Our Romantic Getaway! (During a Hurricane.)

A few weeks ago, Hubby and I had escaped for a few days by ourselves to celebrate our 15^th wedding anniversary.  We know plenty of people who are able to “sneak away” every now and then in order to recharge their marriages, and even some who are able to have regular date nights.  We do not have that luxury, however, so planning a getaway in which we would leave our children for a few nights with their grandparents was a big deal.  We haven’t been away together since 2008, if you don’t include the one raucous night we went to an out-of-town wedding so I could be the super-fun pregnant bridesmaid.

The BEFORE pic, when we were still dry
and didn't feel like vomiting yet.

We have been planning this trip for some time, as making arrangements for the three boys requires a lot of logistical maneuvering.  Add to this the fact that everything we do seems so complicated – many times we’re just too exhausted from the planning to actually put anything into action.  We booked flights and hotels and we were all set to have our romantic vacation from July 3-7. 

You know where this is going, right?

We used frequent flyer miles to book our flights from Richmond, Virginia to Boston, Massachusetts.  Via Newark, New Jersey.  I’m sure Newark is a lovely town once you get to know it, but everything I’ve ever seen/read/heard about Newark leads me to have a preconceived notion that it is the smelly armpit of the Northeast.  Unfortunately, the weekend we were traveling was the same weekend that Hurricane Arthur was wreaking havoc, so we were trying to beat the bad weather up the east coast.  No luck.  Our flight from Richmond to Newark was delayed, and before we even stepped foot on a plane our flight from Newark to Boston was cancelled.  Hubby stood in line for 2 hours and 45 minutes to try to figure out how we were gonna get this party started. 

Any of you who follow my blog regularly already know that Hubby, bless his heart, does not handle travel hiccups well.  See this or this.  He held it together, though, even though the airport restaurants and bars close at 8 which meant there was not a nerve-calming beer to be found anywhere.  We finally boarded a flight from Richmond to Newark and realized we would have to spend the night at one of those shady hotels near the airport.  In Newark.  The airline graciously gave us a discount coupon freebie! number to call to make our own reservations at the airport hotel.  In Newark.  Finally something went right . . . Hubby logged on to the hotel booking website and found us a room.

Surprise!  When we got the hotel, in Newark, they had no record of our confirmation, and since everyone else whose flight was delayed or cancelled was in the same predicament, there were no rooms left.  Hubby started to lose it a little here and after a few tense moments, the desk clerk found a room for us.  It was “Lou’s” room, but we could use it.  Um, not sure who Lou is, but our choice was between Lou’s room and another room, in which an employee’s girlfriend had just showered so it needed to be cleaned first.  Lou’s room it is.  Once we got to Lou’s our room, we discovered that Lou is either in a wheelchair or he is a midget/little person.  Hubby was very confused by the door peep hole that was only 3 feet off the ground but found it comforting that he had a handle to hold onto in the shower AND an emergency phone next to the toilet.  I double-bolted the door just in case Lou didn’t receive the memo that his room was occupied for the evening. 

We caught the first flight out to Boston the next morning, but we missed the 8am ferry we were supposed to catch to Cape Cod.  We arrived in Boston, got settled and refreshed, and figured taking a later ferry wasn’t a bad idea after all.  The original plan had been to spend most of the day basking in the sun on the beach in Provincetown and then hit some of the cute little shops and bars before catching the ferry back to Boston around 7pm.  The ferry trip was 90 minutes long, and since it was Independence Day, we thought we might be lucky enough to see some 4^th of July fireworks as we pulled into the Boston Harbor.

Yep.  That would have been nice.  

Bad hair/bear day.

Again, Hurricane Arthur screwed with our plans.  The ride over from Boston to Provincetown was cloudy and gray, but we were still excited to get to the Cape.  Once we arrived, however, the rain started in full force.  The first thing we did when we got off the boat was buy a raincoat for me.  We tried to maintain a positive attitude, visiting quaint little boutiques and fun bars.  I started to get really cranky when my feet started sloshing in my shoes and my underwear got wet through three layers of clothing.  By the time the rain started coming sideways and in sheets, we attempted to find an earlier ferry back to Boston.  No luck.

When we finally boarded the ferry at 7pm (with about 20 other suckers, total, who hadn’t been able to score an earlier ferry,) the wind, rain, and lightening were so bad, we each popped a Dramamine and tried not to think about the choppy waves.  I laid my head down on the sterilized and probably not encrusted in dried ketchup and coffee rings table with my palms down in order to steady myself because it was the only item I could find that seemed to be staying still.  I felt like I was on the Edmund Fitzgerald.  Hubby and I have been together for 20 years, and I know from experience that an evening that ends in vomit just isn’t as fun when you’re 40 as it is when you’re 20. 

Luckily, the rest of our vacation was lovely, but it was a long time comin’.   We’ll be ready to take a romantic vacation together again in approximately fifteen years.

Skinny Girls at the Gym: An Analysis

I am continuing my quest to lose 40 lbs. by the time I turn 39+1 in September.  I have been checking out my "physique" in the aerobics room mirror, and I have decided that there are certain stereotypes perpetuated by gym members.

1.  The Fat Girl.  She (hypothetically, of course) is the red-faced girl who cringes every time the instructor says to “engage those abs.”  Um, if I (I mean SHE) could do that we wouldn’t be here in the first place, now would we?  Also, I don't do lunges because 

       a.  my knees hurt and 

       b. when I do lunges I look like an ostrich doing the Charleston

She's double-bagging the sports bras and still worries about her boobs hitting her in the eyes and knees during particularly aerobic exercises.  Picture Tyler Perry's Madea doing jumping jacks; you get the idea. 

2.  The Overachieving Pregnant Girl.  She continues working out during all 9 months of her pregnancy.  Perhaps if I had worked out instead of feasting on that 5-lb. bag of Tootsie Roll Midgets my Mother-in-Law bought me at Costco . . . man, I love that woman . . . I wouldn't have gained so much weight during pregnancy.  My advice to you, Overachieving Pregnant Girl?  If this is your first pregnancy, you’re gonna wish you’d taken a nap instead of stuffing that belly into spandex because that first week of new babyhood is the great equalizer; no amount of exercise is gonna change the fact that you’re an emotional time bomb, your teeth have 3-days-worth of gunk on them, and you haven’t washed your hair since sometime last week.  Tootsie Roll Midgets sound pretty damn good right about now, don't they?

3.  The Supportive BFF.  She is your gorgeous, skinny, in-shape friend who reminds you that you’re on the right track / getting to the gym is half the battle / you’re getting healthy, etc.  And sometimes she takes you to Starbucks after you leave the gym.  We love her.  But sometimes we wish she was fat.

4.   Jane Fonda.  This is the woman who has decided that after a 20 year sabbatical, she’s gonna get back in shape.  She pulled out her spandex, her fluffy socks, and her braided headband and programmed Olivia Newton John’s “Let’s Get Physical” on her ipod.  Stand next to her; you’ll look good.

5.  The Weight Lifter.  You know how everyone else in the class has weights ranging in size from  2.5-5 lbs?  She’s got the 10 pounder, and still acts as if she’s not being challenged.  B*tch.

6.  The Regular.  She never misses a class, and sometimes she sticks around for the next class.  I’m drenched in sweat and have jello legs, but she needs another hour of physical exertion.  Apparently she doesn't have the Mt. Everest of laundry waiting for her at home.

7.  The Non-Sweater.  While I am feeling my pulse and praying that my heart doesn’t explode right in the middle of the gym floor, she’s barely breaking a sweat.  This is a blessing in disguise, however.  When I have a heart attack, I’m pretty sure she’ll have the energy to run and get the defibrillators.

8.  The Jokester.  While planking, she makes a funny about how “it’s not like you’re working with 400 lbs. of body weight!  It’s only 200 lbs.”  Hahahahaha . . . wait.  Hey!

9.  The Old Lady.  She’s 90 years old, but she’s still shaking her money-maker at the gym.  When I’m 90, I plan to be fat and surly.  (You know . . . a complete change from what I am now.)  

10. The Former Marine.  I’m doing girly push ups and silently repeating the mantra my arms will not give out causing my face to slam into the floor, and she’s going all Demi Moore G.I. Jane.  This is probably the same woman who just competed in the Tough Mudder – the race where contestants compete in a muddy obstacle course for the purpose of . . . well, I don’t know what the purpose is.  I just know that I don't like getting persweaty, so you can be damn sure I don’t like rolling around in the mud like a prized swine.  Makes me think of all the laundry I’d have to do afterwards.  And bacon.

What Brings You Here?

Every once and a while I look at all the information and statistics Blogger keeps regarding the BoyMommy blog.  It makes absolutely NO sense to me, but I have learned a few things. 

First, if someone links to my blog (by “sharing” it on your Facebook page, for example,) the blog gets A LOT more traffic than it does when I post it on my page or the BoyMommy Facebook page . . . because I can only reach so many people, but if you tell your friends, and they tell their friends, and they tell their friends, well, that’s a lot of people who I otherwise might not reach.  (Is everyone picking up on my subtle attempt to get you to share my blog on your page?  Huh?  Are ya?)

Second, if you type in certain search words on Google, you will be directed to my BoyMommy blog.  One would think that’s a wonderful opportunity, and it is, but I must say I am a little disturbed at the searches that are directing people to my blog.  Further, I am sure the searchers are equally as disturbed when they are directed to a blog that essentially chronicles my shortcomings as a parent, a dieter, and a general wearer of clothes.

 

You can’t make this sh*t up.  The following are ACTUAL searches that people Googled and that eventually led them to my blog.  I’m not sure if I should be more concerned with the peculiar searches or the fact that the world wide internets thinks, hmmm . . . you know what THIS person needs?  A little glimpse into BoyMommy’s life, that’s what! 

There are plenty of searches for boy mom, mom and boy, etc., and some pretty innocuous searches for various craft ideas or preppy clothing ideas.  But then there are the others . . . the searches that make me fear for the future of society. 

These are my faves:

• "Kid pooping" - whatdyawant?  a picture?
• "Midget shooting a bird" - yeah, I'd pay to see that.  I'd look it up myself if I didn't think it would direct me right back to my own blog.
• "Audrey Hepburn Leggings" - this, for some reason, is the most popular search that links people to me.
• "Dinosaur Train Sex" - um, you're a sicko, you freak.
• "Announcement for the funeral of my . . ." - of my WHAT?  You can't leave me hangin' like that!
• "Little boys pooping" - I've seen enough of this in my lifetime that I need not look it up on the world wide internets.
• "Spider trim" - like, how to give a spider a haircut?
• "How to lose 50 lbs. in 2 weeks" - if I knew the answer to this one, I wouldn't be sitting at my kitchen counter writing a blog about "Dinosaur Train Sex."
• "Didn’t even send a card" - Dude.  Sorry.  I didn't know.
• "Why do I have to do everything?" - I can pretty much guarantee that you did not find the answer you were seeking.
• "Love poem packers" - I love poems so I pack them?  I love Green Bay, so I write poems?
• "Big girl bloated beer" - okay, I kinda understand this one.
• "Boy getting bikini wax" - um, eeeeewwwwww.

Okay, so if you like this blog, please share a post (this one, or choose another favorite) on your Facebook page.  I will love you forever.

Favorite Quotes of the Summer . . . so far.

Favorite Quotes of Summer "Vacation"

1.  Necessary background info:  Small is . . . well . . . small.  He is only in the 1 percentile for weight; in fact, he isn’t even on the curve on the doctor’s growth chart.  He eats well and he is not malnourished, but of all three of our boys, he is the one who likes fruit and veggies.  Plus he is a busy little guy – he’s got the metabolism of a meth addict.  After our last weight check at the pediatrician’s office:

“Is Small gonna grow up to be a midget?”

Besides, I think they prefer to be called Little People.

2.  Medium hands me a tissue.  “Here.  I put the booger on the inside.”

Super.

3.  Randomly . . . “When you die, I’ll think of you.”

Um, thanks?

4.  SOMEone decided a giant plastic baseball bat full of gumballs would be a good birthday gift for Large.  It is not. 

“Mom, I have gum in my hair.  I have learned. my. lesson.”

Shane gets his math skillz from Mommy.

5.  Necessary background info:  Shane is a stuffed wolf Medium got at Great Wolf Lodge last fall.  He goes with us everywhere.  He’s like a member of the family, and I’ve had to superglue his nose back on three times.  You know I’m not supposed to play with the superglue after the Great Superhero Convalescent Home Incident of 2007. 

Medium: “Did you know Shane knows how to talk?  Watch.  Shane, what’s 2+2?”

Shane: “um, 5?”

Large: “It’s 4.”

Medium: “I said he knows how to talk; he doesn’t know math.”

6.  Necessary background info: I generally don’t wear tank tops as they accentuate my bat wings.  On one particularly persweaty day, however, I wore a tank top.  The fashion police, cleverly disguised as my 6-year-old, had comments:

“your armpits are getting furry.”

7.  Necessary background info: My in-laws have a pet turtle.  And by "pet," I mean they found him in the middle of the road and decided they needed to bring him INTO their home.  Now my FIL cooks the turtle hot dogs and lovingly cuts them up into little pieces, because lord knows we don’t want to have to take a choking turtle to the vet.  So when Hubby went to the fridge to get a snack, my MIL reminded him,

“Don’t eat the turtle’s watermelon.  It’s not as fresh.”

Boy, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve said THAT . . .

Yes, folks, the turtle also gets temperature-controlled watermelon chunks. 

8.  Trying to catch up with his cousins, who took off on their bikes . . . "I'll never catch up to them!  What if I come back with raccoons and sloths all over me?!"

Wha?  What the h*ll have you been watching?

It’s only the beginning of July . . . I’ll keep track of my family’s utterances so I have something to blog about again later!

What Happens When Two Straight Girls Hit South Beach?

I apologize for being out of commission for so long, although, strangely enough, I didn’t receive any complaints . . .

Knock, knock, knock - Is this thing on?

I got back from Miami, then we had Small’s birthday festivities, and then Hubby left town for 4 days.  I’ve said it before: I have the UTMOST respect for Military wives and single moms.  It’s tough knowing reinforcements are not coming.

Anyway, my trip to Miami with BooBoo (my sister-in-law) was fun and we made a lot of new gay boyfriends.  I hope that no one finds that offensive, because I certainly mean no disrespect.  I realize homosexuality is a hot topic and people have different opinions, but this is MY blog.  I don’t believe it’s necessary for me to point out that there are plenty of gay men and women who treat marriage and partnership with a tad more reverence than certain celebrities.  (I'm talking to you, Porn Family Sheen.)  But I’m not here to debate.  I know what I believe, whom I respect and support, and who I may have let feel me up at a bar simply because he was not a perv and because he had a genuine appreciation of the girls.  Take THAT, 9^th grade boyfriend, who had to wait, like, 7 months to get that far!

We left Friday evening to head to the airport, as we had a 7 am flight out of Baltimore.  I was WAY tired, however, because the nice doctor at Patient First gave me some very special medicine to help with the Bronchitis AND Strep Throat I contracted two days before our trip.  FOUR days before our trip, Small’s pediatrician gave me prophylactic Tamiflu to prevent me from catching Small’s flu, since, in her words, “Mommy NEEDS her Girls’ Weekend.”  BooBoo started complaining before we even hit the highway.  Granted, she was complaining about my running commentary regarding her driving skills, or lack thereof, but it was unnecessary and downright hurtful for her to threaten to call Hubby to “take his side” regarding Travel With BoyMommy.

She also made several snide comments regarding the size of my luggage.  Is it NOT general knowledge that I am a princess?  I’m no Ginger; I’m more of a MaryAnn.  But I have a habit of spilling and I have a propensity for wearing white shirts.  Spillage + White = Spare White Shirts Clothing.  BooBoo packed a small duffel bag, and I would not be able to testify in court on her behalf if asked if she even changed underwear while we were gone.  After all her eye rolling and sighing when we had to check my bag, guess which one of us got stopped by security?  It wasn’t me.  You know why?  Because I am smart enough to travel without my pocket knife.  My rocket scientist SIL, who likes to "pack light," didn’t check all the bag’s nooks and crannies before borrowing it from her teenaged son.  

Sucka.  I’ll just wait for you over here while you get molested by the well-meaning TSA agent.

We arrived in Miami after enduring a packed flight.  (Side note, I sat next to a very nice gentleman who flagged down the flight attendant for extra napkins when I SPILLED my beverage on my WHITE SHIRT before we even landed at our destination.)  As we waited patiently for my suitcase at baggage claim, I made the following observations:

1. cruises are frequented by older people who speak loudly and wear “sensible” shoes.
2. the state uniform of Florida is apparently an embroidered shirt paired with jorts.

Once we got to the hotel, we checked in at the front desk and it was clear that we were in the minority.  The Gay and Lesbian Task Force was having their annual pool party at the hotel, but it was about 95% Gay, 4% Lesbian, and me and BooBoo.  They gave us wrist bands when we checked in.  Wrist bands meant we could gain access to the party, but it also meant . . . cheap beverages. 

We spent the afternoon at the beach.  I am serious about my sunscreen.  In fact, “serious” does not do justice to how I feel about my sunscreen.  While BooBoo spent the day lounging in the Florida sun without anything to protect her from harmful UV rays, I slathered on SPF 70.  SEVENTY, folks.  That’s a sweater in a can.  Guess what?  Still got burned.  We ordered a few beverages from our beach attendant, Juan Carlos, but the drinks were mediocre at best, AND I think I offended him when I kept calling him Juan Valdez.  He pro’lly peed in my drink.  BooBoo went back up to the hotel to “visit the powder room” and met some friends, so we decided to call it a day and go party. In the elevator on our way back up to the room, we ran into some nice boys who invited us to a bar so that we could be privy to their Drag show.  Hell to the yes.

BooBoo went to the lobby and I agreed to meet her after I changed from “hot mess” into “hot mess with a strategically placed barrette because surely those gay boys won’t notice my dirty beach hair.”  When I arrived in the lobby, however, BooBoo was nowhere to be found.  Turns out, she got suckered into escorting a 350 lb. Black man to the Ladies Room.  It seems he had partaken of some wings that had “done messed him up,” and he really needed to skip the line that was forming at the Men’s Room, but since he was not a guest at our hotel he needed BooBoo to escort him.  She was like the Foreign Diplomat of the Facilities.  Line to Men's Room, 20 deep.  Line to Ladies' Room?  Step right up!  Welcome to our world, fellas.

We made our way to the bar and we met a group of boys who happened to be discussing Midgets.  As you recall, we had been told that a Midget Convention was in town, but I had my doubts.  (We did NOT see any Little People while we were there.  One might say there was a shortage of Midgets.)  (Hehe.  I’ve been waiting all week to say that.)  Naturally we felt a kinship with this group of six gay men who were heading to the same establishment.

The rest of the evening was a bit blurry.  There was beer, boys, drag queens, boobage, and a HILARIOUS walk back to the hotel.  Hilarious because it was raining, and apparently I found this to be can’t-stop-laughing hysterical.  We hadn’t eaten, so we saddled up to the bar at the hotel before we went to bed.  According to BooBoo (and my vague recollection) I voiced my appreciation of the bartender’s “nice rack.”  Because I’m full o’ compliments, and I’m starting to think I might be a little obsessed with boobs. 

The trip was fun.  It required a lot of effort to get there and return home, but it certainly was nice to enjoy some sun and warm weather after a gray, cold winter.  I missed my boys, and I was met with hugs and homemade “welcome home” cards – so maybe Mommy’s being away was refreshing for everyone.  Hubby did a great job with the boys and the house while I was gone, but he was ready to get back to work!