I have things to say.

credit: Amy Vangsgard

Let’s begin this week with thoughts on flying, shall we? I have a quirky little habit that some of my peeps give me flak about: I dress up when I fly. I like to do it and I wish more people did it. Here’s why.

We could not afford to fly when I was growing up. As a kid, I thought flying was for the wealthy and privileged. It meant money and class and culture. The first time I boarded a plane, I was 16 and using non-revenue tickets graciously given to me by my best friend’s mom, a flight attendant for (now-American) TWA. I was flying to San Diego to visit my best friend, who went to college at USD. As a non-rev passenger, I had to dress up for the flight. My friend’s mum said we were representing the company. I can’t remember what I wore, but I think it involved black pantyhose and heels. I felt every bit the privileged, classy, cultured babe I had imagined all those years when I dreamed of flying. I ordered Ginger Ale and accepted a small, shiny red bag of peanuts with the biggest smile you’ve seen on a 16-year-old girl.

The next time I flew, I was 17. For high-school graduation, a friend of the family’s paid for me to visit my brother in Los Angeles. I dressed up. I saw Jack Lemon and Walter Matthau filming Grumpier Old Men in LAX and I got star-struck and couldn’t move or talk for several minutes. (I can’t imagine what I would do if I saw Brad Pitt or Justin Timberlake in person. God help us.)

The next time I flew, I was 18, and spending the summer after my freshman year of college to live with my other brother in Boston. My bro bought the ticket. On the flight from Kansas City to Boston, I wore black pants, heeled sandals, and a green blouse. The woman next to me asked if I’d ever been to Boston.

I said no.

“Well,” she said. “You’ll love the tea.”

“I can’t wait!” I said. “Tea, baked beans, lobster. I love all of it!”

(She was, in fact, talking about the “T,” what the locals call the subway.) (I’m an idiot.)

The next time I flew, I was 19 and had dropped out of my sophomore year of college. I was going to Minneapolis to interview for the position of Northwest Airline’s youngest flight attendant. I got the job and went to flight attendant training, or what some people refer to as “Barbie Boot-Camp.” For two years, I flew all over the world and met all kinds of people. (Yes, I have stories. Yes, I’ll tell them sometime.)

I'll give you a hint: upper right corner.

I quit right before 9-11, thank God, because flying changed dramatically after that, for both passengers AND crew members. Now, flying and the way people feel about flying is best captured here, I think, in a Conan interview with Louis CK. Offensive language has been bleeped, but for those of you Too Busy and Important to watch the 4-some-minute clip, I’ll quote the meat of it here:

Louis CK, Everything’s Amazing and Nobody’s Happy

Flying is the worst one because people come back from flights and they tell you their story and it’s like a horror story. They act like their flight was like a cattle car in the 40′s in Germany. That’s how bad they make it sound. They’re like, “It was the worst day of my life. First of all we didn’t board for TWENTY MINUTES and then we get on the plane and they made us SIT THERE on the RUNWAY for FORTY MINUTES. We had to SIT THERE.”

Oh, really, what happened next? Did you fly through the air incredibly, like a bird? Did you partake in the miracle of human flight, you NON-CONTRIBUTING ZERO? Wow, you’re flying! It’s amazing! Everybody on every plane should just constantly be going, “OH MY GOD. WOW!”

You’re flying. YOU’RE SITTING IN A CHAIR IN THE SKY.

I love Louis CK. After I saw this clip, I seriously vowed to stop complaining about flying. The only time you’ll hear me complain about flying now is if you’re sitting next to me when the plane has turned to a fiery ball of metal spinning out-of-control towards the ground and we’re all gonna die.

So, anyway, here is what dressing up has to do with all this. I suppose it’s sort of like dressing up to go to church. I have respect for flying. I have respect for the technology and the crew and the strangers I’m traveling with. (Though most of the time, it feels like “against.”)

On my flight home over the weekend, I read Jonathan Franzen’s collection of essays, How to Be Alone. In the essay “Imperial Bedroom,” he writes of the way we complain about losing our rights to privacy, but how, really, “what’s threatened…isn’t the private sphere. It’s the public sphere.” He defines a genuine public sphere as “a place where every citizen is welcome to be present and where the purely private is excluded or restricted.”

In other words, Mr.-Jackass-on-Your-Cellphone-in-Denver’s-C-Terminal-on-Sunday-Afternoon: I don’t want to overhear your one-sided conversation with your girlfriend about how miserable she’s making you and how you need to feel more like a man. And, Ms.-Sorority-Girl-with-the-Aviator-Sunglasses-on-the-Bus-to-Long-Term-Parking (I can stereotype like this because she was wearing a “Chi Omega Bid Day 2009″ shirt.): I don’t want to know that you actually wear those god-awful flannel pants with “PINK” written across your ass even when no one can see you.

WE ARE IN PUBLIC, people. Why does everyone treat airports like their own personal mental-wards?

So, I dress up when I fly. Yes, I feel just as shitty on the inside as everyone else, for any or all of the following reasons, depending on why I’m traveling:

  1. I’m with 3 small children and a husband who makes fun of me for dressing up.
  2. Airport and airline crews are over-worked and under-paid and they occasionally take it out on the rest of us.
  3. I haven’t shit for days, or have had a constant stream of diarrhea for days.
  4. I’m hungover as fuck.
  5. I had to wake up at 4 a.m. for a 6:30 flight.
  6. Because I had a later flight, I got to sleep in, but have had a string of delays and have been at the airport for 12 hours.
  7. Worst-case scenario: I’m traveling with 3 small children, the lady checking our bags was mean, I haven’t shit for days, I’m hungover and had to wake at 4 a.m. but after a string of delays have been at the airport for 12 hours.

flying is awe-inspiring, through the right eyes...

But looking dignified makes me act dignified and an airport (and traveling, in general) is where you need your dignity the most. So consider, next time you fly, wearing a nice shirt or some earrings, glancing out the window AT LEAST ONCE to witness the miracle in which you are partaking, and, of course, having the Ginger Ale.

yours truly,

Maria Polonchek

Posted in life, technology | 11 Comments »

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March 19, 2012

what’s up, california?

by maria polonchek

Katie, I’ve lived in your home state for less than a year, but I already get why you miss it so much and come back to visit every chance you get. California rocks. It’s as cool as you’ve heard, people. Sure, it has the problems everyone grumbles about: loads of traffic, crappy public schools, and a bad economy. But in response, California’s all like, “I don’t give a fuck. I’m California.”

So I’m not going to address the obvious issues. But there are a few things I’ve noticed that I’d like an explanation for, or at least bring to California’s attention. I’m not sure if enough people have asked the following:

 

  • What’s up with Oxnard? So, I’ve driven from just south of San Fransisco to just north of Los Angeles several times since we’ve moved here. I have family in Malibu, which is about a 6 1/2 hour drive from Palo Alto. People are often surprised that I don’t think twice about loading three small kids in the car and driving 6 1/2 hours, but it’s really not a big deal. It’s a beautiful drive, the kids are used to car trips, and it’s fun to get out of our daily routine. Anyway, I’m driving down the 101, right? First, I pass between two mountain ranges. Then, a eucalyptus forest. I drive by wilderness preserves and through lush green valleys and then go over a mountain pass and get my first peek of the sparkling Pacific off Pismo Beach. I drive through towns with names like San Luis Obispo and Santa Maria. I see surfers, beach homes, wetsuits, and poppies. And then, somehow, between Santa Barbara and Malibu, two of the most beautiful cities in the state, I find myself in Oxnard? I’ve tried to get from the 101 to HWY 1, or vice-versa,  no less than six times around Oxnard and I’ve gotten lost EVERY SINGLE TIME. And, it’s never been lost in the same way. Just always lost. I think the Oxnardians do it on purpose, to get me downtown where they’ve placed oddly-large, bright street-signs that are supposed to make me excited that I’m going from First St. to Second St. to Third St. Well, Oxnard, it’s not working. I no longer even refer to you as “Oxnard,” but “Stupid Oxnard.” Please, just put up some signs that clearly indicate how to get from the 101 to HWY 1 WITHOUT HAVING TO GO THROUGH ALL THOSE FREAKIN’ STOPLIGHTS!

 

  • What’s up with the white vertical blinds? California, you are supposed to be an innovative leader in design and technology. Surely you know that there are roman shades, bamboo blinds, curtains made of silk, linen, cotton, right? So why the plastic white vertical blinds in every home? Even the homes with floor-to-ceiling windows that have a view of the ocean are covered with those clanky, awkward, ugly blinds. It’s time to think outside the box with window treatments, California.

 

  • What’s up with all the down? Really, guys? It’s overcast and has dropped to 60 degrees and we’re going to wear ankle-length down coats with hoods? Why does anyone on the coast of California even OWN a down jacket? Northern Minnesota? Yes. Southern California? No.

 

  • What’s up with the gardeners? From what I can tell, a “gardener” here is someone who shows up once a week with a leaf-blower to blow leaves from one part of the “yard” to another. And EVERYBODY has one. The “gardener” is included in the rent. What’s up with that?

 

  • these are better for toes.

     What’s up with all the shoes and socks? In a place where it’s totally legit to wear flip-flops every day, to every place you go, why all the shoes and socks? Uggs are the only exception, because there are just too many of them to fight. But socks? And shoes that lace up and/or buckle that require socks? Why?

Posted in california, life | 4 Comments »

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March 16, 2012

Top (Bottom?) Three Worst Dates

by maria polonchek

It’s Friday, gang. Let’s have some fun at my ex-boyfriends’ expense. Seriously, a comment to my last post gave me the idea for this one. When I wrote about the guy who had me give him a haircut on a date and never called me again, a reader expressed surprised in her comment. I thought to myself, Oh, friend. You don’t know the half of it.

Now, I know we all have bad-date stories and you can go over to Chelsea Handler if you really want raunchiness. (I like to think I have fewer books than her, but more class.) But I think you may get a laugh at a few of mine. Maybe not so much at the guys themselves, but at my lack of good judgment. And, really, these didn’t break my heart as much as they provide for comic relief now that I’ve been introduced to the concept of a healthy, functional relationship with a truly good guy.

All these dudes had one thing in common: they were good-looking. (This is not a basket in which you should put all your eggs, ladies.) (No pun intended.) One was good-looking and played guitar. One was good-looking and funny. One was good-looking and…well, I can’t remember what else he had going for him.

Of course, this is easy to write about now that I’m married to the Best-Looking Guy Ever and don’t have to worry about bad dates again. I love you, Chris!

Also, as a disclaimer, I want to say that I never actually considered any of these my “boyfriends”: I dated all of them longer than I should have (more than once), but I also had some legitimately nice boyfriends that I would never write about like this. A few of those relationships almost ended in marriage. (Dating tip: If you view marriage as the “end” of your relationship, you should probably find someone else.)

But, here are the guys who deserve to be written up, with one letter changed in first names for anonymity. All of these scenarios were The Last Time We Saw Each Other:

(in order of worst to most-worst):

  1. Keremy: Keremy was the one who had me give him a haircut. We went to dinner at a cheesy Italian place, I paid (even though I worked at a coffee shop and he had a trust fund), and then we went back to my apartment. Somehow, it came up that I can cut a pretty good hair. (Except for one time with Chris, right before our wedding, but that was because we were on the front porch and there were mosquitoes.) Anyway, I cut his hair, it made him look better than he already did, we did things besides talking, because that wasn’t his strong suit, and then I never saw him again. I think he didn’t have the courage to tell me it was over and was counting on the bad dinner and haircut to give me the hint. It worked. We met at a bar anyway, on Cinco de Mayo, when we were both drunk, which just isn’t the best start. (Although I know it works out for some people, so don’t let me be the naysayer.)
  2. Nichael: The last time I saw Nicheal was the night of his birthday. We lived 3 1/2 hours apart and he invited me to visit and celebrate with he and his buds at a sports bar. When I got there, I noticed his attention was divided between me and a girl of questionable status. Having just driven 3 1/2 hours thinking I was the Lucky Lady Guest of the birthday boy, I asked him what was up. I was relentless enough that he finally admitted he was torn between me and the girl of questionable status and that he wanted to see how the night went before he would know who he was leaving with. Since it was, in fact, a 3 1/2 hour drive home, I got back at like, 4 a.m.
  3. Putz: I knew that Putz was bad news when we first met. I was a freshman in college and he was a grad student. He liked to play a vocabulary game that determined which one of us knew the most definitions. (He always won.) Back then I was the praying-kind, so I asked God one night to show me a sign about Putz, whether I should continue seeing him. THAT SAME NIGHT I went to his place and walked in on him in bed with another woman. That was The Sign I needed. I left and joined a church band. Unfortunately, however, this is not the end of the story. Years passed. We met up again when I was a flight attendant living in Boston and he lived in Seattle. He found out that I got almost-free first-class flights to Europe . We planned a trip together. We toured three countries. He was distant, but I thought it was because I’d crashed our rented Vespa into a sidewalk cafe in France. (People really should get a license for those things before they go driving them around.) Finally, I asked his buddy, who had met up with us in Spain, what was up.  It turned out Putz was just anxious because he had gotten a girl pregnant back in Seattle and he was going to marry her. He flew home coach.

So, I know it’s not just me. (I hope.) And I know it’s not just guys who are the jerks. There are not-nice girls out there, too. What’s your story? Who was the worst?

Posted in life | 14 Comments »

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