by Chrissann Nickel
Hey you. You with the aluminum spray can of sunscreen. Yes, you. Stop right there. Just stop. Please. Can we talk about this?
You’re killing me softly with your prolific use of The Mist. And by you, I definitely mean the collective “you”; I’m starting to worry that I’m edging towards the minority, as more and more people adopt The Can each year. Now is the time to act people – we must join forces to stop the madness. Can’t we all just agree that aerosol sunscreen is the WORST? I hate it more than I hate the sound of people eating bananas, which is to say, a lot.
Believe me, I realize the spray option is super convenient. I venture there’s not a soul in the world who actually enjoys slathering on the thick white shellac that is regular sunscreen. It doesn’t blend well, it leaves you with greasy palms, and it makes you crave diet-destroying piña coladas (No? Just me?) I get that. I hate sunscreen, specifically and in general. I prefer to never have to wear it, but I realize I am lucky, having dark skin and all. I sympathize with those of you with pale porcelain doll skin that burns to a crisp when you visit our islands, dangerously close to the Equator as they are. I know sunscreen is your cross to bear, but might I beseech you – use it if you must, but just say NO to the spray version.
I despise aerosol sunscreen with every fiber of my being and you should too. In my personal quest to send this concoction to the same place the noodle guard lies in rot, I’d like to share with you some compelling facts that may aide you in escaping its abominable seduction.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS SOCIALLY OBNOXIOUS
Every time I see someone pressing down the nozzle and releasing a blast of sunscreen, I feel as though I’m transported into one of those cold medicine commercials depicting a germ-filled sneeze polluting the air in freeze frame. Except in this case, it’s not just snot bacteria mucking up the atmosphere, but suspicious, unpronounceable chemicals that I’d rather not have on my person, let alone ingest. While the goal is to mist your individual body (or that of your child’s – God help him), the actuality is a fogging of a roughly 20ft circumference around you, depending on wind conditions. Your sunscreen particles have now managed to create a film on my sunglasses, find their way into my drink, and yes, they have now entered my breathing orifices. The artificial plastic aroma now perfuming the air is an added olfactory offense. Sunscreen in lotion form is an unobtrusive individual affair. By taking things to the spray level, you have now managed to turn your sunscreen application into a group activity, involving a beach of strangers who had no intention of playing as a team in the first place.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS AN ENVIRONMENTAL BULLY
I’m no Al Gore, but this flagrant mist can’t be doing the environment any favors. Regular old sunscreen does enough damage underwater, bleaching our coral reefs, but the haze of the spray one ups it by spreading its toxic minions above the sea as well. Human, plant, animal – we’re all inhaling Octylacrylamide Copolymer. I have no actual facts here (isn’t my intuitive hypothesis enough?) but I’m sure we’ll all find out in a few years when palm trees start dying of sunscreen-related “treephoma” cancer. Mark my words.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN IS WILDLY INEFFECTIVE
It’s commonly ignored knowledge that spray sunscreen offers comically less protection than its creamy peer. I hate to be the one to break it to you (ok, I don’t actually hate it that much), but you’ve been duped. Remember those clear bra straps that were all the rage 6 summers ago? The ones that looked like women were walking around with Scotch tape holding up their B-cups? Well, in the same way that those did not act as a magical Harry Potter invisibility cloak bra, spray sunscreen is just another sham masquerading as a convenient solution to your greasy palm problem. No matter how much you spray, it’s never going to compare to the thorough application of lotion. Even a gentle breeze steals away 1/3 of your mist before it even hits your skin. I see more than my share of sunburnt tourists and the ones who use aerosol sunscreen are unmistakable. Jagged pink stripes covering their body and airbrush-esque puffs in uneven patterns are the no-fail tell. If you want full coverage protection, don’t get all spray-fancy – just go with the lotion.
AEROSOL SUNSCREEN WILL MAKE YOU EXPLODE INTO FLAMES
If none of the above makes any difference to you, know this – spray sunscreen will potentially cause you to explode into flames. Do you catch me? It is important that you do, so I will repeat myself – YOU COULD EXPLODE. INTO FLAMES. That’s pretty high up there on my list of things I’d like to avoid, how about you?
Speaking from direct experience, Brett Sigworth describes the horror: “I went into complete panic mode and screamed,” Sigworth told ABC news. I’ve never experienced pain like that in my life.”
He was having your standard issue BBQ, decided to “protect” himself from the sun with his handy little aerosol sunscreen, and… BOOM. The “vapor trails” that were attached to his body, errant remains from the spray, set the man on fire. Don’t believe me? Read this.
Look at those burns. From spray sunscreen. I rest my case.
~
If you insist on continuing your reckless use of the loathsome Devil’s Mist and either a) burst into flames or b) get punched in the face by someone because you lubed up his/her beer, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Aerosol sunscreen user/abuser, I will still love you, the world will still love you, but like a dad in tight, neon short shorts, don’t be surprised if people/me refuse to be seen in public with you. Please – join the fight against aerosol sunscreen. This stuff kills*.
*sometimes/probably hasn’t. Yet.
P.S. I’m having rally buttons made, just FYI, if anyone’s interested.
by Chrissann Nickel
For the last 5 years, I’ve been living in a hotel. My boyfriend, David, manages the resort, which is why we’ve lived on-property in one of the rooms all these years. It’s a very small island resort with only 8 guest rooms, a restaurant/bar, and a marina downstairs. And while it’s a lovely spot and the two-bedroom villa we reside in is quite cozy, it’s not as flashy as it sounds.
Most people become visibly envious when they hear I live at a resort. I can see in their widening eyes exactly what they’re picturing – a never-ending, luxurious tropical vacation which is somehow fortuitously my everyday life. This assumption is not entirely untrue (I can get room service whenever I don’t want to cook, which is often), but there are plenty of undesirable quirks to deal with as well that people don’t really realize when they’ve never called a hotel “home”.
My main grievance is the lack of privacy. When we step outside our door, we are in a public space (even worse for David – he is at his work). I’m not a very social person, so this has been particularly challenging for me. Sometimes I just really need some peace and quiet, but when you’re surrounded by drunken vacationers and unsupervised, shrieking children, peace is rare to come by. We try to regard our villa as our small patch of privacy, but the tourists have other ideas.
Much like their stubborn, water-rejecting equine counterparts, you can post a sign for a tourist but you can’t make them obey it. The “Hotel Guests Only” plaques in front of our rooms seem to be interpreted as more of a suggestion rather than a rule. Tourists visiting our restaurant/bar frequently wander into our hotel rooms, usually whenever a door is open while the housekeeper is cleaning. I used to enjoy having my own door open to allow in some breeze while I worked, but after too many instances of intruding tourists on their own self-led tour, I’ve had to forgo the breeze.
This seems to be just another case of the Paradise Induced Mental Relapse I have referenced in earlier posts. Nowhere else in the world have I experienced random people strolling into my hotel room. But here, I’ll be sitting at my desk and in come three couples, cocktails in-hand, flinging open my door and marching into my living room, saying all sing-songy, “Don’t mind us, we just want to see what the rooms look like.” Actually you fools, I DO mind. Even if this was just my hotel room and not my private residence, I still don’t give a shit if you want to see what the rooms look like. Ask to see a VACANT room. This one is occupied.
After the most recent obnoxious invasion of my privacy just yesterday, I figured I’d share a couple of examples of the less-than-charming side of island hotel room living:
EXHIBIT A
I am working on the computer when I hear loud Spanish chattering and the banging of keys trying to be forced into my door’s keyhole. I get up to open the door and am faced with two 30-something Puerto Rican women who do not say, “Oops, excuse us” but rather, immediately become red with anger and shout, “What are you doing in OUR room?!”
I swallow my own rising aggravation and inform them as politely as I can muster that it is 100% impossible that this is their room. I ask which room they were assigned at Registration but instead of replying, the larger of the two ladies attempts to move past me, body-checking me with her over-sized bedazzled beach bag. Now they are storming into my home, telling me it is, in fact, their room (how could I be so stupid?). I have now officially moved past asking and demand to see their room key. Sure enough (I’m not that stupid!), it is for the room named “Bequia” and not my room, which is named “St. Barths”. I coerce them back out the door, point out the name discrepancy between the room placard and their engraved room key, speculate that perhaps this was why their key wasn’t fitting into my door’s lock, and point them in the direction of their (yes, THEIR) guest room. They mutter something in Spanish I am certain is not an apology.
EXHIBIT B
Our bedroom wall is shared with the guest room beside us. There is a group of 6 adults who have weaseled their way into sharing a room whose max occupancy is 4. It is 2 am and they have returned from the bar, sloppy drunk, and are playing loud country music and arguing with each other in slurred Southern drawls. While I am typically a deep sleeper, I am unable to ignore the ruckus and lay fuming in bed, making futile attempts to calm myself with breathing exercises.
Suddenly, the screaming and crying is on our patio and the sliding glass door to our bedroom is flung open. A naked woman is now entering our room, apparently thinking it is her room. This is where I lose it.
I am yelling (because it is the only way to reason with drunk people and it is 2 am), “This is not your room, GET OUT!” The buck-naked woman and her half-naked friend remain on our patio arguing. While this drunk ass woman somehow managed to crawl across the roof from her patio to ours, like a cat up a tree, she cannot get herself back where she belongs. We are forced to walk the nude women through our bedroom, across our living room and kitchen, out our front door, and lead them back to their room.
For some reason, David is not as upset about this as I am.
EXHIBIT C
Just yesterday, I am taking a midday nap on the couch and am awakened by crinkling sounds. I look up to find a woman in my room, rifling through my purse on the kitchen table. Still foggy from sleep, all I can muster is a stunned, “What the HELL are you doing?!”
She is old, leathery, and British. She looks at me, continues to fumble through my belongings, and says, “I’m just looking at the rooms.” I am forced to get up, physically remove her hands from my bag, and lead her out of my home. This bat-shit crazy woman had not only opened my closed door to enter my room, but had closed it behind her, presumably, for privacy. I explain to her that: a) my purse is not a part of “the room”; b) she better not have stolen anything and I’m calling the manager now; and c) if she ever wants to tour the rooms at ANY hotel in the future, she needs to do so with a hotel employee.
~
I have got to start locking my door. Or, you know, move.
by Dillinger
I’m not a big fan of spa treatments. It’s all a bit too touchy-feely for me. A decent pedicure is pretty much my limit. Typically, I will only get a spa treatment if I am on holiday or overwhelmed by guilt. The main reason being that unnecessary expenses can always be justified with the tag ‘I’m on holiday’ and also because most touristy places have spas on every corner, advertising their life changing treatments and you get sucked in by it all after awhile. Living in a country which is effectively one big tourist resort messes with my head a bit. As for the guilt, I will get to that shortly.
I visit a spa here for one reason and one reason only: the essential bikini wax. It’s the downside of living by the sea – you need to be bikini ready everyday. Imagine being a porn star and needing to be sex ready all the time, the mind boggles. Finding someone who would wax properly over here was a struggle and a situation that I have had to compromise on. There were trial and error attempts with those who wouldn’t take enough off and those who had no sense of symmetry. Admit it – there is nothing worse or more infuriating than a wonky wax. I finally settled on a woman who, quite valiantly, simply takes the lot off. Like I said, a compromise situation.
But this is where the guilt comes in. Being a beautician is pretty low on my list of jobs I could tolerate doing, but if that is what you enjoy, I commend you. However, I always think that waxing must be the job that every beautician hates the most. I presume they enjoy the rest of it, but they must surely release a deep sigh when they look down their list of appointments and see a wax job in there. Whenever you go for a wax, beauticians always try to up-sell. They constantly tell you about all the other pointless crap they do which is going to change your life and make you feel rejuvenated and born again. So there comes a point when I feel so overwhelmed by guilt that this poor women, month in and month out, waxes my VJ, that I say ‘yes’ and agree to have one of her ‘treatments’. I’m not even Catholic. I shouldn’t give in to guilt, but damn it, every time I fall for it…….and every time I regret it, almost instantaneously.
Last week, in a moment of weakness, I agreed to a massage. It is my opinion that the only person who should massage me is a lover. I really don’t want anyone else to touch me anymore than is absolutely necessary. But, like I said, the guilt makes me commit to stupid things. On this occasion, I convinced myself that at the very least, the oil would smell nice and my back did need some moisturiser, so I really had nothing to lose.
From the first minute, I started to wonder how long it would last – when would it end? I soon realised that I was in for the long haul. She did each leg, she did each arm, she did my back, she did my feet, she did my hands. She kept making happy comments and asking me to confirm how great it was. I was counting seconds, I was counting sheep, I was making lists, anything to take my mind of this horrible experience. I hate being touched. How had I walked into this situation with open eyes? Am I really that thick? Why did I agree to this? She’s a beautician, waxing is her job, you don’t need to punish yourself, she chose her career, maybe she even likes waxing? To make matters worse, the oil did not smell good. It was a familiar smell, but one I couldn’t place. She then poured it in my hair, with the belated question, “Oil in your hair? It’s ok?”. I’m English, so out of my mouth spilled forth the words, “Sure, it’s ok, it’s great!” while inside, I was screaming for the experience to end and fighting the urge to bolt. With the oil now running down my forehead, I could finally place the smell. It smelled like barbecued beef, ergo, I now smelled like barbecued beef. Would this never end?
Finally she stopped and I was free to go. She was all smiles and totally delighted with herself. I was struggling to maintain my fake smile.
“I use special Ayurvedic Indian massage oil, you like?”
“I loved it, it was great!” I replied, while inwardly contemplating the fact that as cows are sacred in Hindu culture, whether this was the reason to have a massage oil that was eau de vache?
“Leave it on for 1 hour and then have a cool shower and you will feel great.”
I never discovered if I would feel great. Coated in beef drippings, I drove home as fast as possible and dove into a steaming hot shower and scrubbed and soaped up until the entire experience was a distant memory, to all but my bank balance.
6 months of guilt-free waxing now lie ahead before my next sensational spa treatment. Hot stones or exfoliating scrub?
by Chrissann Nickel
Caveat: For those of you who read the title above and found yourself hoping to attain some sort of Mr. Miyagi-esque sagacity from this post, I feel compelled to provide full disclosure – the aforementioned wax is not the karate skill-inspiring car polishing variety, but rather, this post is about bikini wax.
~
Many of the basic services people take for granted out there in the real world are the little things I often long for. From dry cleaning, to a good tailor, to a cobbler (both the kind made of peaches and the man who fixes your shoes), to food delivery options (seriously – nothing fancy – I would dance in the streets if I could get a pizza delivered) are all on the list. But no matter how much I yearn for a proper bakery and the like, I would stop whining about it all if only I could have a good bikini waxer.
Once upon a time in my past life in The Land of Convenience, I used to get fantastic bikini waxes on a regular basis. And while I realize “fantastic” may seem like a bizarre word choice to describe the procedure of having scalding hot liquid poured on your lady parts and ripped off whilst attached to your hairs by the root, I now know just how fantastic my experience truly was. Each month, I would visit my favorite chamomile-scented day spa and see an efficient French woman named Françoise. Not only was she quick, she skillfully minimized the pain in what can be a torturous enterprise and I left there with skin so smooth and hair-free, if I wasn’t 5’3″ (and, you know, womanly) you’d think I’d just been born.
Having lived in the islands now for close to 8 years, I am disappointed to report that I still do not have a waxologist who I can trust. It is a cruel injustice to live in a place where you wear bikinis year-round and not be able to get a good bikini wax. In my fruitless search for The One, I have been burned, ripped, and pulled in ways that still make me shudder. Commiserating with my fellow women on rocks, the tales of disappointment in waxdom abound – one friend even had the top layer of her skin inadvertently pulled off. Down there. It bled for days. I wish I was exaggerating this in some way, but I am not.
And it’s not just that these so-called estheticians lack an aptitude for depilatory treatments, but I have yet to even find one that actually uses the appropriate type of wax. Why is it me telling them, the “professionals”, that they’re using the wrong wax? They look at me with the same feigned patience I would give some random patron telling me they could do my job better, but really – I could do their job better. It’s my sensitive lady skin that is being punished here and I feel like this is not one of those situations where you can just grin and bear it. Let me just tell you – there is NOTHING like a bad bikini wax.
Life on a rock often motivates you to start taking matters into your own hands. I have become much more resourceful living down here; when something I desperately want is unavailable, I have been known to try to fill the void on my own. I have learned how to make all sorts of shit I would never have attempted if it were readily available – I make my own whole-grain bread, veggie burgers, sorbet…hell, I even made my own hair serum. I’m not quite sure why it has taken me so long to decide to start doing my own bikini waxes, but in a fit of frustration after my most recent waxing debacle, I finally made the decision to go at it on my own.
I decided that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. I researched and shipped in the right kind of wax and even got myself a salon-quality wax heater. I figured it was best to not complicate things by adding the microwave into the equation.
On the day of my waxing appointment with myself, I was already smug before I had heated the wax. I imagined that I would emerge from my first self-bikini wax with the same victory I experienced when I realized I could make my own almond butter. It’s so easy! And cheap! I can’t believe I’ve been paying $27 a jar for it all these years! Spoiler alert: doing your own bikini wax is nothing like making almond butter.
Conducting a self-bikini wax is quite literally a sticky situation. Gravity is working against you and despite your best intentions, you end up dripping a considerable amount of wax on inopportune places – in between your toes, for example. And sadly, the “Wax Removing Lotion” you lavishly purchased along with your Easy Bake Waxer does not, in fact, remove wax. It is also safe to say that I am now in need of a new set of bath towels, as the ones I sagely used to protect the floor are crusted in what looks like a honey explosion.
I will not go into the specific details of my bikini wax endeavor, not because I am shy, mind you, but more due to the fact that my brother reads this. I will say it wasn’t a total fail, but the ease I had so arrogantly anticipated was illusory. An experience that typically takes around 20 minutes at the spa consumed 2 1/2 hours of my Saturday and it was nowhere near complete; it turns out, I am not as bend-y as I like to believe. Another unpleasant side effect was the unrelenting crick in my neck that lingered for 3 days following due to all of my below-the-navel gazing.
Alas, bikini waxing remains a service I still wish I could pay somebody else to do. I suspect I will improve as a self-waxer with time, but it’s a lot tougher than I presumed and there’s only so much you can do with one set of hands. Until I can work up the courage to try someone new again, I may just have to make it more of a festive affair by adding music and copious amounts of wine to my self-waxing Saturdays. But I would like to send out this S.O.S. – if you live in the big world and are an adept esthetician looking for an island adventure, pack your bags, friend, and head for the tropics. You can stay at my house. The wax is already warm.
by Ashley Ladlie
I appreciate a thorough investigation. A good ‘ole fashioned puzzler requiring some research and critical analysis is even sorta fun for me. This has been helpful while managing ten 60’s-era condos on a small, secondary island. I’m often required to balance my Sherlock Holmes cap atop all the other hats I don to get the job done. And while I’ve rarely shied away from a challenge attached to a paycheck, solving mechanical and maintenance issues will never be one of my many talents.
Mystery: Why is the water pump running without guests in the building?
Answer: Because a leak has gone undetected in a storage closet for weeks.
Mystery: Why did the utility bill triple despite less use of the AC?
Answer: Because the water pump ran continually to keep up with the leak.
Mystery: Why do I smell mildew in the entryway of one particular condo?
Answer: Because there’s a hole in the roof, and it’s raining on the ceiling tiles.
Last week brought two mysteries. I suspected a common link, but couldn’t be sure.
A strange noise had presented itself on a few different occasions. A splatter splat splat pitter pat of liquid hitting my roof, deck and sometimes the ground behind my cottage. It sounded like Sally, the housekeeper, dumping mop water onto my roof. But she hadn’t done this for several months, ever since I told her my bedroom ceiling leaked in the exact place she dumped the water. Besides, she wouldn’t have been mopping at the time of the splatters.
I hoped it was just the guests staying above my cottage dumping out cooler water from their veranda. This made the most sense.
It made the most sense, that is, except for my worst fear as property manager: the dreaded sewer backup.
Which brings me to the second mystery of the week.
I had also just noticed — when walking across the deck toward my front door — a pissy smell. So. There was also a sneaking suspicion that raw sewage was spilling under my deck after every flush due to a burst pipe. Or something equally unfortunate. This could explain the sporadic splatter splat splat pitter pat that I’d heard on the deck. Maybe it only sounded like it was on the roof. A ventriloquist sound effect. But if it was raw sewage, wouldn’t I be smelling #2 in addition to #1?
It worried me enough to put the mystery sound/smell combo at the top of the next day’s maintenance list. The handyman validated my concern the following morning. Upon reaching the top deck stair, he did not offer the usual salutation. Instead, he asked through my kitchen window, “Why I smellin’ piss?”
He determined that it was cat piss— a tom must be spraying. It wasn’t possible, he assured, for a pipe to have broken in the place I smelled urine. So it must be a cat.
click for photo credit
Since I had definitely caught more than one acrid whiff of cat piss, and since this is not a rare thing to smell on the property, I let it go at that. Although, I must admit that part of me knew I’d also smelled the separate and distinct odor of human piss in the area directly outside my kitchen window. But having many other things to fret over, I de-esclated the sound/smell mystery for the day.
Fortunately, the truth emerged (as it often does) quite organically later that evening. Or should I say, very early the next morning.
I woke up at 2:30 am to splatter splat splat pitter pat on the deck outside my kitchen window. Checking my phone for the time, I saw a text sent 15 minutes earlier from my across-the-street neighbor. She apologized for bothering me so late, but said there was a guest locked out of his condo making quite a racket trying to get back in. Yelling for Mom and throwing rocks at windows for upwards of 30 minutes, I later discovered.
This was perplexing. The condo she mentioned was currently vacant.
But then I remembered another text received earlier that evening from the guests staying two stories above my cottage. They wanted to know which bars in Cruz Bay I recommended for a younger crowd, asking on behalf of their 19-year-old son. Being a helpful host, I suggested four, and passed along the message to have fun and be safe.
It occurred to me that the teenager must be confused as to which condo is his. While he harassed the empty condo at the top of the stairs in the lower building, his family slept at the top of the stairs in the upper building. I pulled on some clothes and went outside prepared to guide his drunkity butt home. Stepping onto the deck, I noticed some fresh puddles on the otherwise dry wood directly below my kitchen window. That is, the spot from which I’d heard the splatter splat splat that had woke me just now. I bent down and sniffed. Sure enough. Piss.
Now I understood. First, the kid must have made it home, seeing as he’d just pissed off of his veranda and onto my deck. To be clear, this is right between my kitchen window and front door. Furthermore, not only did he do this while trashed in the middle of the night just now, he’s been doing it all week during the day. Presumably, in the presence of his parents. Even waving the stream about, it seems, if I’m to trust my ears as regards variety in splatter locale.
This is the splatter splat splat pitter pat noise! This is the piss smell!
Though he’d clearly made it home, I thought to check for good measure. No sooner did I reach the deck stairs when I from above, heard from the kid’s veranda,
“Hi Ashley!”
I spun around, looking up. He smiled down at me from the veranda, swaying a bit. Involuntarily. Like a skyscraper.
“Yeah, a neighbor just texted me complaining about someone banging on a door.”
“Oh, I had the wrong door at first. I’m sorry. Ashley, I’m really really sorry.”
I pointed my index finger at him in classic scolding fashion.
“Go to bed.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
“Go to bed… Go to bed and stop pissing off the veranda.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
I walked toward my door, returning every apology with the directive for bed, accenting it with the finger scold.
“Ashley, I’m so so sorry.”
“Go to bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And stop pissing off of the veranda.”
*Click.*
*Lock.*
Case closed.
