Let's Talk About Sex

Shall we?

But first, the song that is now in everyone's head:



So, sex.  It is a thing that many humans enjoy doing for its own sake ("recreational purposes").

But how often have we been told that there is "more" to a relationship than "just sex"?  I don't know about you, but I pretty much had that hammered into my head since puberty and definitely all through college.

And that "warning" came from a place of somehow trying to "help" young people (including li'l Leonard) not to throw themselves away on their first crush/love/lusty high school sweetheart...I guess?  It was some kind of basic "life lesson" that you don't marry the first person you fall in lust with.  Or perhaps just because you're young and in love, eventually looks (and sex drive) fade, and you'll want someone with whom you can have a conversation or maybe some common goals and activities.
Maybe?
The why's and wherefore's were never really articulated.  It was just that bland, blanket statement:  "there's more to a relationship than just sex."

What the fuck does that even mean?  Do you remember hearing it?  Is this simply a Gen-X thing?  I have an inkling that it goes part and parcel with the HIV/AIDS "scare" that we angry Gen-Xers also grew up with.

At any rate, I think little Leonard took that piece of grown-up advice and ran with it, right to our forty-year-old detriment.  Follow me through this:

I lost my virginity relatively "late."  I was eighteen and a freshman in college, and it was with my first "real" boyfriend.  And for that matter, it was by accident, but that story is neither here nor there.  And I was, of course, very in love with him, although that's not why I "lost" my virginity with him.  Our relationship didn't survive that first summer apart, especially since he decided he was not coming back to our college.

Later that same fateful summer, I spent some time with my dad and step-mom and their family (always a mistake; it never goes well), and my (Catholic) step-monster had a question about health insurance (as I was still on my dad's insurance).  Basically, she wanted to know why they were being charged for birth control pills for me.  I think she actually said something like, "Are you taking these for....?" and couldn't even finish; she couldn't even make up a reason (many women take BCP for all kinds of health reasons that literally have nothing to do with sex/procreation).
And I said, "I'm taking them for their intended purpose:  so I don't get pregnant."
At that, the step-monster made a face and said, "There are some things you want to save for your husband."
To which I replied, "Were you a virgin when you married my dad?" feeling 90% sure that she wasn't.

Somewhere in that same conversation I mentioned that I had "only slept with one person anyway," and she threw back in my face, "And he dropped you like a hot potato!"
Bitch.

Anyway, that conversation shows the foundation of Puritanical, patriarchal, heteronormative nonsense they raised me on -- always there, lurking in the background.  And again and again, the same refrain of "there's more to a relationship [or marriage] than sex."

Fast forward several years to my first engagement (circa 2002).  I can't remember if we were even engaged yet when our sex life stalled and seemed to die.  But I was determined to remain engaged (literally), to get married, AND to "make things work" (WTF does that mean?!?).  And I was also convinced that lack of interest in the bedroom must have somehow been my fault.  I take a heavy dose of SSRI's every day, and everyone knows those can kill your sex drive.  I didn't put it together at that time that having an attraction and then not having it (even though meds remained the same) was a different issue than not having a sex drive at all.

I went to my physician and told him my problems.  He prescribed an antihistamine of all things to take 1-2 hours "pre-coitus."  One of the antihistamine's lesser known (unintentional) uses was increase libido.  I did that, I bought a sexy new corset from Victoria's Secret¹, and I thought things would be fixed.

I want to say that my ex-husband even went to his doctor to check for low testosterone, too, but now that I think about it, I believe he (and I) just talked about him maybe going, but it never actually happened.

Things were not "fixed."  We didn't really start having regular sex again until we decided to try to have a baby, many months later.  And then a month or so into that, he left.

We had many, many red flags during our four years together that things were not going to work, and the lack of sex and attraction should have been near the top of the list.  But I discounted that because, y'know, "there's more to marriage than [just] sex."

Flash forward many, many years later:  my first kiss with my most recent ex.  I remember it because, frankly, it was flat.  She and I had almost no sexual chemistry whatsoever.  We were dating four months before we ever slept together.  And when we finally did, it was kind of awkward.
Yet,  I still said "yes" when she proposed.  Because I thought that's what you did after a year of dating.  I wanted to move in together; this was practically the same thing, right?  And maybe, maybe the attraction would improve, maybe things would get better.

Spoiler alert:  they did not get better.  We had some very good and fun things going for us, but we were also missing some fundamental pieces for a healthy relationship, and one of those was a physically intimate relationship.  And I don't just mean sexual intercourse;  I also mean cuddling, holding hands, burning kisses like we were twenty-year-old's.

Flash forward to early 2018:  I had resigned myself to my life as it was at that moment:  living a comfortable lifestyle with a person for whom I cared deeply, but for all intents and purposes was a roommate/good friend.  We had a good life and things weren't "bad," per se, but they could have been a lot better.  And my reasoning went something like this, "I guess this is it.  This is what happens when you get old, right?  You stop having sex.  You're just comfortable around each other."  And, of course, "It's just sex.  There's more to a relationship that 'just sex.'"  And, of course, always the lingering thought that my daily Zoloft was erasing my sex drive.

And I even said something to that effect to my therapist:  "This is what happens, right?  You just end up as friends/roommates?"  And she reminded me that 1) that doesn't happen to everyone, and 2) it only has to be okay if you want it to be okay.  Some people are fine living like that²; others are not.  And it only works if both people are okay living like that.

And then I met someone.  Someone who was not my partner.
And quickly, and much to both of our surprise, feelings sprung up.  Very real feelings of a romantic nature.  And I let myself believe that maybe, perhaps I could "have it all" -- I could be with a person who had similar tastes, things in common, someone with whom there was shared mutual physical attraction -- even though, y'know, we're both middle-aged and not as svelte as we used to be -- and that thought was scary and wonderful and eye-opening.  As was the thought that we were having physical feelings for each other while I was on my meds the whole time.  That perhaps there wasn't anything "wrong" with me; it had been previous relationships that weren't right.

And Person X and I were head-over-heels for each other.  And in the middle of our very brief time spent together, in the midst of spinning fantasies and telling stories to each other about what life would be like together, I came up with a fantasy that surprised even me.

No, not because it was twisted or kinky or anything like that (those were different fantasies).  Fantasies for me generally fall into two categories:  sexual or domestic.
Sexual is fairly self-explanatory.  Domestic, though, domestic involves all those little somethings that help make a relationship: cuddling on the couch together, doing different things in the same room at the same time, decorating for the holidays, all that silly "domestic" stuff.

And so far, in my life, never have the twain met.  They were separate spheres of desire for me.  Not necessarily intentionally, but that's just how it was.  And without meaning to, I concocted a fantasy that was both sexual and domestic with Person X.  And that's the part that shocked me -- that I could have both things.  At the same time! 

I never got to tell them about this particular fantasy, and the details of it are unimportant in the scheme of this post; we have since gone our separate ways, with my heart getting broken in the process.  But I guess my point after all of this is that telling me over and over again that "there's more to a relationship than just sex" did more harm than good as it caused me to ignore when part of a relationship didn't fit/wasn't right/wasn't working.  It caused me to ignore ALL the parts of a happy, healthy relationship and end up "settling" for some things.

During English AP class in high school, we read a poem that I could have sworn was by Maya Angelou, but I cannot find, that described the "recipe" for a good marriage, and it included 3-4 "heaping cups" of sex.  I wish I had paid closer attention to that poem than to the "moral" commands of (largely) religious hypocrites.

¹I did not buy said corset "for" my ex-husband.  I bought it because it made me feel sexy; the fact that he would also enjoy seeing me in it was an added bonus.  I recently was told of a woman who bought two pairs of "sexy underwear" but then "never had a chance to wear them" because she and her partner's sex life was dead.  And that was one of the saddest things I ever heard -- not that their bedroom was dead, but that this woman somehow felt she needed her partner's attention/approval/interest to wear the sexy underwear.  That's not how lingerie works, people.  You buy it and wear it FOR YOU, because it MAKES YOU feel sexy.  The gaze and desire of someone is an added bonus, but not the point.

²It should hopefully go without saying (but I'm going to say it anyway), almost none of this applies to people who identify as asexual.  Not having a sexual component to their relationships does not make said relationships "unhealthy" if that's what they (and all people involved) want.  I (obviously) do not identify as asexual.

Ingenue

Trying to write this while the memory is still fresh.  Should preface with the fact that I can probably count on one hand the number of concerts I've been to, so I don't have a lot of experience with them.

Opening Act:  The Gregoryan Brothers from Australia.  Two adorably nerdy Australian brothers playing classical guitar, which I enjoyed immensely.  Some of it I found very soothing (which is a good thing), other pieces involved drumming on the guitar which was very cool, and one piece I said to my friend, "This suddenly has a Ren Faire vibe."  After that piece, they mentioned it was a fantasy on a theme by an Elizabethan composer.

Me & Friend: "Aha!"
Me:  "Ren Faire!"

 I bought their CD in between acts, and they were in the lobby signing them, so I got that, too.  Sidenote:  this venue only had one dude working the merchandise table, all by himself!  Don't know if that was venue or Ms. lang's tour's doing, but either way, a poor decision.

The Main Gig:  Aaaahhhhhh!  Not sure I can do much more than squeal with joy.  In getting these tickets, I realized that k.d. lang was one of my first gay crushes, long before I think I even realized my own queerness.  I just remember being attracted to and fascinated by her and her androgyny.  In listening to her perform live, I wish I had been more familiar with the Ingenue album when I was coming out as there were a couple of songs that nearly had me in tears.

The Set:  Maybe this is typical for concerts, especially those in smaller, more intimate venues (not giant stadiums), but I freakin' loved this set!  My friend snapped a pic of it below.  The blue velvet curtains (which later changed color, so maybe they weren't actually blue, but lit to be blue at first), the candle-looking lights which of course changed.  Not only did I love it, but I was impressed and fascinated by the changes.  Lighting design is something I've never worked on, so my mind was whirling with questions like "Who decides when and what?  Does k.d. lang have input?  Does she make someone stand in her place on stage so she can view it from the house?"

She is performing barefoot!  *swoon*

Good lighting (and sound design) should always enhance a show, but not necessarily be noticeable.  The way this lighting design worked was subtle, but I see you, design director!  Well done, sir/madam!  We were eased into it with more basic light changes (usually those ones that look like candles inside drums), mostly to the beat of the music.  The changes and and colors and goboes increased as the show went on, then faded back out to more basic designs towards the end of the show.  lang's show isn't necessarily about set & lighting, but as a theatre nerd, I watch these things.

Back to the Main Gig:  Hot damn, girl has some amazing breath control!  She can still belt out and also croon out those long, sustained notes -- be still, my heart!  And she's funny!  Not that I doubted it, but I love a good personality, and she clearly isn't taking anything too seriously.  To quote my friend, "There's definitely a bit of 'cheesy lounge singer' in her show."
Me:  "Yes, and I LOVE IT!"

And I do.

Her band is awesome as well, and she gives them their due with solos and introductions; they've clearly worked out a comfortable arrangement, working together as one organism.

I don't really know what else to say as I don't usually go to concerts, let alone review them, except that I had a blast!  And hearing her sing "Hallelujah" (one of my all-time favorite songs) was, well, like a religious experience.  And now I need to buy ALL THE SONGS (and perhaps work some into my cabaret project).  Maybe this is a turning point for me; I may go to more concerts (in smaller venues) in the future...

Lookit that grin!  She's gonna charm the pants off ya.
k.d.lang's website

Day #1: Embarkation

Also Known As:  I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 a.m. for our 7:40 a.m. flight.  We sat in the gate area, drinking water, saying goodbye to social media on our phones, and people watching.  And in came a family of eight (three adults, five children ranging in age from 12 to two, including a wee redheaded girl who clearly gave zero fucks as she kept trying to ditch her family to go exploring).  The size of their family wasn't the remarkable part; the fact that it looked like they hadn't checked a single piece of luggage was.  Every one of those eight people had at least two carry-on items (probably more), plus a blankie or two, and a stroller.  That's 16+ pieces of luggage to carry on!  And you know most of those children were not going to help carry things, and Mom was already carrying one of the younger ones (fast asleep on her chest because he had apparently had a meltdown earlier in the terminal).  What a horrible, uncomfortable way to travel.

As my Unit and I made our way to our seats on the plane we discovered that we weren't sitting together; we both had aisle seats right across from each other.  A single white man sat in the middle seat next to my Unit, and he quickly agreed to trade seats with me; in hindsight, I should have kept my aisle seat.

Seated two rows in front of us were part of the party of eight:  the mom, the sleepy kid, and wee redhead who gave zero fucks.  None of them, thankfully, were crying or having meltdowns, but the redheaded girl would sometimes just scream and yell for the fun of it, which I sometimes feel like is worse (it's not).  And in the row in between the family and us was an older woman who was only too delighted to strike up a conversation with the home-schooled mother of five.

Unfortunately, on an airplane, at several thousand feet in the air, with all engines going, holding a conversation basically means screaming at each other for everyone to hear.
Which they did.
Nearly the entire flight.
And then the redheaded toddler began playing a game on a tablet of some sort that sounded like a slot machine.  I know it sounded like a slot machine because they had the volume turned all the way up, competing with both the plane's engines and the two women talking.

This is not the point where I rant about small children and technology.  You want to give them a screen of some kind to occupy them in public?  Perfect!  But do it all the way:  give them earbuds, too, so the rest of us aren't subjected to it.

In response to the cacophony, I dug out my iPod for its intended purpose:  to drown out my surroundings.  So I did, and I was enjoying everything from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do" to Lin-Manuel Mirando & Co's "Almost Like Praying" when my Unit nudged me and gave me a dirty look.

"What?"
"I can hear your music!"
"Well, I have it turned up to drown out all of that," I answered, gesturing to the rows ahead of us.
"Yes, but I'm trying to tune them out, and now I have to tune out your stuff, too."
"But, they're earbuds!" was my useless argument as I couldn't understand how she could possibly hear anything from my technology with everything going on around us.  (In her defense, they were older earbuds and don't quite go all the way "in" the ear as newer ones do.)
So I huffed and grumped and I turned off my music and slumped in my seat for the remainder of the flight.  When she said again, "I'm sorry, but I could hear both," I countered with, "So now we both have to suffer??"
Her:  "Well, yeah!"

And that, kids, is marriage in a nutshell.  Should have kept my aisle seat.

At one point, I needed to use the restroom, so I set my water bottle on my seat and squeezed past my Unit.  Returning to my seat after doing my business, I picked up my water bottle and noticed that it had leaked.
All over my seat.
A significant puddle of water.
I sighed in resignation as my Unit tried to keep her laughter to herself and went to ask a flight attendant for some paper towels.  She came back with a large handful of paper towels that I used to sop up all the water.  And I sat back down and sighed, realizing I had become "one of those people," the people who make a mess, who spill things, who just can't get anything right on an airplane, much to the dismay of their nearby passengers.  My apologies to the young lady on my left, in the window seat.

Our layover in Charlotte, NC was uneventful (after getting off the plane, following the family of eight and all of their misplaced luggage and children).  Next flight my Unit had the window seat, I had the middle, and another white man sat to my right on the aisle.  I'm gonna fast-forward, except to say that the A/C was cranked up so much in plane that you could see the air coming out of all of the vents up along the walls (I assume because of the difference in moisture/humidity).  It was a little disconcerting at first, looking like we were getting gassed with something.  We weren't, and eventually it got cold enough that I put on my sweater.

So, on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere:  thank you, American Airlines.  I wouldn't be chilly again for at least another eight days.

Here's where things get tricky:  our cruise was scheduled to leave at 4 p.m. EST.  Our embarkation time was between 2:30-3 p.m. EST.  Our flight was scheduled to land in Ft. Lauderdale, FL between 1:30-2 p.m. EST.  Needless to say, we were worried about making everything on time.  We had purchased "cruise insurance" which covered us in case of flight delay, but still.  This was our first cruise.  Everything once we left the airport was new to us (in bold because that's important).

The info from the cruise line had said that porter service for baggage stopped two hours priors to leaving, so we assumed we'd have to schlep our bags to our room ourselves with our 2:30 time.  Apparently not so.  When our cabbie dropped us off, a porter immediately offered to take our bags (and got a generous tip for his effort).

And then we walked.  And then we walked some more.  I was trying to follow the signs that told us what to do.  I'm not sure what I expected, but I do think I thought I'd just be able to walk onto the boat, and that'd be that.  Not so.

More lines, more security checks, more longer lines.  At least we weren't schlepping our luggage.  When we got the last line to check in, the lady at the desk informed us that lunch on the Lido deck stopped at 4 p.m., but that our rooms should already be ready.  I remember that in the cruise line literature, too; something to the effect of, "many people enjoy a leisurely lunch on the Lido deck while waiting for their staterooms."  Okay, cool.

More walking, more ramps, some really steep ramps, and then finally, the boat itself!  Yet another person scanned our papers and gestured into a room that my memory can only partially register because of the sensory overload.  It was pink-ish colored, full of lights and sounds, and people with drinks, kids with ice cream, music, and shouting.  I just looked at the guy in the white sailor's outfit, lost, and said, "How do we get to our rooms??"
"The elevator," he says, with a gesture.

So we find the elevators and the long line for them.  This may have been the point where my Unit and I decided to take the stairs; it was only three floors.

We get to our room; our luggage isn't there yet.  Oh well.  I desperately want to change clothes and shoes into something cooler, but start to settle for stripping off every article of clothing and lying on the bed.  But my Unit stops me and says, "Let's get you something to eat and a drink."
Yes, please.  That's what vacation is all about.

So we head up to the Lido deck -- remember, the "leisurely lunch" from earlier?  I'm not sure what I expected, but I had an image of people sitting at white-clothed tables on an open deck eating, I don't know, tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off or something.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

What we found was complete and utter MADNESS!  It was a buffet -- A BUFFET OF CHAOS!  I think even a "normal" (non-anxiety-ridden) person would have been stressed out at the pandemonium of this "buffet."  For me, though, a person with crippling anxiety who needs to know where I'm "supposed" to go, the order in which I'm "supposed" to do things, where the line begins, if I order my own food, and what "the rules" are, etc., it was torture¹.  I think my body and brain just shut down the moment we stepped into the room and were hit with the noise and bodies scrambling for food.

And then, to make matters worse, they announce over the loudspeakers that food and beverage service would be shutting down entirely for the safety briefing.  So then they start taking the food away!  Little signs start popping up saying, "Buffet Is Closed." And some devious chefs left the food out, but just removed the serving utensils.  I was carrying around an empty plate, almost in tears and walking aimlessly, when I found my Unit and just said, "They keep taking the food away!"
"Just grab something, anything!" she says before heading back into the fray.

I managed to put some squares of red Jell-O on my plate and two bars listed as "mint chocolate glaceau."  And that was it.  I didn't even have utensils; I ate everything with my fingers.  Rejoining my Unit, we searched desperately for an open (and clean-ish) table to sit; we ended up going outside to the humid deck and sitting down at a semi-clear table.  She had managed to grab some tortilla chips and potato salad and a napkin. We sat in silence and ate our miserable scavenged lunches, any thought of obtaining an adult beverage long since dashed.

Now begins the portion where we go back and forth to our stateroom in hopes that our luggage would be there.  Guess what?  It wasn't.  And every time we got back to the room I would strip down in an attempt to cool off.  This lasted throughout the hour-long "safety briefing" (mandatory attendance, outside, standing 3-people deep), my Unit going in search of the smoking area, and even a false alarm knock on our door that I thought was our luggage, but was the room steward asking when we wanted our room cleaned.

I was actually lying on the bed, sweating, my Unit out of the room, when the ship's engines started and we actually started to move.  I wanted to yell out, "We're moving!" but I was too exhausted and no one was around anyway.  I laid there, waiting to see if I'd feel seasick.  Nope!  I (mostly) loved the feel of the moving boat; it feels like lying on a giant, snoring dog (you can quote me).

My Unit arrived a bit after that with a glass in her hand.

"I got you a drink.  It's sangria, but it tastes awful.  Here, try it."

Again, marriage, folks.
And yes, I drank it.
It wasn't that bad; I discovered later it was sangria out of a bottle, not made fresh, which explained the not-fantastic taste.

We had hoped our luggage would arrive before dinner (we had the "early" dining time of 6 p.m.).  It did not.  So we went down to dinner in the hopes that it would appear by the time we returned to our room.

Dining on a cruise is an experience in and of itself.  For starters, you have the same waitstaff every night, so you get to know each other.  You are also seated at a table with strangers (unless you have 6-8 people in your own party).  And when you're two lesbians in a new situation among strangers, things have the potential to go badly quickly because, frankly, there are bigots everywhere.

On this our first night at the dining table, we were the first two to be seated.  And we waited and watched if anyone else would be sitting there, trying not to hold our collective breath if new people would suck or not.  Two separate times a waiter led people (women) to the table, in 2's or 3's, and each time there was a quick, hushed conversation with said waiter and anxious, furtive looks from the women, and then they were led away.

Now maybe they had mistaken the table number.  Maybe they had meant to sit with their friends?  Maybe it wasn't about us at all.  Or...maybe it was.  It wouldn't be the first time.  About halfway through our dinner a mother-daughter couple was seated with us and we all politely said hello.

My Unit and I ordered drinks with our meal, of course, and then, as we were looking at the menu, my Unit asks me if I think the theme drink for the evening is included in our drink package (because of course we ordered the drink package!).  Our waiter (Gideon) said that for drink package drinks the receipt handed to us should always say $0.00. 

Uh-oh.

Our drink receipts from the earlier sangria (and then a pina colada) had dollar amounts on them.  Then Gideon brought back our current receipts:  also dollar amounts.  He suggested we check with customer service about our package.  My Unit swore up and down she purchased the drink package.  She even remembered the total amount we'd be charged;  I remembered the day she did it (because I was working from home that day and she was trying to talk to me about drinks).  Nevertheless we were going to have to investigate; I needed to ask about our off-shore excursion tickets anyway.

We were going to hit customer service right after dinner, but first -- back to the room!  Joy of joys -- our luggage had finally arrived!  It had only taken five hours since we first gave it to the porter.  I changed clothes (finally!) and shoes and we trekked to customer service (down 3 floors and all the way on the other end of the boat).

As we didn't have Internet access on our phones (on purpose), we could not show the credit card charge for the drink package and stingray excursion to the customer service lady to prove that it had happened.  We ended up having to purchase everything over again (mentally deciding to check all statements when we got home again in eight days; if there were duplicate charges, the credit card company would remove the extras).  We purchased our drink package and two tickets for the stingray excursion in Half Moon Cay, Bahamas (Day #3).

And all we had to do was stand in line for 15-20 minutes behind a crazy lady who decided to befriend us.  She stood all of five feet tall (if that), had dyed blonde hair, and was in her mid-fifties (by her own admission).  And just beneath her blonde bangs were two jet-black eyebrows that had to have been tattooed on her forehead.  I couldn't stop staring at them; thankfully, it looked like I was making general eye contact with her as she chattered about why she was in standing in line.

"Eyebrows" (as she shall henceforth be known) had "spent the last three hours" cleaning her stateroom because it was "filthy" when she got there.  (By "cleaning," she meant wiping everything down with a damp paper towel, she explained to us.)  "None of the corners had even been touched by a vacuum cleaner."  And she cruises a lot -- A LOT!  She's a flight attendant, so she knows about these things.  And she's cruised with Carnival before, and she has never had a room this bad.  And she "told the steward it wasn't his fault, but really it is; I mean, it's his job."  And she would heave a sigh as only the truly put-upon can and say, "I don't want to complain; I want to enjoy my vacation,...but" (conspiratorially) "if the rooms are dirty, what else is dirty?"

But that's not the kicker.  And neither were the eyebrows the most bizarre part.  The bizarre part was during all of this conversation she had her room key in one hand and a black plastic knife in the other.
And we never found out why.
She never said why she had the plastic knife (or how it related to the room-cleaning saga).  Sometimes she would use it to punctuate her statements, as we saw when it was her turn at the customer service counter and the customer service guy would instinctively back away a bit when she waved it around.  We never saw her again during the remainder of the trip.  And we never could figure out the plastic knife.

After all was said and done, we got (more) drinks and sat on our room's balcony.  I took in the air, the stars, the waves, the rock of the boat (and my Nth drink) and finally, finally said, "This is very relaxing."  But it took the entire fucking day to get there.

Up next:  Our First Port

¹Other fun things I stressed out about during the time in the cabin and rushed to look up while my phone still had an Internet connection:

• Do we really have to attend the safety briefing?
• Where is our "mustard station"? ("Muster station," but it sounded like "mustard" every time)
• Where are the life jackets?  Are we supposed to wear them?
• Is this water included in the drink package?
• Are we supposed to eat in the dining room on the first night (or is it just more buffet chaos)?
• Where's breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Is there breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Why isn't it listed?
• I thought I read something about a brunch.  WHERE'S THE BRUNCH??
• How do we know when it's a "dress-up" night?
• What happens if you don't meet the dress code?
• What day is our off-shore excursion?
• Where are the tickets?
• This says tickets will be delivered to our room, but they're not here.

Review: Marine Biology

Marine Biology by Gail Carriger
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Three stars is rather low for me for a Gail Carriger book. I think much of that stems from it being rather short (yes, I know it's a short story). Nonetheless, it felt a bit rushed, especially toward the end: one sort-of dinner date, and now (Read on Goodreads to view spoiler)[ Alex and Marvin are together forever? Okay, maybe not forever, (hide spoiler)] but it still seemed a little too "wrapped up neatly with a bow" for my taste.

On the other hand, some of the exposition just left me with more questions: like why are two merpeople investigating financial crimes? Is this a twentieth-century, American version of B.U.R. (and maybe I missed that detail?)?

Now that I think about it, "Two merpeople investigating financial crimes" actually sounds like a decent T.V. series -- BRB!