26 1 / 2013
Alice and I often find ourselves in the very same boat. And by boat, I mean in a strange, interesting, unique, beautiful and (let’s face it) mad place that doesn’t quite fit into our definitions of normal and sensible.
I knew it!
When I first visited New Zealand, Zak and I went to the movies. Prior to entering the theatre, we stocked up on popcorn, candy, and most importantly, beer — because you can totally have alcohol at the movies here, so I encourage myself to do so at every opportunity. When the person behind the counter finished buttering my popcorn, I was quite sure that she had not yet started. I asked her for “more butter, please” and she looked at me like I was insane. ”We can’t do that,” she said.
WHAT?!?! Are their butter rations in New Zealand? Did you run out of cows or butter churns? Cuz if the dairy capital of the world is short on butter, the world’s got itself a problem.
New Zealand: “Yes, we do regulate the amount of butter a person can eat at a movie theater. And why shouldn’t we?”
Meagan: “Because that’s a total dick move, New Zealand, that’s why.”
While I am getting better at dealing with quirky kiwi ways, every now and again,I think back to Alice and her experience in Wonderland and I sympathize with her.
I feel you, Alice. I feel you.
Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of incredible things about New Zealand (the way that they harvest and replant their forests is pretty admirable and they have really cool trees) but at the end of the day it is my Wonderland and to many kiwis that I come across, I am their Alice.
What can I say? I am honored to have sat under this fairy tale tree. But, at the end of a really amazing dream, there really is no place like home.
12 12 / 2012
I am told it deals with fun, sun, a jandal wearing Santa Claus, beaches, beer and BBQ’s. Not bad, New Zealand.
Jandals are flip flops, y’all.
My coworker is a Brit. She’s convinced herself (and I do see her point), that Christmas is not Christmas without snow, sleds, indoor cooking and a fully clothed Santa Claus. For these reasons, she simply refuses to celebrate. While I’m not exactly feeling that good old Christmas cheer that comes with egg nog (Good God, I miss egg nog), fires, and snow covered hills, mountains and fields, her blanket boycott of what is probably my favorite holiday has helped me realize that I can at least TRY to get into these warm, sunny Kiwi customs.
Cracked.com looks at this Santa as “creepy”. With my new positive attitude, I simply see him as slightly stoned. :)
For these reasons, our Christmas tree is up and decorated, our Christmas décor is out and shining pretty, our presents are wrapped, and we are doing a major Christmas treat shopping tonight (sweets, wine, champagne, cakes, candies…). My husband seems very happy about this (He won’t admit it, but he loves treats and sweets).
In fact, he’s been bothering me to do a big Christmas shop with him for a little over a week now; and I will admit I’ve been dragging my feet, though not for the reasons you may be thinking. Grocery shopping with my husband on a normal day is trying. In fact, we have decided it best for our relationship if he does the grocery shopping. However, seeing as how I am doing the Christmas cooking, it leaves us at a tricky impasse; and to the grocery store it is.
My husband is embarrassing to shop with. He mentally assesses the best deals (pricing, quantity, brand, etc. …. and sometimes takes out his calculator) for every single thing that I put in the cart. He then takes out of the cart what I have put in and replaces it with different brands according price and quantity.
The last time we were there, the ice cream sample lady was laughing at him, and I tried to give him to her to take home. She laughed like I was kidding.
Many of our grocery store conversations go something like this: “I don’t care how many cookies are in an Oreo box. I am buying them because they are Oreos and I want Oreos. I don’t want anything else. Just Oreos. No, put back the ghetto cookies. We are getting the Oreos. Yeah, I know they are six cents more per cookie than the other ones… GAH, WE CAN AFFORD OREOS FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! I AM NEVER SHOPPING WITH YOU AGAIN!!!!”
I am thinking that all of this festive Christmas spirit that I have been attempting (and the fact that we haven’t been shopping together in a while) may culminate into a lovely shopping experience for both of us… Then again, I am not a natural optimist so it is hard for me to tell if this is realistic optimism or an ill-conceived illusion of some sort.
08 9 / 2012
Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up. - Inego Montoya, Princess Bride
I could think of no clever way to say this so I will just come out and say it: I’m pregnant. Its probably not yours.
While I refuse to post photos of my insides, I promised my husband that I would at least post an update on the child: We had our first ultrasound today.
Here, look at someone else’s kid. I mean let’s be real, at this point, they all look alike.
The baby has all of its fingers and toes, passed the “I don’t have downs syndrome” test with flying colors, scratched its head (just like Zak does when he thinks about things), kicked, and eventually rolled over.
According to the ultrasound person who was remarkably opinionated (I sort of really liked her), “the baby has a beautiful spine and a brain”. I’m no doctor, but that seemed good.
So after that, we proceeded to celebrate with an absolutely wretched lunch at a cafe in Takapuna. If you don’t know where Takapuna is, then my name dropping has most likely made you feel inferior. Please do not feel bad. I didn’t know where Takapuna was either until recently.
Anyway, they put f-ing onions and mushrooms in my chicken tortollini (nowhere did it ever mention onions or mushrooms on the menu) but, as my regular readers know, New Zealand is hellbent on poisoning me or at least making me hate myself.
We moved into a new place that we really can’t afford. Husband Comment: Hunny, don’t say that. That’s ridiculous. We absolutely can afford it. It has a lot of space and a whirlpool bathtub that some baby books say I should avoid.
*Wife Edit: We moved into a new place that makes us poorer than usual.
I take a nice bath almost every night because fuck the baby books and because I don’t subscribe to the paranoid method of pregnant parenting.
I figure if my grandmother can have 4 healthy children in small Kansas town and if her mother can have 8 healthy children on a farm during the depression, I can have one healthy child simply by cutting out my regular methamphetamine use, not smoking, and avoiding condescending people that irritate me with their ridiculous advice. Also, being in marketing, I know all too well that fear sells everything, and that baby books, magazines and television love to exacerbate fear and paranoia.
So to the “breast is best”, “go organic”, and other cause carrying people that feel hell bent on making themselves appear superior to other mothers, I have only this to say: I really do not like you; and I am too tired, sick, worried, and stressed to pretend to like you. Best if you peddle your pretentiousness someplace else.
The next time I get unwanted parenting advice, I am going to suggest some worthwhile personal crusades for these people that apparently have a lot of time to kill, and so therefor find it best to murder the crap out of my time (such as child abuse, children without parents, starving children, female genital mutilation).
… Speaking of stupid causes that people find time to be passionate about, check out this funny article.
04 6 / 2012
I tend to exaggerate. Let me examplurize (I just made up this word because I would like to provide an example and theorize while using the letter E to play off a alliteration that I want to make with my first sentence). Mission Accomplished.
I think my work here is done.
I am never “chilly”. I am always “freezing my balls off” or “balls to the walls cold”… I don’t know why all of my descriptions of my cold feelings involve balls. I am not a psychiatrist.
If left unchecked this monster exaggeration can extend into all points of my life. For example, if a dear friend of mine introduces you to me as a dear friend of hers, I may instinctively want to claw your eyes out. ”That’s MY friend,” I will think. And then I will feel like my friend doesn’t like me anymore and then I will passive aggressively punish her for a minute.
The good thing is that I know this about myself and I do reign it in. This is why you like me enough to read this (and if I don’t know you, then you can keep reading and become my friend because I won’t ever kill any of your existing friends. Probably).
My ability to make mountains out of mole hills is astounding. The good news is that my ability to turn the mountains back into mole hills is pretty impressive also.
I am also great at complimenting myself. I think that a lot of American people are like this. ”The world is ENDING.”
“Wait,” we tell ourselves, “is it really?”
“No. We are going to be OK. We are AWESOME.”
“Phew,” we say. And then we let out an exhausted sigh and head for bed because we were up way too late last night reading political pundits.
My husband is really good about not literally or metaphorically drooling all over other women and is not what you would call a cad or a philanderer. The man is faithful, which I hear is something that is generally common among kiwi men. To New Zealanders: Y’all can commit, which is nice. Keep it up! *Pats you on the ass and sends you back out into the field to play the game.
It is also interesting considering that prostitution is totally legal here and they are going to build a HUGE brothel right in the middle of the city where all the tourists go hang out.
For you, tourists. Because we care.
I feel that this is also an opportune moment to mention that kiwi men can be a bit lacking in maturity at times (see the Comments and Questions section).
Back on topic, however, sometimes my little country of exaggeration tries to expand its control over other countries.
Most of my husband’s qualities are good ones. He’s honest, trusting, smart, and athletic and I feel that if we ever accidentally multiplied, these traits could counteract my overt lying when placed in awkward situations, suspicious, forgetful, and uncoordinated aspects.
However, these differences also cause problems. For example, he has absolutely no idea how I can go from being remarkably okay to being over the top angry in 1.3 seconds. This puzzles and worries him. If it was ME dealing with someone like me, I would just be like, “Yeesh. Are you okay?” And then I would hug her and give her a margarita or a tennis bracelet.
My husband deals with this terribly by informing me that I am being ridiculous (which I am sometimes, but you can’t tell someone that they are being ridiculous while they are being ridiculous. It has been scientifically proven not to work); and then he tries to give me advice on how HE would handle things.
To which I have only this to say:
And then I have to take points off of the Awesome Husband Chart that hangs in my head.
He fails to see the importance of making people feel comfortable and loved when they are complaining about feeling uncomfortable and unloved (even if they are exaggerating and said person is in fact loved and quite comfortable in her piggy slippers). Favorite Kiwi Saying: “Toughen up!”
These aren’t tough enough for you?!? Huh?!? HUH!?!?
In other words, I believe that my particular brand of crazy can be kept under better control if it isn’t antagonized. Yes, it can be compared to a small country infiltrated with CRAZY. Yes, we should not give it nuclear technology or allow it to develop its own. However, give it an understanding smile before you give it the middle finger. While a little understanding may not eliminate it indefinitely, it does keep it at bay. And sometimes keeping our crazy within pre-determined limits is the best that we can do.
Other times, we should probably just blow it the hell up.
Then again, I tend to exaggerate…
17 5 / 2012
I am a natural non-conformist. Essentially, I don’t try to not conform, it just happens naturally. I don’t dye my hair blue and pierce my nose in thirty places while deciding to be a lesbian for a minute and refusing to bathe while wearing the same black t-shirt for a year. I’m, you know, more relaxed about it. But I do feel like I hate rules more than most.
I absolutely loath being told what to do, how to live my life, what to wear, how to think, how to feel. Its my fucking life and as long as I’m not burdening the rest of the world with my particular set of beliefs, I basically feel like the rest of the world should butt the fuck out of my shit, yo. You know?
Yeah. That’s me. You can’t keep me out with your scare tactics. I do what I want.
So it pains me that this new PC culture that we are starting to live in is growing and gaining in popularity. We can’t say what we want, do what we want, or be who we are without getting jacked by some vague special interest group. Its the same all around the world and I’m noticing a trend.
Trend that I am noticing: Person does A. Group disagrees with A. Demands an apology and demands person to do B. Person apologizes and does B.
I came across an article on a New Zealand bride photographed drinking a beer. The outrage at the photograph published in a community paper was astounding to me. BAD GIRL! GET BACK INTO THE KITCHEN LIKE THE REST OF THE COMMON WOMEN!
In this case, I was proud of the bride that stuck to her guns and said, paraphrasing here, “That’s me. That’s what I do.” But so many times I hear of people being forced to apologize for saying something that may be offensive to someone else.
Being politically correct has become something that we are all being forced to comply with. Mel Gibson had to apologize to Jews for being a drunk asshole. Why?
Was he being a prick? Sure. But its his prerogative to be a prick. If you don’t like that he’s a prick, don’t watch his shit. This isn’t preschool, people. If dudes haven’t learned to be polite and share by now, its not your job to teach them.
That’s Jesus’ job. Or in the case of Jewish people, it isn’t Jesus’ job at all. My point is that nowhere is it written that it is your job to boss other adults around and tell them what to say, even if it bothers you.
What about the time that Hilary Rosen said Anne Romney couldn’t understand what was going on in the country because Anne was just a stay at home mom? Was she showing what a complete idiot and short-sighted wack job she was? Absolutely. Was it a legal observation? Yes. Can we stop her from being a short-sighted wack job in the future? No.
Besides, isn’t making her wear that 70’s cabinet paper enough of a punishment?
And it isn’t just those instances. In New Zealand, they are tightening controls on what you can do with your homes, your business, how much you can drink, when you can drink, how you can drink. They are tightening controls on food and raising costs on cigarettes again. In the USA, they are tightening controls on what you can eat, what you can do with your bodies, and working hard to raise taxes to pay for their propaganda campaigns about what is RIGHT and what is WRONG. And who is paying for all of this control? We are. We are paying them to control us.
You’re right. You don’t want to see me REALLY angry!
Come on people. We are living in a world where an elite few are consistently trying to take away our rights. Don’t help them do it. Let gays marry. Let women get abortions. Let people drink. Let people get high. Let them eat trans fats, drink pop, smoke cigarettes, and turn orange in tanning beds. Its their life. Not yours.
You’ve only got one life to live (unless there really is re-incarnation, but then you could come back as a caterpillar or a rain drop and it won’t really matter). Don’t waste precious time trying to tell other people what to think, what to wear (unless you are comfortably guiding them to get rid of their cabinet paper clothing), what to believe, and what to do. And don’t just lay down and take it while others consistently plug away at your personal freedoms.
We all know what happens when people like that succeed.
22 3 / 2012
Before you email me with your accusations, please note that I have also been known to forget my age; and the chance that I will remember your name on our first meeting is non existent. I also don’t dry off when I get out of the shower (I just wrap up in my towel and drip, but that is a different blog for a different day).
My husband gets to put up with all of this; and he also gets the privilege of bringing my work keys to me because I regularly leave the house without them. I forget things about as much as a normal person goes to the grocery store or vacuums their carpet.
Remember when you were little and you would get to push the cart but then you would accidentally ram it into your mom’s heels and she would get really mad?
My husband and I got married in Hawkes Bay area NZ. It was a small ceremony that included a priest, his mother, his father and his sister. We eloped in a sense, meaning that my dad, step mother and family had no idea what I was doing in New Zealand on some sunny Tuesday in March two years ago (I still get lectured by my husband who is still upset that he didn’t get to ask my father’s permission).
Don’t judge me. You don’t know my dad. The man has a temper. He would either be happy about it (which he was) or completely pissed (which he wasn’t). And you never know. Every time I do something risky, there is literally a 50/50 chance when betting on his reaction. And there is no middle ground. It is ANGRY or HAPPY. Those are your options.
I mean I came home with an extra earring in college and judging by my parents’ overreaction you would have thought that I came home seven months pregnant with a five pack a day addiction.
What they apparently THOUGHT I had done:
What I actually did:
My dear friend and I went shopping for my dress at Kohls before I left (Yes, I bought my wedding dress at Kohls. It was like $20; and it was the first one that I tried on. It was cute so we both figured, “Yeah. This’ll work,” and then we went out for a beer, or seven). I used my late mother’s wedding ring, bought the groom a wedding band at a local jewelers, found an orange poppy bouquet at a flower shop down the street from his mum’s (it was the last one for sale), I did my hair in his parent’s bathroom, he called a priest from a private school that he attended (NZ private schools come with a priest and a church), and we literally managed to plan a wedding and tie the knot in less than a week.
No longer single… Check!
Want a quick wedding in less than a week? Call me. I can totally make it happen. Mention this column and you won’t have to invite me after I help you. Forget to mention it, and its on! I’m an awesome wedding guest. There’s going to be an open bar, right?
And finally, this random thought process has led up to an excuse for my forgetfulness. You wondered where I was going with this, didn’t you? Well, wonder no more!
I was travelling A LOT with my job at the time. I had just gotten back to the states from Switzerland and I flew into Denver from Switzerland, flew out to Auckland and then to Napier, got married and flew home to get ready to fly somewhere else that I can’t really remember right now.
I was in a bit of an exhausted daze during the entire thing. Not to mention the time difference: We got married, I flew out the next day, which was the next day in New Zealand but our wedding day in the USA. When I got home, it had been two days since our wedding, but in the USA, according to the date, it had happened yesterday. … Yeah. Ponder that over a joint with Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson.
Forgetting my anniversary can easily be written off as jet lag, or too much time spent with Snoop and Will (my boyz).
My husband finds the fact that I can’t remember the exact day that we got married HILARIOUS. In fact, he finds himself laughing at most of my attempts to remember things.
Which brings us to my usual comparison of a New Zealand male vs an American female: An American woman would freak out if her husband forgot their anniversary on a regular basis. A kiwi guy finds it to be an incredibly entertaining phenomenon. They are very laid back in general.
Anyway, Happy Anniversary, Husband. I have now looked up the official date on Facebook; and I know when it is. I’m ready. Are you?
Better freakin be. Its our Anniversary, damn it.
Signing his life away. Sucker.
28 2 / 2012
Being born in the good old USA and attending public school is different than being born in Wellington, NZ and attending an all boys private school. For these reasons (and many others that we won’t delve into here, but will continue to allow tax dollars to trickle down to sociologists so that they can mess with it), my husband and I have a very different idea of what constitutes embarrassing.
For example, my husband has no idea how to dress.
Well, that may be exaggerating.
My theory is that since he went to private school and was told what to wear and how to wear it for many, many years, he missed crucial years of fashion consciousness that is necessary to dress oneself later in life. For example, he sees nothing wrong with walking me to work wearing his plaid pajama bottoms and a Polo shirt, complete with house slippers. His reasoning is that its all comfy clothes so it therfor “matches” and then becomes acceptable to wear out on the street around other individuals.
Some days, I find myself literally running to the elevator and frantically pushing the close door button so that he won’t walk beside me.
Yeah. Its like that.
His theory about dressing up basically boils down to the same concept: If the clothing is all the same brand, it doesn’t have to be the same color, same type or go with the weather. “What,” you ask. “Why?” Because its all the same brand, duh!
I, on the other hand, have learned that I am embarrassing because I do crazy American things like ask for extra butter at the movie theater (because NZ movie theater popcorn tastes a lot like dry cardboard). By the way, “We can’t do that,” was the response that I got. You like literally can’t do it? Is it illegal? Will you be fired? I mean WTF?
I also ask for it My Way at restaurants. I mean, Burger King slams it into our heads in the US that we can always have it our way and that this is OK.
“Can I get a cheeseburger without onions and mayonnaise, please?”
“And can you bring some blue cheese or ranch dressing for my freedom fries?”
Yeah. They are FREEDOM FRIES and they LIKE it.
Kidding. They are called chips here. I order blue cheese with my chips. Well, okay, I TRY to order blue cheese with my chips.
Apparently, this is absolutely humiliating for my husband and simply unheard of in this culture. Asking for things that we pay for to be made the way we want and sending it back when it isn’t done correctly! How embarrassing I am!!!
Social inconsistencies (also known as faux pas if you are French or a French enthusiast), are embarrassing here. But walking into a restaurant or place of business in bare feet is totally fine.
Here is one kiwi that would defend his right to never wear shoes to the DEATH if needbe. HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME WEAR SHOES YOU EVIL AMERICAN!! I mean he makes it seem like shoes are a painful conspiracy made up by Americans to hurt his feet and cripple him into a quick death.
See what I am up against here?
Did I mention that my work place has table tennis set up in our conference room?
Just some more quarks that an American might not expect when she falls in love with a New Zealander and finds herself living and working in a foreign country.
Happy Leap Year, Yanks and Kiwis!
21 2 / 2012
I know its been awhile. I’ve been sick. No, really, I have. Strep Throat. Sucked. Thankfully, I am a lot like Bruce Willis in Die Hard. I can take a beating. Without shoes on.
Yeah. Its like that.
On top of all of that, I have broken the washing machine (WTF is a front end loader?), I have filled the dishwasher with the wrong soap (Dishwashers can’t at least all use the same freaking soap in New Zealand?), ruined a cell phone (STOP LEAVING THINGS IN YOUR POCKETS!!!), and put a white film on the windows that seems to smear when I try to clean it (long story involving lip stick that we won’t go into here). Another time, kids. Another time.
15 1 / 2012
We deal with things differently, my husband and I. On top of having the normal couple differences (like being a completely different sex and being both biologically engineered and environmentally nurtured to deal differently with disappointment, anger, pain, irritation, and every other human related reaction), we were also raised in different countries.
I am about to speak in general terms here, so if you are one of those people that don’t like generalist statements, typecasting, racial profiling, whatever you want to call it, move on, because I’m about to bring it.
Kiwi men in general, seem to be very “go with the flow”, “it isn’t worth it”, “why are you mad?” types. I work with two other men that remind me a lot of my husband; and he reminds me a lot of his father… so these people are my basis for comparison. They deal well with red tape, bullshit, bureaucracy and biddies that are stupid rule sticklers.
By stupid biddy rule sticklers, I mean a man that interrupts an important discussion with a client to inform you that the copier is making a “squeaking” noise. Or the woman who won’t shut up until you re-do A LOT of already created posters in 72-point font because “We had 72-point font in the past”, even though you have moved on to important and time sensitive things like registering hundreds of buy-side investors for an event that company sponsors pay thousands of dollars to attend.
I’m sorry, do these people attend the forum for the investors with multi-million dollar portfolios, or do they attend for your fucking 72-point font posters?
Which brings me nicely to the personality type that I fall into: The I Don’t Deal With Your Bullshit type. I don’t deal with red tape, bureaucracy and biddies unless I am being paid to do so. ESPECIALLY if I am paying them to do a job.
I bring this up only because its a source of tension for my husband and me. He would like to just slowly migrate around the bureaucratic idiots that plague larger companies and government run agencies, while I would like to plow through them, killing them all because they are an insidious scourge on efficiency, and my beliefs are worth defending to the death.
You’re right. I am a lot like King Leonidas from Sparta. Thank you for noticing.
My husband’s “let’s be nice and see what happens, while not ruining my week” attitude is much different than my “I am going to call them and call them and call them and yell at them and yell at them and yell at them until SOMEONE DOES SOMETHING” attitude.
This difference has recently led to my husband changing his email password to keep me from accessing a tracking number for a package that I have been waiting for FOR TWO MONTHS. Basically, he doesn’t want me yelling at them (and him) anymore. He is also worried because I recently brought home a “huge” cutting board for the kitchen and he is afraid that I might hit him with it. lol. Kitchen things in my hands make him nervous. This package left Colby, Kansas bound for New Zealand over sixty days ago and IT IS STILL NOT AT MY HOUSE.
This fills me with murderous rage for one basic reason: There are serious accountability issues here, issues that would get most of us fired from our day jobs, but somehow their employees all receive annual raises and job security paid for by, you guessed it, me and you.
Yeah, YOU. How does that make you feel?!?!?!
This same exact situation that infuriates me somewhere into next Tuesday just makes my husband “worry about me”. ME?!
Neo from The Matrix would never put up with this bureaucratic crap. If Neo were here, he would make sure my package got delivered and kick the ass of some incompetent, mindless drones that have resigned themselves to standards of mediocrity and uniformity, never thinking outside of the box and never working to perform outside of the norm. They are prisoners of the system, people.
And, apparently, so are we.
02 1 / 2012
Planning a weekend getaway in a foreign country is STRESSFUL. Even as I type that, I realize that I am being unappreciative and that this sounds sadly similar to a reality tv star complaining about fame.
Now that we’ve established that I am similar to a crazy person that knows she’s crazy, I have spent ALL DAY looking at cottage “get aways” on various NZ islands and I STILL have no IDEA where to book at.
Please tell me to get real, or just slap me; and I will get on with it in silence. And if you choose the latter, could you bring me a beer while you’re at it? There’s a Steinlager in the fridge.
Stole the photo from one of the accommodation sites that I’m looking at. There are no pictures of the actual room, maybe they figure that we will think, “Hey, they have clams and beer. They can’t be all bad.”
“Holy crap, hunny! Is that Steinlager? And clams!?!? We are SO staying there!”
Before you think me too shallow, just note that I have no idea where anything is in proximity to anything else so I have to look up everything on a map… and me looking at maps is a lot like you running a marathon in shoes that don’t fit.
Also note that their are no true hotels as we know them in the US. I can’t just go online to Hotels.com and pull up an island hotel chain that I recognize and trust. These are all private homes, Bed and Breakfasts, cottages; and the owners can be completely misleading about their dwellings with absolutely no consequences.
I have personally witnessed advertised accommodations featuring photography that is “representative” of the actual apartments. So you see one thing and get another.
“Please note: Photos are only representative of apartment. Apartment may or may not be furnished in this way.”
I actually went to an apartment that was called a luxury apartment and advertised online. It was pictured with gorgeous new furniture and listed at 2,000 per month. I thought this was pricey, of course, considering that its more then I pay for my four story house in Parker, Colorado, but we aren’t staying here forever, and buying furniture seems foolish, so I thought I would give it a shot. It turned out to be a shabby, small place with mis-matched furniture that looked absolutely NOTHING like the apartment pictured in the ad.
Now do you see what I’m going through here!?!?!? Do you see why I am in a panic?!?!?
I’m a bitch. I knew it.
On a sweeter note.
Different countries mean different candy coated treats. I just ate a “Boost” chocolate bar that I am going to crush on for years to come.
Boost: Packed with Biscuit for Crunch.
Biscuit means cookie here, by the way.
Don’t let its incredibly dull tagline talk you out of eating it. Its a crunchety sweet sensation with sugary chocolate unlike any candy bar I’ve ever consumed.
Why can’t accomodations undersell and overdeliver like this?? I would be much more trusting; and a lot less stressed out.
In conclusion to all of this, I can tell you that I have just chosen a place to stay. I am not telling you where. You can find your own damn island accommodation. Then you will know exactly how I feel.
Take that, you unsympathetic skeptic.