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.

BoyMommy Goes Bra Shopping

You know how you walk into a store to shop for undergarments and all of a sudden you find yourself involved in an awkward conversation set amongst the big girl panties and the padded bras?

No?  Just me?

I went out alone this afternoon without all my little helpers because I need to purchase some new t-shirt bras.  Ladies, I know you know of what I speak.  Summertime calls for bras that have a little extra padding in them so that you do not give off the appearance that the headlights are always on.  Plus, bras don't last forever.  They’re made of elastic, and after hundreds of washings they lose their original shape and functionality.  Yes, I know I could wash them on the “delicate” cycle, but have you seen the bras I wear?  Nothing delicate about them.  Perhaps if there were an “industrial” cycle . . .

This is what happens when I take my
"helpers" shopping with me.

So there I was, mindin’ my own, in a store that I shall not name but that rhymes with Schmohl’s.  I couldn’t find what I was looking for, and I had a specific item in mind because once I find something that works, I stick to it.  Next thing I knew I was discussing undergarments with a complete stranger.

“Excuse me,” a middle-aged woman (in an unfortunate summer sweater) started, as I was rifling through the rack looking for my size. (34B.  Hehe.)  “Have you seen any racerback bras?”

Lady, what about me says “racer” to you? 

Racerback bras do not offer enough support, in my opinion, and yet I had actually picked one up to try on.  “I found this one over there,” I pointed. . . Be on your way.

“Oh, that’s cute!  It’s for my daughter.  I don't wear them but that’s what she likes to wear,” she continued. 

Good to know. 

“Good luck,” I offered, because I am a nice person, NOT, as she assumed, because I wanted to continue chatting her up amongst the intimates. 

“What do you think of this one?” I heard her ask, and indeed she was talking to me.

“Um, it’s cute.  I’m looking for t-shirt bras though,” I said as I stealthily made my way into the next aisle.

“Oh, you’re right.  That’s a good point.  My daughter’s always telling me she can see my . . . “ and she placed her hands . . . there.  On her n*ppies. 

Apparently I need to work on my stealth.

Next came the britches debate.  “Do you wear these?” she asked as she approached me with a cotton/nylon hybrid that offered seamless, stay-put technology.

What kind of person asks random strangers what kind of britches they prefer?  And WHY do I keep engaging with this woman, I asked myself, even as I blurted out, “it’s summer.  It’s hot.  I wear cotton.” 

She grabbed a pair of britches that could only be called Granny panties and whispered, “I’ve had this kind for 10 years.  They’re so comfortable.”

Um, I’m afraid I did not have a response to that except for wide eyes and a nervous giggle.

“I just can’t wear those teeny-tiny ones like my daughter does,” she continued, shaking her head.  “I ask her all the time why she even bothers wearing underwear!”

 

Please make it stop.  

I’m a good person.  I went to church this morning.  I’m just trying to find something that will keep my boobs from hitting my knees while also protecting myself from comments about any obvious perpetual alertness.  I want a bra that says "come hither" while also saying "no thanks I've gotta make the lunches."

I did not make any purchases today.  It could have been worse, I suppose; I could have run into the Talky Woman in the tampon aisle.  

Tips From My Mom

I say it every year: Mother’s Day is bittersweet for me.  

You know I loves a day that’s all about me.  In fact, I think MORE days should be devoted to my general awesomeness, but we can look at the calendar later.  

Shut up, Jane Seymour.  You're buggin' me.

I lost my mom to cancer in 2005, and sometimes it’s hard to look at all those sweet greeting cards at Hallmark or to see commercials for tacky necklaces designed by Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. 

Me and my mommy.

In memory of my mom, here are some important lessons I learned from her:

1.  It’s just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man.  

Yes, you read that correctly.  Why love a poor man if you can love a rich one?  (Unless, of course, you’re actually in love with the economically-challenged guy . . .  but then you run the risk of living in your parents’ basement for the rest of your married life.  Or worse, HIS parents' basement.)

2.  If someone says something bad about you, live so no one will believe it.  

It’s taken me a loooong time to embrace this philosophy, but she was right.  You can’t make people like you; you just have to be true to yourself.  Conduct yourself in such a way that people who know you will speak up on your behalf.  It works the other way too - this is why when people say I am skinny, athletic, and healthy, no one believes it. 

3.  Never put anything in writing that you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the newspaper.  

This lesson came in the 4^th grade when I was writing a love note to a boy.  (Trey Wickham, are you out there?)  It’s even more relevant today in the age of Instagram and Facebook and SnapChat.  Once you put it out there, it’s OUT there.  Forever.  Good luck finding long term employment, sorority girl who sent a scathing email to her "sisters"!  The permanence of the World Wide Internets is also why my dad hates this blog.  I put it all out there, perhaps unwisely.  And apparently he doesn't enjoy reading about my bikini wax adventures.  

4.  If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.  

You’d think I’d keep my yapper shut, but alas, I have no filter, so what comes up comes out. . . . which is why, last weekend at Gold Cup, I told a complete stranger, who was wearing a white linen suit with a black t-shirt, that he looked like Sonny Crocket.  

Totally forgot how hawt Don
Johnson was in the 80's.

5.  White carpet picks up everything but men and money.  True dat.

6.  If you don’t have the sense that God gave a goose, then you’d best stay home.  

Seriously . . . use yer noggin.

7.  It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.   

Debatable, but I believe that every relationship, romantic or otherwise, teaches us lessons about ourselves.  For instance, because of a previous love, I know that I do not find Eau de Shift-at-Taco-Bell to be an aphrodisiac. 

8.  Do not leave the house looking like you were rode hard and put up wet.  

Get your sh*t together.  I'm not saying you have to be all dressed up, but brush your teeth at least.

9.  Similarly, always wear clean underwear.  

This is just a staple of good hygiene.  The last thing you want is some 20-year-old EMT with an ambulance license and a CB handle looking at your crusties. 

10.  Mommy needs her own candy stash . . . one that is hers and hers only.  

(Or an alcohol stash.  To each her own.)

That's 16 o's folks.  He really loves me.  Please also notice the giant pile o' laundry.

Give your mom an extra snuggle this Mother's Day.  Even if she drives you bat sh*t crazy, you're pretty lucky to have her around.  And go ahead and let your own little ones shower you with adoration, much like they do every other day.  (Ha!  That last statement just made wine come out my nose . . . )

Happy Mother's Day to my fellow Sisters in the trenches!

Father's Day: an Homage to my Hubby

In honor of Father’s Day, (even though, as one of my friends put it, I'M the reason he's a father in the first place,) the top ten reasons I love my Baby Daddy.

Ahem.

1.     Over the past year, he’s only knocked out one of my children’s teeth.  It was an accident, but that doesn’t preclude the fact that Medium lost a tooth.

2.     He doesn’t go to bed angry.  Nope - he doesn’t let marital strife interfere with his sleep.  While I’m tossing and turning and contemplating smothering him with his pillow or preparing his morning coffee with a little arsenic sweetener, he’s snoozing away.

3.     He loves me just the way I am.  A man who would allow THIS to remain on the kitchen counter since last Friday obviously does not care whether or not his bride loses weight.

4.     He believes in me, and he is confident that I can do anything.  Why else would he leave a to-do list that includes going to the bank, dropping off dry-cleaning, delivering a package, and waiting for the HVAC guy, while making sure my kitchen is stocked with milk and bread, and of course, raising our children to be upstanding citizens.

5.     He makes an effort to include me in his hobbies.  Just last week he asked me to meet him at the end-of-the-season baseball party.  I had already decorated 12 baseballs, purchased baseball card packs, packed him a bag of clothes and cleats, filled the cooler, loaded the bag with baseball bats, grabbed the giant bucket of baseballs, and buckled all three of my little All-Stars into the Swagger Wagon ( . . . so thanks for the invite!)  This particular baseball team is not to be confused with the team for which I purchase, set up, and man the concession stand, for which I held an open house thirty-one/scentsy/stella & dot party last fall, and for which I registered and solicited donations for a recent tournament.   That’s a different team.

6.     He is supportive of my writing and he is proud of me.  He gushes away when colleagues or their wives tell him how funny I am or ask him about various situations in which I may have thrown him under the proverbial bus.  He is a willing participant in my storytelling and is always glad to be the *ss in my jokes.  I mean the butt of my jokes. 

7.     He helps with the laundry. . . usually with an audible sigh and a muffled comment about not having any clean underwear or socks.  He simply shrugs off my unwillingness inability to match socks as one of my more endearing quirks.

8.     He cherishes the fact that we are different.  Our strengths lie in different areas, and after the first ten years of our marriage, he finally accepted, graciously, that my lack of cooperation with the checkbook is all part of my charm.  I know this because I said to him, “why can’t you just accept that my lack of cooperation with the checkbook is all part of my charm?” at which point I think he threw his hat on the ground while I looked at him all doe-eyed and smirky.

9.     He appreciates my sense of humor.  When he texts to say he’ll be home by 10 and I text back that I’ll be sure to have my boyfriend out of the house by then, I know he’s laughing.  It’s probably deep down inside, but he’s laughing.

10.  He doesn’t complain that I don’t like to cook.  In fact, he didn’t have any comment at all when I suggested that if Chef Boyardee is not a sufficient dinner then perhaps he should eat his BIG meal at lunch time. 

My Hubby is an excellent daddy.  While this post may be a tad sarcastic, (just like I’m a tad sarcastic,) he loves his boys and I couldn’t ask for much more.