Really, There Was No Acid Involved on This Trip

Posted on January 10, 2012 by

Last night the husband and I returned from a weekend cruise from Miami to Nassau. Who would have thought that such a quick excursion would give me so many stories to tell. So yes, I am subjecting you to my vacation tales. (AND photos! Try to contain your excitement.)

I will embarrass myself at the outset by revealing that we got this cruise “for free” by sitting thru a spiel by a travel company (“It”s NOT a time-share!” or so they crowed twenty times). So, I suppose we get what we pay for. Therefore, after driving two hours to the Columbus airport and getting the latest permutation of foreplay and fondling from the TSA (Going thru the x-ray scanner evidently wasn’t enough, they detained me for a proper feeling-up as well), we boarded the plane for Ft. Lauderdale. Although, after security, there should be a bartender waiting to hand you a cocktail and a cigarette. Or someone to hold you. It’s the least they can do. Anyway, I boarded the plane, and I could see I was assigned the middle seat, where there was a woman talking loudly on her cell phone in the aisle seat. As the man in front of me passed, he bumped her arm with his bag. She looked up at me, anger snapping in her eyes as she responded, “Gee, excuse you, I really love having my shoulder knocked out of socket!” I stood there thinking, “Terrific, I get to sit next to this beast all flight.” This woman proceeded to end her cell phone conversation and begin a running commentary of her every move. “I need to get this seat belt buckled here take my coffee I don’t really love spilling hot coffee in my lap I’m going to put your tray table down for just a sec oh the belt is buckled already I’ll have to stand up and turn around ok here we go oh this is a picture of my son he’s ten…..” She talked so completely without pause, that I think she must have just been released from a year in solitary. I’m still cleaning my ears out from her verbal vomit, and the pounding of prattle was so thorough, I think she used up all words available, and left me with no real way to describe the experience. Let’s just say I knew more about her before we even left the ground than I do about my husband after being married for 18 years. I looked at her with what I’m sure was a ridiculous expression on my face as she went on for the next HOUR AND A HALF. I could really have used an Air Marshal to save me from this terrorist. Finally, she went to the bathroom, so when she returned, I pretended to be asleep. She immediately passed out herself, from which I can only assume was pure exhaustion.

As it seems, I have gone on quite long about the woman on the plane (how ironic). I’ll try to summarize our experiences and my travel advice in the form of a list:

  • When you hire a shuttle from the hotel to Port of Miami, make sure you get Tony from Columbia.  He will give you the adventure of your life, as he thinks I-95 is the speed limit.  I tried to put on my seat belt, but it remained locked-up from the high speed, and refused to release.  Also, he will be MORE than happy to drop you off at a nearby CVS, where it is just a “10 minute walk to the port” which includes crossing THIS bridge. (A cab is a well-worth-it $10.) Remind me to thoroughly study a map before we go anywhere again.

    Port of Miami

  • Try not to be so keen on keeping your trip “Free.”  A stateroom upgrade can keep you above the water line, and avoid cabin configurations like this:

Look! A window!

Psych

I love watching TV in bed from this angle, really.

  • If the big brown streak on your cruise provided beach towel looks like feces, and smells like feces, it is.  Don’t be shy! Ask the steward for a new one.
  • Things to enjoy in the port of Nassau, Bahamas:  It is so HOT here in the summer (and I know of what I speak) that in January, the Bahamians will greet you at the dock in winter coats even though it is already almost 80 degrees at 10:00a.  The shuttle bus to Paradise Island has plastic coating over every seat for a reason.  The driving here is as exciting as Disney’s Tower of Terror.  You will feel alive.  At the pool/on the beach, avert your eyes from the European men wearing speedo-type swimwear.  You really don’t need to know their religious persuasion.
  • Back on board, don’t take it personally when, the second night in the formal dining room, you find you are the only ones at your table of ten.  Surely they are just passed out somewhere in Nassau. Your Filipino waiter will bring you everyone else’s lobster and steak if you just ask.
  • Go ahead and act the fool!  Play trivia games, play bingo, sing karaoke, drink yourself silly, and eat eight meals a day.  After all you will NEVER SEE ANY OF THESE PEOPLE AGAIN!  Until, of course, you fly home with some of these same people, and realize they, in fact, live really close to you after all.  Heh.  Heh.

Our prize for winning trivia. The coveted "Plastic Piece of Ship on a Stick." Good thing we bought that '"US" magazine on the way down.

 

I know I’ve made cruising sound so good, you can’t wait to go.  My husband came home and started planning our next one. Really.

 

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You Mean, My Mental Telepathy Isn’t Getting Through?

Posted on December 31, 2011 by

As 2011 winds down (Praise Him), I am pondering the usual resolution thing. The past few years I’ve given myself a pass on trying to resolve to make some great change in my life. This year, I am considering how I can do a better job at communicating with those around me. I am also wondering how in the world am I going to keep track of my progress? It seems to be as easily quantifiable as trying to count worms squirming in a bucket. But the problem stands: I think everyone knows what I’m thinking and the fact is they don’t. Didn’t I tell you your dentist appointment was today at 4? Didn’t I send you an email/text/smoke signal about our dinner plans? Even more frustrating is when I’m PRETTY DANG SURE I informed someone of some scheduled event, and they insist I didn’t. This is when I threaten to tape record my life so I can hit rewind and smugly yell “See!” in triumph.  Because that sort of thing completely strengthens relationships.

Another frustrating aspect are the actual miscues when in the act of communicating.  Texts and emails can be dangerous in this way.  Lost are inflections, the subtle vocal signals of meaning that are so important.  My daughter had a text-fueled-fracas with a friend which probably would have been completely avoided had she just TALKED to her in the first place.  Aural accidents can be aggravating as well.  Or downright hilarious, as evidenced by this exchange between my physician employer and a new patient:

Dr. :  ”Look straight ahead.”

Patient: “Did you just call me a sh*t-head?”

Dr. :  ”Uh, uh, no, but even if you were one, I wouldn’t call you that!”

So, all things considered, communication is one of the most important methods of getting along in this life, and I definitely need to do a better job.  One thing I know, far too many times this year, important people in my life have learned things about me in improper ways. Too often my mom has said, “Yeah, I saw that on facebook.” Oops. My sister-in-law read me the riot act for not telling her some news I had received 10 days earlier, but the truth was, I hadn’t told anyone yet. We are all human, and I need to let it go if I have to tell someone something more than once. And I need to let someone outside of my skull know the things I am thinking about.  Right now I’m thinking today is the day to start, instead of waiting until tomorrow.  Anyone with ideas on how to keep me accountable are welcome to communicate them to me.  Happy New Year.

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Call Me Scrooge’s Muse

Posted on December 22, 2011 by

This has been one rough Christmas season for me.  Some things I can’t get into here, but my psyche and faith have taken a beating this year, and I’m having some trouble feeling worthy of a Savior.  Even a tiny baby one.

Hopefully I can muster up some humor in this post, but it’s gonna be a challenge.  Anyone else want to FREAKING CANCEL THE FREAKING GIFT EXCHANGING THING???  ANYONE???  Excuse my yelling.  I’VE HAD ENOUGH!!!  Aren’t we such a materialistic society that we are finding it near impossible to give meaningful, useful, and even, dare I say, appreciated gifts?  Well, I am.  And I am the queen of not appreciating things that I am given.  ”Why, it’s a bagel slicer!  Yippee! I’ve always wanted one of those!”  Huh?  I can’t remember the last time we had bagels, let alone ones that weren’t already sliced.  At the department store the other day, I talked myself out of getting my nephew a popcorn popper for his dorm room, because, well, hello–microwave popcorn?  Doesn’t anyone give the kind of gifts I received as a kid?  Socks?  Long johns?  Sure I got something fun too, but even my kids say, “I don’t know, I don’t need anything,” when I ask them what they want.  (Of course, they come to me later with something they thought of.  That costs $200.00)

What I want for Christmas is for people to remember what it means.  What those gifts supposedly represent.  So someday, I pray the rest of the family comes to their senses, and joins me in my desire for a very austere Christmas.  I want people to not take offense when I give them a Heifer International animal donated in their name.  Or if I say I gave to a needy family in their honor. I realize that my kids are no longer Santa believers, and that definitely changes the dynamic and the excitement level of Christmas.  But I want them to be Believers, and focus on the Reason for the Season this day, this month and throughout the year.  The frenzy we have worked ourselves into each year has blurred our vision of true peace.  Let’s take a step back, a deep breath, and remember the wonder of the Word made flesh.  That tiny Saviour.  God with ten fingers and ten toes, feeling hungry, feeling cold, feeling us. Even me.

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Kramer, I’m Going to Kill You.

Posted on November 2, 2011 by

I jest.  Maybe.  Or as a good friend of mine and I say all the time, “Let’s just be honest.” Kramer is our 5 yo Yorkie who is about to drive me bat-shit crazy.  It’s my fault, I know, I know.  Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.  He now expects a treat just for surviving another night to enjoy one more day of aggravating me.  My husband has gotten into this highly irritating intriguing habit of getting the dog out of the laundry room at the butt-crack of dawn, and stuffing his neurotic little ass under the covers of our bed.  At this point, the hubby goes to work out while I seethe, as the dog’s neuroses manifests in constant licking and nibbling at my arms and hands for the next 20 minutes.  This is when I give up in a huff and get up. Which, no matter how much I pretend and wish to be a morning person, I am never happy about, let’s just be honest.

My kids like to play a little game called “Let’s test mom to within an inch of our lives.”  Its “Kramer” variation, includes pestering me with questions such as, “If Kramer died today, you’d get another dog, right?”  Then they ramp up the wide eyed incredulity when I practically yell, “No, no way.”  ”What?? Why?”  Why?  I’ll tell you why– Kramer is obsessed with me.  And not in a good way.  And I live with the hope that someday I won’t have hungry, stinky, excrement producing beings hanging around sucking the life and all my cash out of me.  With the Little Miss Princess at 16 and driving, the end is dizzyingly close.  And while I love them all dearly, my goal as mother is to set them on their path as independent people– so I can be proud, and above all, alone.

OK, so I make this big show of being annoyed to death by the dog, joke that I’m gonna tie him out back in the woods as coyote bait, offer him up to overhead hawks, etc.  Then, on the remote possibility of disaster, I find myself skipping a lovely brunch at my parents’, to stand outside and pray that the peroxide I forced down the little bastard will make him vomit soon, and that what comes up will NOT have blue chunks of rat poison in it.  And, let’s just be honest– I was really relieved when it didn’t.

Kramer as "The Urinator" for Halloween

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Inaugural Poo

Posted on October 28, 2011 by

Advice read on starting a blog: “Narrow your focus.” Ok, threw that one out the window. In our family, the conversation inevitably ends up on bodily functions. It. Never. Fails. Especially at big family gatherings. No matter how Holy or sacred the holiday, or heart-rending-ly beautiful the grace before the meal, the devolution is complete by dessert. So, going with the general theme of my life that everything eventually comes down to poop, any ol’ poop that comes to my mind will be flung out into cyberspace for your consideration and comments.

Next blog-writing suggestion I have ignored: “Do not start a blog without at LEAST ten pieces pre-written.” Oops. Not gonna do that one either. Doesn’t it follow that people who frequently discuss poop would be adept at pulling things out of their ass? Let’s just see what happens. I’m married. I have two teenagers. We could have material minute-by-minute around here.

Now, lest you worry that this entire blog will be about excrement, let me put your mind at ease. I have been a nurse for 20 years. I am SICK TO DEATH of people telling me every filthy thing that bubbles up out of their body or mind. Seriously. I long for the elevation of our culture, a decorum that existed in the days of …. well… the backhouse. Or even more charming, “The Necessary” (yeah, that blog name was taken–crap). I will refrain from the F-bomb, and try to hold back on most others, but can’t make any iron-clad promises. Hopefully, I can be more creative than coarse, and soften some of my cob-like rough-edges.

It is my humble hope, that sharing my life here will somehow build community that lifts us up together, pulling us out of the muck, cleaner and happier in our end.  I mean, the end.

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