Late last year, my friend Hope called sounding despondent and concerned about a potential sinus surgery. I suggested as a remedy my standard list of cleanses: the juice cleanse, the cayenne pepper/maple syrup cleanse and the mother of all cleanses, the bentonite clay cleanse. Let me tell you, if you can get through the first twenty-four hours, I guarantee by day three you’ll feel like a million bucks. I’m very big on cleansing; positive it will cure me of my sugar addiction. For example, last night I gobbled down two dark chocolate caramels and two thin mints for dinner, leaving me strangely satisfied but wide awake until 2:AM. A cleanse would do me good.
By the time 2005 rolled around, the fast was off, but we were headed for Phoenix. Every year, my girlfriends from high school plan a weekend get-away. In the past, we have been to Calistoga, Costanoa and Cape Cod. This year, Hope consulted 1000 Places to See Before You Die, and suggested Chicago, Dallas or, as a wild card, Phoenix. Chicago was vetoed because of dicey weather; Dallas ardently turned down by me. As a serial fiancée, I was once quasi-engaged to a Texan who just happened to fit the description of “writer/Cowboy fanatic/metrosexual” hailing from J.R.’s hometown. I reflected on New Year’s Eve 1998 when his mother winked at me and whispered that they had been out looking for engagement rings. We broke up in his little dirty Toyota truck on the way back to Los Angeles. No ring and no Dallas. Phoenix would do just fine.
We booked the trip in February. In early March, I had my last communication with the cowboy/roadie/metrosexual who was flinging himself in and out of my life like a towel on the wash line. It was then I learned he was going out on tour with a "SuperGroup" for the summer. Now, I’m not going to let this little piece of information go in and out of my brain so easily. No, I’m going to massage it to DEATH. So, you can imagine my heart palpitation as I read the tour schedule on the band’s website. The second date would be the Dodge Theatre in Phoenix, the same Friday I would be in Phoenix. I immediately began researching restaurants in the neighborhood, planning a wardrobe and dialogue to dupe my friends in to dining downtown where I would be sure to casually bump into Mr. C/R/M and then ignore him.
I couldn’t handle the pressure of this clandestine arrangement I had conjured up in my head. I confessed my complicated plotline to Hope, who seriously asked me if I could be trusted with a car. Listen readers, sometimes people just get under your skin and there’s nothing to be done. It like they take a piece of you of and you'll do anything to get it back; you know what I mean?
Three weeks later. I find myself driving away from the Phoenix Airport on 26th Street, which is, by they way, bordered by the nut house and a low security prison. “ConAir” came to mind. I noted that there were no "Beware of Hitchhiker signs posted anywhere. First impressions are everything.
After navigating the 101 Loop for the next two hours, I found Hope at "The Sanctuary", the only reason to make Phoenix a stop on your life’s travels. I pulled up in the Monte Carlo, handed the keys over to a hunky valet, floated inside and found myself quite at home. The Sanctuary is one of those other worldly spas self-described as a “boutique resort” complete with infinity pool, smooth cement walls, flooring and lime green accents everywhere; modern/desert/Japanese decor staffed by the best looking 20 something’s. It’s West Melrose but in Phoenix. Hope was glowing, having spent the past two days being buffed, waxed and pampered. I quivered: “Why are we leaving?” and tripped up to the reservation desk to inquire about availability. A double room for the three of us would be $549 a night. That sealed the deal. We jumped into our mid-size and headed off to “The Stay in Scottsdale”. “The Stay in Scottsdale” is like every other condo subdivision slapped together with some craft paste concocted from flour and water. The walls actually shook when you shut a door. Thankfully, we had an impenetrable gate to protect us.
Although Phoenix boasts over 200 golf courses and Arizona’s largest western-theme attraction – “Rawhide Wild West Town” where gunslingers roam the street and panhandlers hanker for gold, we did not partake. Instead, we spa'd. Parking ourselves poolside at “The Golden Door at Boulders”, we scanned the menu and decided on treatments. I was extremely tempted by the Native American healing rituals which promised to realign my energy, but after searching the grounds (even peaking inside a teepee), I did not find anyone who I believed fit the description of an actual medicine man. “The Boulders” was beautiful, but let me just set the scene with this. Our yoga instructor had a perfect set of store bought bazooms flanked by purple lip-gloss, matching acrylic fingernails and a puckered mouth that rivals Mick Jagger's. There it is – the porn star yoga instructor. There were no Native Americans at The Golden Door.
That night, determined to keep the toxins out of our body, Nancy prepared a vegan feast as Hope & I lamented about the expense accounts we forfeited for another life. We settled in to watch “Closer”. I can’t say it was a healthy balance to the meal. I left the movie to Hope & Nancy and went to clean up the kitchen.
Having replaced two garbage disposals myself, I should have known better, but I went right ahead and stuffed corn husks, broccoli stalks, artichoke leaves and everything else down the disposal, even using a wooden spoon to ensure everything got in. Seconds into my festival of shoving, shredded remnants began to vomit all over me. I was soaking wet while bits of salad greens bespeckled the kitchen. I reset the disposal, tried the handy Allen wrench to free up the blockage but neither worked. After several attempts with the plunger, we weighed either driving around Scottsdale in search of Drano or taking apart the plumbing. Determined, Hope, using her bare hands, pried loose the plastic pipes and got right down to the heart of the matter. I, handy girl galore, had heaved too much into the crappy 1/2 horsepower disposal. I was not paying attention. We shared a good laugh about our doggedness to fix the sink and by 1:AM, had cleaned up the mess, reconnected the pipes, tidied up the condo and packed our bags.
Oddly, while Phoenix was destination blah, I arrived home positively overjoyed. Something had happened during the Disposal Incident. I reflected on my actions, positive the universe was trying to tell me something. You can’t foist away feelings so aggressively. Oh, and by the way, that piece that you want back – let it go. It’s been expelled for a reason.
Indeed, there was no fasting, but we did manage to purge the plumbing.
**I don’t mean to be a downer about Phoenix. If you like homes the color of putty, a strip mall that encircles the city, and miles of Saguaro cacti reaching their arms to the sky as if to say “Don’t Shoot Me!”, Phoenix is your place. Last week, I asked Hope why she chose this desert metropolis, especially since I flipped through the same book and did not find Phoenix listed. Her reply: “Because it was warm and there were spas”. This was true. When I arrived back in LA, I did some research and found the following, which made that city quite attractive. I’m not going back there, but you might. And just in case, here is wonderful description:
"Phoenix, garnering praise as one of the world's top five golf destinations, ranks as the sixth-largest city in the United States, with nearly 1.3 million residents and a multitude of cultural and recreational activities. Among more than 200 courses in Arizona, more than 120 are in Greater Phoenix, leaving plenty of opportunity to play during some 300 days of annual sunshine. Outstanding museums, galleries, performing arts, fine dining, horseback riding and cowboy shoot-outs are part of the entertainment mix, and the climate makes outdoor activities from desert touring to hot-air ballooning, and water recreation a way of life. Phoenix also serves as a springboard for day-trips to other major Arizona magnets like the Grand Canyon and Sedona."
- Dedicated to Debbie, who was unable to join us this year.
