the hem of my blouse. Going to the 12th floor, raises my shirt practically over my head. Which is worse, the trots or being a flasher? Looking down to avoid stares from the crowd I see that the elevator floor has a panel reading Saturday. They must change it daily. Iâm facing six more days of epidemiological gymnastics?
From the lounge I visit the casino, where, to humor the CDC I keep a cocktail napkin around my Rum Punch glass. Then I stretch my shirtsleeve over my hand, pulling my neck and head to my shoulder, as I crank the one-armed bandit. Quasimodo at sea.
We go to dinner, getting squirted with the ubiquitous antibacterial gel on the way in and the way out. Thousands of people rub their hands together like mad villains planning nefarious deeds.
The next day, the unthinkable happens. I have to use a hallway rest room. Okay, primary mission accomplished, I go to wash my hands. I can do this⦠âHappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Norovirus, happy birthday to you.â Adjacent hand washers step away from the crazy lady.
Itâs a logistical cruelty that after banishing bacteria and blotting with a paper towel, you are forced to touch and turn the germ-riddled, outbreak-threatening, horror story of a door handle just to leave the bathroom. So I keep the soggy paper towel in my hand, open the door, hold it ajar with my ass and extend my too-short body toward the trash receptacle to dispose of my paper towel. A 7-foot NBA star couldnât sink it, if youâll excuse the word sink in a cruise article. Finally I give up, tuck the sodden towel in my pocket and exit.
Minutes later, lounging by the pool, contorting to hold a book while keeping my elbows and wrists off the infectious arms of the chair, I see that the wet paper towel has made avery unattractive wet spot on my shorts.
I get up to go change, heading for my room, when the boat hits an ocean swell, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the towel rental counter. Upright, but open-palmed, hands down on the shiny metal table, a thousand fingerprints look up and mock me.
The hell with it. I go get out of my wet shorts and into a dry martini.
And for the rest of the cruise I do not agonize about Norovirus. I augment the germicides by taking my alcohol internally and throwing precautions to the wind. I eat, drink and make merry. I dunk in the pool with the germy masses, sit amid coughing theatre crowds and touch any damn surface I please. I swim with dolphins, tour the islands, Iâm king of the world.
Two days later, gleefully fingering the elevator buttons with my bare hands, I wonder if the removable day of the week panel might say, âItâs Wednesday, do you know where your liver is?â
Then itâs two more days of port visits, unrelenting gel squirts, more Bahama Mama cocktails for disease prevention and a grand time on the high seas. I knew it was time to come home when I looked down at my swollen ankles and realized I was retaining vodka. But thankfully, no signs of Norovirus.
I loved the cruise and didnât mind dripping with a little hand gel. But like other traumatic experiences, there can be flashbacks. As I watched the festivities after the Giants clinched the Super Bowl, I was absolutely horrified.
In a nightmare scenario, one dirty, sweaty, turf-covered player after another reached out with their bare hands to touch, and even oh-my-God kiss that darn Lombardi Trophy. Oh no, guys!!! Get thee to the soap dispenser and water supply. Sing Happy Birthday. Or youâll be in the bathroom when itâs time to go to Disneyland.
As for me, I just bought stock in Lysol. Squirt, squirt.
January 2012
D INNER FOR S EVEN
While an epidemic on the cruise ship was avoided, sometimes there is just no avoiding the homophobia bug. This particular cruise was a family vacation with my stepmom Joan, our son Eric, and his partner. So we grabbed a Royal Caribbean special, in lieu of our
From the lounge I visit the casino, where, to humor the CDC I keep a cocktail napkin around my Rum Punch glass. Then I stretch my shirtsleeve over my hand, pulling my neck and head to my shoulder, as I crank the one-armed bandit. Quasimodo at sea.
We go to dinner, getting squirted with the ubiquitous antibacterial gel on the way in and the way out. Thousands of people rub their hands together like mad villains planning nefarious deeds.
The next day, the unthinkable happens. I have to use a hallway rest room. Okay, primary mission accomplished, I go to wash my hands. I can do this⦠âHappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Norovirus, happy birthday to you.â Adjacent hand washers step away from the crazy lady.
Itâs a logistical cruelty that after banishing bacteria and blotting with a paper towel, you are forced to touch and turn the germ-riddled, outbreak-threatening, horror story of a door handle just to leave the bathroom. So I keep the soggy paper towel in my hand, open the door, hold it ajar with my ass and extend my too-short body toward the trash receptacle to dispose of my paper towel. A 7-foot NBA star couldnât sink it, if youâll excuse the word sink in a cruise article. Finally I give up, tuck the sodden towel in my pocket and exit.
Minutes later, lounging by the pool, contorting to hold a book while keeping my elbows and wrists off the infectious arms of the chair, I see that the wet paper towel has made avery unattractive wet spot on my shorts.
I get up to go change, heading for my room, when the boat hits an ocean swell, and I lurch forward, catching myself on the towel rental counter. Upright, but open-palmed, hands down on the shiny metal table, a thousand fingerprints look up and mock me.
The hell with it. I go get out of my wet shorts and into a dry martini.
And for the rest of the cruise I do not agonize about Norovirus. I augment the germicides by taking my alcohol internally and throwing precautions to the wind. I eat, drink and make merry. I dunk in the pool with the germy masses, sit amid coughing theatre crowds and touch any damn surface I please. I swim with dolphins, tour the islands, Iâm king of the world.
Two days later, gleefully fingering the elevator buttons with my bare hands, I wonder if the removable day of the week panel might say, âItâs Wednesday, do you know where your liver is?â
Then itâs two more days of port visits, unrelenting gel squirts, more Bahama Mama cocktails for disease prevention and a grand time on the high seas. I knew it was time to come home when I looked down at my swollen ankles and realized I was retaining vodka. But thankfully, no signs of Norovirus.
I loved the cruise and didnât mind dripping with a little hand gel. But like other traumatic experiences, there can be flashbacks. As I watched the festivities after the Giants clinched the Super Bowl, I was absolutely horrified.
In a nightmare scenario, one dirty, sweaty, turf-covered player after another reached out with their bare hands to touch, and even oh-my-God kiss that darn Lombardi Trophy. Oh no, guys!!! Get thee to the soap dispenser and water supply. Sing Happy Birthday. Or youâll be in the bathroom when itâs time to go to Disneyland.
As for me, I just bought stock in Lysol. Squirt, squirt.
January 2012
D INNER FOR S EVEN
While an epidemic on the cruise ship was avoided, sometimes there is just no avoiding the homophobia bug. This particular cruise was a family vacation with my stepmom Joan, our son Eric, and his partner. So we grabbed a Royal Caribbean special, in lieu of our
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