Mike took this great photo of a little skink  peeking over our garden wall (for the difference between “skinks” and “skanks” click here). I was inspired.

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Whatever you do, don’t touch your face.

Touching your face results in what I like to call “reverse whack-a-mole pimples.” Whereas whacking a plastic pop-up mole in an arcade makes the mole go away, touching your face makes zits pop up.  It’s like a touchscreen of irritation (incidentally, “Touchscreen of Irritation” was the original name of the iPad, but it tested poorly).

I should have already known about this phenomenon. Age-wise, I’m close to the back nine, and I should be busy hoarding pills so my childless ass can whack myself in the state-run old folks home someday, not fretting about kiddy issues like pimples. But instead, I spent the last few months staring forlornly at the pimples I was getting on my cheeks. My cheeks. I had never had cheek zits before.

Then I realized I’d been sleeping on my hand. I think I used to have my hand up under the pillow, and then my face on the pillow, but for whatever reason, now I was sleeping directly on my hand. Wherever my hand touched my face, a nice new crop of pimples appeared.  My “fertilizing” them with Easter chocolate probably didn’t help.

It is not easy to train yourself not to do something you do when you’re asleep. Ask my husband about my snoring. And my therapist about my night-knitting.

(no Mom, I don’t really have a therapist, I would have told you. ….It’s a joke. ….Well I don’t know why jokes and lies are the same thing, they just are sometimes…. Ok Mom, I have to get back to the article now.. ok…ok…ok…ok.. bye…ok… ok… bye)

Sorry about that. What was I saying?  Oh right, how to stop sleeping on my hand. I couldn’t tie my hand to my leg without my husband accusing me of reading 50 Shades of Gray, and I’d rather read Lil Wayne’s diary then that hot mess. Wearing gloves makes my paws sweaty. Cutting off my hands seemed extreme, and once I removed one, how would I remove the other?

I’ve just made myself very aware of where my hands are, and that seems to have helped. If I wake up and find them nestled under my cheek, I move them.

Fun with Pimples

But since I’ve shared with you the secret of growing pimples now we can have some fun with this knowledge.

Some pimple ideas:

• Do an off-broadway remake of The Scarlet Pimpernel as “The Scarlet Pimplenel.”
• Touch your face in constellation patterns to teach your amazed children about the stars.
• Touch your face to spell out “DIE” on your forehead to get rid of unwanted roommates.
• If you’re an Indian spinster who wishes she was married, touch yourself between your eyes.
• Touch your cheeks a LOT and then go to Halloween parties as Seal.

PS: I had a terrible crush on Anthony Andrews as The Scarlet Pimpernel, and it physically pained me to deface him for the sake of comedy. But that’s what comedy does. It tears out your heart and stomps it into little pieces.

Photo by a mildly famous person. If you look close, you can see the horror in Mike’s eyes.

Our first morning at the hotel’s “free” breakfast I noticed one of the other hotel guests seemed familiar.

“Does that guy look like somebody?” I asked Mike.

Mike pretended to drop his napkin and as he reached to retrieve it, glanced in the direction to which I had just pointed with my eyes. We’re very cool.

“YES,” said Mike, nodding as he replaced his napkin. “pss pss mumble psst.”

“What?” I asked. Mike thinks if he doesn’t want to be overheard he has to whisper so quietly that not even he can hear him. It might be in my top ten things I’d like to change about him, right under “don’t make me change if I happen to put on the same color shirt as you.”

“He’s an actor,” said Mike. Or, at least that’s what I thought he said. He might have said “Bees like nectar.”

“That’s what I thought!” I said (correct answer to either choice).

The actor was recognizable, but his name didn’t readily come to either of us. We knew he’d been a few movies, and every few minutes one of us would whisper “wasn’t he the guy in…”

Back at the room, we Googled our famous friend to find he often played the role of a sidekick or brother to bigger movie stars. Wikipedia let us know that the woman with him was his girlfriend, and that she herself had been a lead in a kid program I’d never seen. She was an adult now. I should probably make that clear.

That’s where the star stalking was supposed to end. We weren’t star struck. Sure, we Wiki’d him, but I Wikipedia everything from constellations to types of apples, because I’m the kind of person who likes to say things like “did you know the genus of apples is ‘Malus’ which sounds like ‘mal’ which is Latin for ‘bad’ like maybe due to the story of Adam and Eve?” This behavior is probably in Mike’s top five things he’d like to change about me.

It was fun to tell our friends there was a famous person staying in our hotel, but we had no interest in an autograph or taking pictures to sell to TMZ.

That night we went to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

The hostess sat us right next to the movie star.

We were mortified.

“He’s going to think we’re following him,” I hissed at Mike.

“Pie glow!” Mike mumbled back. I think. I dunno.

We tried so hard not to look at the famous couple next to us that we had cricks in our necks by the time we were done our salad.

It was the height of conceit to think Famous Guy even recognized us from breakfast, but at the time, we were sure we’d return to our room to find a restraining order nailed to the door.

When it came time to leave, I stopped at the ladies’ room. When I came out, Mike was sitting on a nearby bench waiting for me. He told me to sit so he could take a picture.

A woman walked by as he snapped the shot.

“Do you want me to take your picture together?” she asked us. “I’m kind of a photographer.”

“Sure, thanks!” I said, thinking this might be the one vacation where Mike and I actually had a picture together.

The woman took a photo of us, handed back the camera, and continued on to the ladies’ room.

“That was nice of her,” I said as we left.

“That was the girlfriend,” said Mike.

“What?”

“The famous dude’s girlfriend,” Mike repeated.

“It was?” I had tried so hard not to look at the famous couple, that I hadn’t even recognized her. “Now they’re really going to think we’re stalking them!”

We laughed, realizing that the famous people had taken a picture of us (oh the irony!), but that evening we made a silent blood oath.

We would avoid that couple like they were ebola monkies.

The next morning, we went out to the breakfast again. I immediately spotted the famous couple already seated.  The best available seat was right next to them.

I sighed and whirled around to pretend I was taking in the breathtaking view of the pool.

“Bogey at 12 o’clock,” I mumbled to Mike touching his arm to stop him from entering the breakfast porch. We really should have been spies.

“I have no idea what that means,” said Mike stopping. Then, after scanning the restaurant, I heard him sigh “oh.”

“Mm hm,” I agreed, pretending to point at the beach. If the spy gig hadn’t worked out, I could have been a ‘B’ actor myself.

“Let’s go into town for breakfast today,” said Mike.

“Yep,” I said.

And that, my friends, is how famous people go around willy-nilly ruining vacations.

Which is exactly how you could spend your next vacation if you take author Jacob Tomsky’s advice.

In the tradition of  Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential, Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality is an insider’s look at the world behind the frozen smiles on the staff at your favorite hotel.   The book is a compilation of personal experiences from author Jacob Tomsky’s time working in the hotel industry – from parking cars to running housekeeping to manning the front desk.  In addition to being a fun romp, Heads in Beds is rife with tips on how to treat people in hotels in order to get what you want. Or, if you’re an ass, you might found out why you always seem to get the room without a view.

Ok, I know I’m a little behind the times, offering a Heads in Beds review now…

This book was all the rage last Christmas, and it had been sitting on my shelf since then. In March I finally picked it up, and damn if  Tomsky didn’t get me reading again. I’d been falling behind on reading for fun until I started this book and found myself unable to put it down. Heads in Beds is written in a wonderfully readable, casual tone that makes the experience of reading feel more like sitting down with the author at a bar.  By the time I finished, I felt like some snarky friend I used to know from high school had written it.

Tomsky’s freewheeling conversational writing tone might rub some gentler folk the wrong way. A quick peek on Amazon’s reviews will show a small handful of people too distracted by profanity to appreciate the book (hence the title of this review).  To read some of those reviews, you’d think the book was called Fucking Heads in Fucking Beds, but there really isn’t that much profanity.  Overall, I’d have to say old Anthony Bourdain is a much more miserable, sarcastic bastard and he’s got his own show.

What more could you ask from a book than to both entertain you and offer tips on making hotels stays more enjoyable? Tomsky lets readers in on industry secrets like the fact that you never really have to pay for in-room movies: They are the fastest thing taken off your bill if you complain. Mini-bar charges aren’t written in stone, either. He goes as far to say you could check into a room, empty the fridge, then ask for a room change (your suitcase full of snack items in tow) and then spend the rest of your vacation in your new room enjoying your ill-gotten gains. This tip made some reviewers crazy, but Tomsky isn’t telling you to steal. If you’re the sort of person who would try this trick, then you’re probably the kind of person who brings dead cockroaches into restaurants to get free meals and you’re already an ass - you didn’t need Tomsky to tell you that.

But was I absolutely giggly at the idea of sitting around my room eating ill-gotten Toblerones? Yes!  It’s that sort of skewed way of sharing information that makes the book so much fun to read.

There are ton of great nuggets, I won’t blow the whole book by reciting them here, the way I’ve blown it for my husband by following him around the house telling him every trick the moment I read it.

In addition, I followed Tomsky on Twitter (@JacobTomsky) and he followed me back, which F. Scott Fitzgerald never did (who’s the dick now, F. Scott? Guess the “F” doesn’t stand for friendly, huh? HUH?) and Jake would like you to all know about his short story club called “Short Story Thursdays”  which he would love for you to join.  (I call him Jake ‘cuz we go way back.  Like two weeks. And he says I can. Because it’s his name and everyone calls him that.)  Each week ol’ Jake will send you a short story to your inbox, and the stories are not all weird stuff his cousin wrote; they are all classics.  All free.

So go join the Short Story Thursdays and get Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality if you haven’t read it already!

You may not know who Chrissy Amphlett or the Divinyls are, but if you’re anywhere near 40, at some point you’ve probably found yourself singing “When I think about you I touch myself…” in a public place, maybe at a picnic surrounded by your parents and kid,s and thought: “OH MY GOD WHAT AM I SINGING?”

I Touch Myself is a catchy tune. So catchy it sort of sneaks up on you that you’re crooning about masturbation in front of strangers.

It’s tragic that anyone as young as 53 would die, even if I do have one eensy-weensy problem with Chrissy Amphlett and the Divinyls:

Chrissy Amphlett is to blame for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.

I was in college, hanging out at some little dance club in Stone Harbor New Jersey with a friend and probably thinking I was pretty cool because I was

a.) barely 21

and

b.) drunk

Which are really all the things you need to think you’re the most amazing creature on the planet.

Chrissy Amphlett and the Divinyls’ ode to the solitary rumba came on, and my friend and I began to dance even though we weren’t on the dance floor, but rather leaning against the bar (probably to keep from falling over.) Like I said, I Touch Myself is a catchy tune, so dancing to it, even unofficially, isn’t really all that embarrassing.

It wasn’t until maybe two weeks later when the memory of dancing to the Divinyls came back to me in the middle of the night and I sat straight up in bed screaming “NOOOOooooo…!”

As if watching myself from above, I relived how I had oh-so-sexily pantomimed to I Touch Myself, running my hands down my hips and shaking my booty. Imagine Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday Mr. President after downing a bottle of muscle relaxers and donning a jeans skirt.

So sexy. So proud.

So, wherever you are, Chrissy Amphlett, I am sorry to hear about your untimely death to breast cancer. I’m going to make a donation to  Susan G. Komen for the Cure in your memory, because thanks to you and the Divinyls, I never danced in public like that again.

At least I don’t think  I did.