Valentine's Day is such a scam. I really think it was created for couples with bad relationships to make amends for all the terrible crap they do to one another the rest of the year.
Being the self-proclaimed social scientist I am, I've noticed a correlation: the worse a relationship is in terms of fighting, annoyance, whining, and complaining, the more abundant and juvenile the gifts that are exchanged for Valentine's Day. I believe it's because couples who fight constantly are selfish (thus justifying the quantity of gifts needed to placate), and immature (meaning a girl who throws a screaming tantrum deserves a teddy bear).
The one item that I feel I need to speak out publicly against is the Hoodie-Footie pajamas. I keep seeing and hearing this advertised all over the place, and it seems to be a pre-cursor to my worst nightmare: hoodie-footie pajamas in public. I guarantee you that this is the next step in the devolution of the human species.
It's bad enough that people feel it's socially acceptable to wear pajama pants and Crocs to the grocery store. It's just a matter of time before some woman decked out from head-to-toe in a pink hoodie-footie will show up in another email installment of "People of Wal Mart" (although that is a step up from the 350 lb woman wearing thong underwear and size 10 shorts).
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Think of it as "buying a lifestyle"!
OK, so this weekend we took advantage of our "discounted vacation package" which was really a time share presentation disguised as a fabulous weekend getaway. Not that we didn't know what we were getting ourselves into; we went in knowing full well we were going to have to sit through a 90-minute (minimum) experiment in human psychology but we were armed with our "no" faces and wearing clothes normally reserved for yard work or bathing animals.
The sloppy first-impression was Neal's idea. Perhaps he was subconsciously inspired by the episode of The Cosby Show where Dr. Huxtable and Theo go to the car lot to lowball wearing their threadbare shirts, only to be recognized as a doctor by one of the sales staff. Only in this instance, you have to fill out paperwork stating your occupation and income level. Nice try, Dr. Spears. We couldn't lie on the forms since it could invalidate the whole deal and we'd be liable for the remainder of the cost of the weekend. Thanks a lot, internet.
Anyway, we went and sat at the Registration Center of the resort for about 20 minutes in which time we were offered free hot dogs and chocolate. We were also forced to listen to annoying clips from "America's Funniest Home Videos" that were turned up to 11 so that little kids would be completely engaged and not at all bothersome while the sales rep was trying to establish what promised to be a life-long relationship with the potential buyers.
Our tour guide/sales rep finally greeted us and took us outside for our interview, probably so he could hear us over Bob Saget's voice. He asked all the standard stuff and acted like he was totally impressed with every syllable we uttered. We're trying to keep expectations low so that he's not too disappointed when we tell him "no", and much to his credit, I think he picked up on that. Nonetheless, we toured the property which pretty much solidified our decision. The property was great; the clientele not so much.
We're trudging through the recreation center, around the pool and the putt putt golf course, and I'm seeing people that look like they would be...loud. They all looked like they list their hobbies as "partying" and "gettin hammered". I'm not going to say anything beyond that but you can probably imagine. A lot of them looked like the cast of "My Name is Earl" meets "Jersey Shore".
The tour was punctuated with announcements over the loudspeaker of different families who had just bought their piece of the dream, and where they were choosing to spend their first vacation. The announcer had the exhuberance of a Price is Right contestant, which prompted all the sales people around the property to clap wildly and high-five any fellow sales rep within 5 feet of them upon hearing his contagious enthusiasm.
Finally, we came back to the registration center for the sales pitch. Our sales rep did a fantastic job at showing us around and being a nice person but it just wasn't enough to commit us to vacationing in the same seven locations for the rest of our lives. When he realized he was getting nowhere, he summond the next guy up on the totem poll. This next-in-command sales guy landed at our table like he'd been dropped from the sky. He either needed some ADHD medication or a reduction in coffee intake. Maybe it was the latter because he was chewing vigorously on the only thing that is guaranteed to cover coffee breath, which is Strawberry Bubblicious. It was so strong I could smell it from across the table.
Bubblicious tried the full-court press by whipping out the catalog of destinations offered by their sister company that we could use seemingly any time, any place in a perfect world. I could see that Bubblicious was doing great with my son. He was very impressed with the selection of vacations and color photos of palatial suites that sit practically right on the beach or right at the bottom of the mountain. Trent could hardly believe we were passing up the deal of a lifetime.
Unfortunately for Bubblicious, Trent was not making the decision so it was still a big, fat "no". He went through the seven stages of grieving in the course of about 10 seconds, then told us he'd be back with our paperwork to claim our prizes.
You might think this is the end, but alas, there is a second act. Once you get your paperwork, you are shuffled into the "Awards Center", which is the least maintained building on the property. It's here that you sign in and wait. I don't know if the motif of the room was supposed to be "DMV waiting room" but if it was, they nailed it. I noticed there was a candy machine in the corner, and laughed. Before the tour, the Hershey Miniatures were free and plentiful. Now, they wanted a quarter for each one.
Thirty minutes later, our name was called and Neal was whisked into a back room where I was sure he would be granted one last chance to take advantage of this investment-of-a-lifetime. I was surprised when he emerged 10 minutes later with an American Express gift card and free passes to their water park facility, stress-free.
We felt like we'd been paroled and went straight to the water park. While it was a fun little place, I'm glad we didn't commit to it for the rest of our lives.
The sloppy first-impression was Neal's idea. Perhaps he was subconsciously inspired by the episode of The Cosby Show where Dr. Huxtable and Theo go to the car lot to lowball wearing their threadbare shirts, only to be recognized as a doctor by one of the sales staff. Only in this instance, you have to fill out paperwork stating your occupation and income level. Nice try, Dr. Spears. We couldn't lie on the forms since it could invalidate the whole deal and we'd be liable for the remainder of the cost of the weekend. Thanks a lot, internet.
Anyway, we went and sat at the Registration Center of the resort for about 20 minutes in which time we were offered free hot dogs and chocolate. We were also forced to listen to annoying clips from "America's Funniest Home Videos" that were turned up to 11 so that little kids would be completely engaged and not at all bothersome while the sales rep was trying to establish what promised to be a life-long relationship with the potential buyers.
Our tour guide/sales rep finally greeted us and took us outside for our interview, probably so he could hear us over Bob Saget's voice. He asked all the standard stuff and acted like he was totally impressed with every syllable we uttered. We're trying to keep expectations low so that he's not too disappointed when we tell him "no", and much to his credit, I think he picked up on that. Nonetheless, we toured the property which pretty much solidified our decision. The property was great; the clientele not so much.
We're trudging through the recreation center, around the pool and the putt putt golf course, and I'm seeing people that look like they would be...loud. They all looked like they list their hobbies as "partying" and "gettin hammered". I'm not going to say anything beyond that but you can probably imagine. A lot of them looked like the cast of "My Name is Earl" meets "Jersey Shore".
The tour was punctuated with announcements over the loudspeaker of different families who had just bought their piece of the dream, and where they were choosing to spend their first vacation. The announcer had the exhuberance of a Price is Right contestant, which prompted all the sales people around the property to clap wildly and high-five any fellow sales rep within 5 feet of them upon hearing his contagious enthusiasm.
Finally, we came back to the registration center for the sales pitch. Our sales rep did a fantastic job at showing us around and being a nice person but it just wasn't enough to commit us to vacationing in the same seven locations for the rest of our lives. When he realized he was getting nowhere, he summond the next guy up on the totem poll. This next-in-command sales guy landed at our table like he'd been dropped from the sky. He either needed some ADHD medication or a reduction in coffee intake. Maybe it was the latter because he was chewing vigorously on the only thing that is guaranteed to cover coffee breath, which is Strawberry Bubblicious. It was so strong I could smell it from across the table.
Bubblicious tried the full-court press by whipping out the catalog of destinations offered by their sister company that we could use seemingly any time, any place in a perfect world. I could see that Bubblicious was doing great with my son. He was very impressed with the selection of vacations and color photos of palatial suites that sit practically right on the beach or right at the bottom of the mountain. Trent could hardly believe we were passing up the deal of a lifetime.
Unfortunately for Bubblicious, Trent was not making the decision so it was still a big, fat "no". He went through the seven stages of grieving in the course of about 10 seconds, then told us he'd be back with our paperwork to claim our prizes.
You might think this is the end, but alas, there is a second act. Once you get your paperwork, you are shuffled into the "Awards Center", which is the least maintained building on the property. It's here that you sign in and wait. I don't know if the motif of the room was supposed to be "DMV waiting room" but if it was, they nailed it. I noticed there was a candy machine in the corner, and laughed. Before the tour, the Hershey Miniatures were free and plentiful. Now, they wanted a quarter for each one.
Thirty minutes later, our name was called and Neal was whisked into a back room where I was sure he would be granted one last chance to take advantage of this investment-of-a-lifetime. I was surprised when he emerged 10 minutes later with an American Express gift card and free passes to their water park facility, stress-free.
We felt like we'd been paroled and went straight to the water park. While it was a fun little place, I'm glad we didn't commit to it for the rest of our lives.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I'm baaaa-aaack!
Wow, I've been absent before, but never for this long. This is embarrassing but it was either (a) reclaim my blog and do some 'splainin, or (b) start a new blog and pretend the other one never existed only to eventually abandon two blogs and take up badly-needed web addresses. If blogs were children, I could eventually become the parental equivalent of an NBA player...just keep makin' em, and leavin' em to fend for themselves.
The reasons I am back are threefold: (1) peer and family pressure (2) New Year's rez, and (3) I can say things on here that I can't say in my newspaper column. Take for instance, the comment about NBA players.
Since September of 2009, I have been a columnist for The Smithville Times, and that has given me the outlet I needed to express myself via the written word but there's only so much I can say about myself and my family in a community publication. I already offer so much information about us that I've had to hire Lifelock to protect our identities from being stolen. (However, just in case the column doesn't get it done, there's always Facebook -- the go-to website that meets your stalking, identity-stealing, and spamming needs all in one location.)
I need a plan I can live with. Something that allows me to post to the blog in reasonable intervals without burning me out. Something that allows me to say what needs to be said without self-censoring.
I think the answer lies in brevity. From now on, if I have something interesting to share that exceeds the length acceptable for a Facebook status, I shall turn to this blog to meet that need. Similarly, if I make an observation that may upset the general Facebook population, I shall use this forum. This is where you will find the thoughts that may not be Facebook appropriate but are not so raw that they need to be expressed to select people via text. I'm not talking vulgarity here, just honesty.
Let's start with some things that have been weighing heavily on me over the past 24 hours in terms of sheer stupidity:
1. CNN is full of pansy sheep. I can't believe they are no longer allowing the use of words like "target" or "crosshairs" or the like in the name of "not inflaming" people. Don't get me wrong, it's their right to do that because they are not a branch of the government and they can run their network however they want, but it's stupid and laughable. No wonder they have no viewers. (Just so you know, I cringe every time I hear Fox anchors use the phrase "homicide bomber" instead of "suicide bomber". That's stupid too.)
2. I don't know how many of you will admit to watching "Teen Mom" or "Teen Mom 2", but some of you have to be. (The show has great ratings so you know who you are!) Anyway, I believe the moral of last night's episode is this: If you are living with the parents of your Baby Daddy and have no other prospects standing between yourself and homelessness, do not (I repeat, DO NOT) change your Facebook status to "In a relationship" when the "relationship" is clearly not with the Baby Daddy. That is failure on a Nancy Pelosi level.
Whew. I feel better now, don't you?
By the way, I'll update photos soon. We don't even have some of the pets shown anymore, and we now have a new one.
We still have both of the kids but they look slightly different.
The reasons I am back are threefold: (1) peer and family pressure (2) New Year's rez, and (3) I can say things on here that I can't say in my newspaper column. Take for instance, the comment about NBA players.
Since September of 2009, I have been a columnist for The Smithville Times, and that has given me the outlet I needed to express myself via the written word but there's only so much I can say about myself and my family in a community publication. I already offer so much information about us that I've had to hire Lifelock to protect our identities from being stolen. (However, just in case the column doesn't get it done, there's always Facebook -- the go-to website that meets your stalking, identity-stealing, and spamming needs all in one location.)
I need a plan I can live with. Something that allows me to post to the blog in reasonable intervals without burning me out. Something that allows me to say what needs to be said without self-censoring.
I think the answer lies in brevity. From now on, if I have something interesting to share that exceeds the length acceptable for a Facebook status, I shall turn to this blog to meet that need. Similarly, if I make an observation that may upset the general Facebook population, I shall use this forum. This is where you will find the thoughts that may not be Facebook appropriate but are not so raw that they need to be expressed to select people via text. I'm not talking vulgarity here, just honesty.
Let's start with some things that have been weighing heavily on me over the past 24 hours in terms of sheer stupidity:
1. CNN is full of pansy sheep. I can't believe they are no longer allowing the use of words like "target" or "crosshairs" or the like in the name of "not inflaming" people. Don't get me wrong, it's their right to do that because they are not a branch of the government and they can run their network however they want, but it's stupid and laughable. No wonder they have no viewers. (Just so you know, I cringe every time I hear Fox anchors use the phrase "homicide bomber" instead of "suicide bomber". That's stupid too.)
2. I don't know how many of you will admit to watching "Teen Mom" or "Teen Mom 2", but some of you have to be. (The show has great ratings so you know who you are!) Anyway, I believe the moral of last night's episode is this: If you are living with the parents of your Baby Daddy and have no other prospects standing between yourself and homelessness, do not (I repeat, DO NOT) change your Facebook status to "In a relationship" when the "relationship" is clearly not with the Baby Daddy. That is failure on a Nancy Pelosi level.
Whew. I feel better now, don't you?
By the way, I'll update photos soon. We don't even have some of the pets shown anymore, and we now have a new one.
We still have both of the kids but they look slightly different.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I needed a vacation following my vacation...
Wow! It's been two months since I updated this blog! Shame on me (the worst kind of shame...internet shame)!
I've been scrapbooking the photos from our Carribbean cruise which is akin to an autopsy. There is visual proof it existed and served its function but then it was taken suddenly from us. Now I'm left rummaging through the ashes of mere memories....what a downer!
Actually, reliving the cruise has put me in a great mood and has inspired me to contribute to the world via my blog today. Plus, all that scrapbooking junk has rendered our dining room table an arts & crafts area where no food or drink dare tread. I had to get away to the computer to enjoy some coffee (and we all know that right next to a keyboard is a great place for a huge beverage).
The cruise was everything I expected and more...with the "more" being the tremendous amount of food they shove at your face. The first four days were great but I have learned that there is such a thing as too much delicious food. Since I don't really cook at home enough to speak of, my body was not made to handle this level of cuisine seven days in a row. By the last day we were in the line for the breakfast buffet, I started thinking that a bowl of Cap'n Crunch sounded really appealing.
The trip started with a couple of hiccups. When we parted with our luggage in Galveston, all seven of our bags were loaded onto one cart and hauled away. We waited in line after line after line at the cruise terminal, stopped for a family photo, and then were hustled aboard where we were immediately offered adult beverages. In other words, it ended up costing about $25 just to board the ship comfortably and with a reasonable keepsake. We had some time to kill prior to the compulsory lifeboat drill (which no one warned me about prior to the trip and I never saw on a single episode of "The Love Boat" -- or were they just not as safety-conscious in the 1970s?) so we wandered the boat, located the dining areas, pools, etc while waiting to be reunited with our luggage at some point. After our first excursion around the ship, we returned to our rooms where they happened to be unloading our bags....well, six of our bags at least. When I inquired about the 7th bag, I was told that we were to give the staff a grace period until 8:30 pm to complete the bag delivery. The little naggy voice inside my head said "They lost it! And you knew that was going to happen! Score one for you!"
We left again to go to the dinner buffet and returned to find no 7th bag and only half our shore excursion tickets. By this time, I was thinking "This vacation is ruined! I hate this cruise line! The incompetence of these people is astounding...." I boldly grabbed the confirmation sheets I printed out at home and headed down to the Guest Services desk to demand that they rectify everything at once or face severe pouting and a stern talking-to from me in front of other guests (as if they're not subjected to that every day...they probably keep score and rate our outbursts on a scale of 1 to 10).
As it turns out, my bag wasn't really lost. It was just hanging out in the lobby waiting for me to arrive. As soon as I stepped off the elevator to the lobby, my bag grabbed my attention (How could it not? After all, it's a purple gingham bag with "Megan" embroidered on it"). It was sitting up against a wall with the other dislocated bags like a police lineup. Well, that's one problem solved thanks to my tenaciousness on a totally unrelated matter. I snatched it up without missing a beat and took my spot at the end of the Guest Services line. When I finally made it up to the desk, the nice Indian gentleman explained that I would have to plead my case to the Shore Excursions desk which would open at 10:00 the next morning. After reviewing my paperwork, he seemed optimistic that the situation would be remedied with very little static.
The next morning, we ate breakfast and played some mini golf at the top of the ship where it felt like we were sailing across west Texas. The wind was unbelievable. It made for some golf hilarity fit for "Happy Gilmore". A ball would linger past the hole, then take a 180 and land straight in the cup. As expected, even though Trent landed two holes-in-one and no one else did, he still managed to get mad at the wind (he's also been known to get mad at the sun when it's too bright in the morning) because he didn't ultimately win.
Once we were done with the futile task of hitting a ball into the wind for 30 minutes, I decided to head to the Shore Excursions desk. Imagine my surprise when I saw all the people who had decided it would be better to wait in line on the ship and take the leftover excursions that hadn't been booked to capacity rather than book their excursions in their pajamas online like I did a month prior to the trip. Who does this? Seriously, the line snaked around the corner and must have been fifty people long! This was unacceptable to me. First, they tried to chintz us out of half our tickets then they had the nerve to make me wait in line to fix their screw-up. I think not.
I marched back over to Guest Services and calmly explained that I would need a proxy to represent me at Shore Excursions. This woman could see I was obviously at a breaking point...or she saw my windblown hair and just assumed I was bat-poo crazy. She excused herself to Shore Excursions as I waited at the counter. Minutes passed and suddenly Neal emerges from the elevator waving an envelope. "They brought the other tickets!" he hollered just as my proxy returned with duplicate tickets. "Nevermind...thanks!" I waved at her as I took off. Problem solved.
Megan took to her teen group right away and we pretty much never saw her on the boat from that day forward. We would occasionally reunite when she would check into the room to change clothes or ransack the place during a scavenger hunt but other than taking her ashore with us, we pretty much vacationed without her for the majority of the trip. Trent, on the other hand, found his group entirely too pedestrian for his tastes and elected to stay with Neal and myself. I guess there were no other boys with whom to discuss "24" and guns (those silly neophytes!).
The first excursion into Jamaica was extremely dangerous and filled with peril, and I'm not referring to the dope dealers and panhandlers. I'm talking about the incredibly negligent driving practices. We were supposed to participate in a Jungle River Tubing Experience that day so we met up with our group in the cruise terminal which looked just like a dirty bus station in Houston. (That was after we managed to free ourselves from the clutches of the women selling African art, jewelry, and rasta-man hats right on the pier by the ship.) We were then herded onto a shuttle bus and driven outside the huge concrete walls separating the Americans from the impoverished masses that the cruise line would rather us not see. As we proceeded up the mountain, I realized I was glad I had visited the ladies room before we boarded because I would have peed my pants otherwise. That driver was whipping around curves where there was "nothin but cliff" on one side. His demeanor was the typical "Every little thing gonna be alright" but I think we were starting to suspect that was a facade.
We arrived with our lives intact at the top of the mountain and were told to wait for our guides at the little outpost. Neal decided that this would be the best time to administer some insulin to our son so we wouldn't have to worry about it once we were in the river. He had pre-filled a syringe on the ship and shot it into Trent's arm. It was shortly after that when we re-examined the syringe and realized we had given him waaaay too much insulin. We have been so spoiled with his insulin pump doing all the calculations and administering the doses that we were out of practice with the old-fashioned method of diabetes control. Naturally, I started to panic as we gave Trent all the fruit snacks I had in my bag. Neal was doing some quick math in his head and determined that Trent would need about 3 bottles of Sprite and a couple of bags of Skittles to offset this insulin dose. That probably sounds good to a 10-year-old boy at first but then halfway in, he realizes why too much sugar is not a good thing. Same theory behind making your kid smoke a whole carton of cigarettes if you catch him experimenting with smoking except no one can afford to do that now.
As we sat at the picnic table being sugar cheerleaders for Trent, the guide approached and told us we needed to head down to the water to get ready to raft. We explained what had happened with Trent and she took the Jamaican approach of "it'll be alright, mon". I kid you not. Stereotypes exist for a reason and the phrase "It's OK, mon" or any variation of it was repeated to us numerous times throughout the day, totally reinforcing it. The guides were extremely nice and they really wanted us to have a good time but we had to keep explaining why our 10-year-old having a seizure in the middle of a river in Jamaica was NOT ok. One of them said "All he has to do is lay in the raft. He be fine, mon." And actually, after an hour, he was fine mon but we couldn't take the chance that he wouldn't be fine mon and our group was long gone by then. We filled our time until the next bus departed by counting the amazing number of feral cats roaming the outpost.
We took another death-defying journey in the shuttle bus back down the mountain. This time, it was while sitting in jump seats so that made it even more memorable. The folks we hitched a ride with were coming off the zip line excursion which I could kick myself for not choosing.
The next day we arrived in gorgeous Grand Cayman. This was by far the most naturally beautiful island of the three we visited. The folks in Jamaica were very gracious but the folks in Cayman were gracious AND were rockin a British accent. Mmmm.....love those accents!
The excursion for the day was "Reef-n-Rays Snorkel". We boarded the little boat about mid-morning and were transported to a huge barrier reef, all the while freezing to death. When I started trembling from the cold is when I realized we had forgetten our towels on the ship. I gave myself an internal pep talk -- after all, how many times in my life would I get this opportunity? So, after a short talk by the guides to which I paid no attention to the content because I was so mesmerized by the accents, we were issued snorkel gear and instructed to jump off the boat and snorkel around the front side of the reef. I made everyone else jump in first because I'm a baby when it comes to being cold. One by one, the other members of my family jumped into the water and reported their experiences back to me. Finally, I clenched up and went for it. Whaaa! That was some cold water! I've been in colder water but on a much hotter day.
I eventually acclimated to the temperature but I couldn't seem to get the hang of snorkeling. I must be claustrophobic because I had all kinds of problems breathing through that tube. I spent the majority of my time practicing above the water and being overcome with jealousy that Megan took to it effortlessly. It got to the point where she was instructing me. "Mom, you're moving too much. Just relax and float and put your face down!" Wouldn't you know it? When someone explained it to me in a non-British accent, I totally got it. I followed her instructions and started to enjoy it when I realized I was trembling from the cold. Since I wasn't thrashing around anymore, I wasn't able to maintain my body temp. I was so fed up by then I just swam back to the boat. Luckily, 5 minutes later they sounded the horn for everyone to come back so I didn't feel too slighted.
Once I climbed back aboard, the misery multiplied. I was soaking wet, no towel, and the boat started cruising toward Stingray City at a brisk clip. Neal couldn't believe how cold my skin felt. I couldn't believe I was still conscious.
When we arrived at Stingray City, I was finally dry thanks to the frigid air whipping around me. Even the thought of petting the stingrays was not appealing to me at that point. Nothing short of al-Queda was forcing me into that water again. The sun was finally starting to warm things up and I was determined to bask in it. I gleefully watched as Neal and the kids swam among the stingrays and one of the guides caught one for me and the other weenies to pet from the ladder of the boat.
Once back to shore, we headed over to Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville for some lunch. Trent was fascinated that another restaurant actually went over-and-above the fun factor of Chuck E Cheese's. He quickly ordered his food and went straight over to the water slide. Megan stayed with us as we drank our yard-long daquiris and watched unseamly middle-aged people try to hang with college kids in the ring in the center of the restaurant. Watching the shenanigans, we soon realized why a "cheeseburger in paradise" cost us $15. They use that money to recoup their liquor costs. I kid you not...people were doing conga lines past the bartender as he poured tequila straight from the bottle down their throats.
The final excursion day was spent in Cozumel swimming with dolphins. I highly recommend this for anyone who doesn't have a deathly fear of dolphins. They're like ocean-dogs...cute, smart, and trainable. Megan and I decided that if we ever get "Oprah-rich", we're buying a dolphin habitat. This was our favorite excursion...so much so that we purchased several photos and the DVD of us swimming with them. They're so persuasive, I just handed Neal's wallet to them and told them to take whatever they thought they needed.
We had some time to kill after the "dolphin confrontation" (as Hank Hill once called it) so we walked to a local public beach. It was totally unlike how I thought it would be. I pictured white sands, blue water, and tropical fish. We got blue water alright but we also got a rocky ledge, litter, and a dog that almost peed on our bag had I not yelled at him as he was lifting his leg (I've used the word "peed" twice in one post. Wow.) Neal was the only brave soul who dove from the ledge, following the lead of two young Mexican men who arrived on a moped with the dog in tow. Trent desperately tried to find a safe entry into the water but there just was nothing available. So the three of us baked on the rocks and guarded our stuff while watching Neal swim. I couldn't take his gloating after about 5 minutes and told him it was time to go.
The next day was spent trying to pack the suitcases strategically so that all the souvenirs could fit and generally just lounging by the pool. I was ready to be back in my own bed again. I was sick of everyone else on the ship. As I was taking inventory of the week, I concluded that we all could have lived fulfilling lives without ever visiting Jamaica and that I would have traded that day to get home a day earlier to get a jump-start on the laundry.
I've been scrapbooking the photos from our Carribbean cruise which is akin to an autopsy. There is visual proof it existed and served its function but then it was taken suddenly from us. Now I'm left rummaging through the ashes of mere memories....what a downer!
Actually, reliving the cruise has put me in a great mood and has inspired me to contribute to the world via my blog today. Plus, all that scrapbooking junk has rendered our dining room table an arts & crafts area where no food or drink dare tread. I had to get away to the computer to enjoy some coffee (and we all know that right next to a keyboard is a great place for a huge beverage).
The cruise was everything I expected and more...with the "more" being the tremendous amount of food they shove at your face. The first four days were great but I have learned that there is such a thing as too much delicious food. Since I don't really cook at home enough to speak of, my body was not made to handle this level of cuisine seven days in a row. By the last day we were in the line for the breakfast buffet, I started thinking that a bowl of Cap'n Crunch sounded really appealing.
The trip started with a couple of hiccups. When we parted with our luggage in Galveston, all seven of our bags were loaded onto one cart and hauled away. We waited in line after line after line at the cruise terminal, stopped for a family photo, and then were hustled aboard where we were immediately offered adult beverages. In other words, it ended up costing about $25 just to board the ship comfortably and with a reasonable keepsake. We had some time to kill prior to the compulsory lifeboat drill (which no one warned me about prior to the trip and I never saw on a single episode of "The Love Boat" -- or were they just not as safety-conscious in the 1970s?) so we wandered the boat, located the dining areas, pools, etc while waiting to be reunited with our luggage at some point. After our first excursion around the ship, we returned to our rooms where they happened to be unloading our bags....well, six of our bags at least. When I inquired about the 7th bag, I was told that we were to give the staff a grace period until 8:30 pm to complete the bag delivery. The little naggy voice inside my head said "They lost it! And you knew that was going to happen! Score one for you!"
We left again to go to the dinner buffet and returned to find no 7th bag and only half our shore excursion tickets. By this time, I was thinking "This vacation is ruined! I hate this cruise line! The incompetence of these people is astounding...." I boldly grabbed the confirmation sheets I printed out at home and headed down to the Guest Services desk to demand that they rectify everything at once or face severe pouting and a stern talking-to from me in front of other guests (as if they're not subjected to that every day...they probably keep score and rate our outbursts on a scale of 1 to 10).
As it turns out, my bag wasn't really lost. It was just hanging out in the lobby waiting for me to arrive. As soon as I stepped off the elevator to the lobby, my bag grabbed my attention (How could it not? After all, it's a purple gingham bag with "Megan" embroidered on it"). It was sitting up against a wall with the other dislocated bags like a police lineup. Well, that's one problem solved thanks to my tenaciousness on a totally unrelated matter. I snatched it up without missing a beat and took my spot at the end of the Guest Services line. When I finally made it up to the desk, the nice Indian gentleman explained that I would have to plead my case to the Shore Excursions desk which would open at 10:00 the next morning. After reviewing my paperwork, he seemed optimistic that the situation would be remedied with very little static.
The next morning, we ate breakfast and played some mini golf at the top of the ship where it felt like we were sailing across west Texas. The wind was unbelievable. It made for some golf hilarity fit for "Happy Gilmore". A ball would linger past the hole, then take a 180 and land straight in the cup. As expected, even though Trent landed two holes-in-one and no one else did, he still managed to get mad at the wind (he's also been known to get mad at the sun when it's too bright in the morning) because he didn't ultimately win.
Once we were done with the futile task of hitting a ball into the wind for 30 minutes, I decided to head to the Shore Excursions desk. Imagine my surprise when I saw all the people who had decided it would be better to wait in line on the ship and take the leftover excursions that hadn't been booked to capacity rather than book their excursions in their pajamas online like I did a month prior to the trip. Who does this? Seriously, the line snaked around the corner and must have been fifty people long! This was unacceptable to me. First, they tried to chintz us out of half our tickets then they had the nerve to make me wait in line to fix their screw-up. I think not.
I marched back over to Guest Services and calmly explained that I would need a proxy to represent me at Shore Excursions. This woman could see I was obviously at a breaking point...or she saw my windblown hair and just assumed I was bat-poo crazy. She excused herself to Shore Excursions as I waited at the counter. Minutes passed and suddenly Neal emerges from the elevator waving an envelope. "They brought the other tickets!" he hollered just as my proxy returned with duplicate tickets. "Nevermind...thanks!" I waved at her as I took off. Problem solved.
Megan took to her teen group right away and we pretty much never saw her on the boat from that day forward. We would occasionally reunite when she would check into the room to change clothes or ransack the place during a scavenger hunt but other than taking her ashore with us, we pretty much vacationed without her for the majority of the trip. Trent, on the other hand, found his group entirely too pedestrian for his tastes and elected to stay with Neal and myself. I guess there were no other boys with whom to discuss "24" and guns (those silly neophytes!).
The first excursion into Jamaica was extremely dangerous and filled with peril, and I'm not referring to the dope dealers and panhandlers. I'm talking about the incredibly negligent driving practices. We were supposed to participate in a Jungle River Tubing Experience that day so we met up with our group in the cruise terminal which looked just like a dirty bus station in Houston. (That was after we managed to free ourselves from the clutches of the women selling African art, jewelry, and rasta-man hats right on the pier by the ship.) We were then herded onto a shuttle bus and driven outside the huge concrete walls separating the Americans from the impoverished masses that the cruise line would rather us not see. As we proceeded up the mountain, I realized I was glad I had visited the ladies room before we boarded because I would have peed my pants otherwise. That driver was whipping around curves where there was "nothin but cliff" on one side. His demeanor was the typical "Every little thing gonna be alright" but I think we were starting to suspect that was a facade.
We arrived with our lives intact at the top of the mountain and were told to wait for our guides at the little outpost. Neal decided that this would be the best time to administer some insulin to our son so we wouldn't have to worry about it once we were in the river. He had pre-filled a syringe on the ship and shot it into Trent's arm. It was shortly after that when we re-examined the syringe and realized we had given him waaaay too much insulin. We have been so spoiled with his insulin pump doing all the calculations and administering the doses that we were out of practice with the old-fashioned method of diabetes control. Naturally, I started to panic as we gave Trent all the fruit snacks I had in my bag. Neal was doing some quick math in his head and determined that Trent would need about 3 bottles of Sprite and a couple of bags of Skittles to offset this insulin dose. That probably sounds good to a 10-year-old boy at first but then halfway in, he realizes why too much sugar is not a good thing. Same theory behind making your kid smoke a whole carton of cigarettes if you catch him experimenting with smoking except no one can afford to do that now.
As we sat at the picnic table being sugar cheerleaders for Trent, the guide approached and told us we needed to head down to the water to get ready to raft. We explained what had happened with Trent and she took the Jamaican approach of "it'll be alright, mon". I kid you not. Stereotypes exist for a reason and the phrase "It's OK, mon" or any variation of it was repeated to us numerous times throughout the day, totally reinforcing it. The guides were extremely nice and they really wanted us to have a good time but we had to keep explaining why our 10-year-old having a seizure in the middle of a river in Jamaica was NOT ok. One of them said "All he has to do is lay in the raft. He be fine, mon." And actually, after an hour, he was fine mon but we couldn't take the chance that he wouldn't be fine mon and our group was long gone by then. We filled our time until the next bus departed by counting the amazing number of feral cats roaming the outpost.
We took another death-defying journey in the shuttle bus back down the mountain. This time, it was while sitting in jump seats so that made it even more memorable. The folks we hitched a ride with were coming off the zip line excursion which I could kick myself for not choosing.
The next day we arrived in gorgeous Grand Cayman. This was by far the most naturally beautiful island of the three we visited. The folks in Jamaica were very gracious but the folks in Cayman were gracious AND were rockin a British accent. Mmmm.....love those accents!
The excursion for the day was "Reef-n-Rays Snorkel". We boarded the little boat about mid-morning and were transported to a huge barrier reef, all the while freezing to death. When I started trembling from the cold is when I realized we had forgetten our towels on the ship. I gave myself an internal pep talk -- after all, how many times in my life would I get this opportunity? So, after a short talk by the guides to which I paid no attention to the content because I was so mesmerized by the accents, we were issued snorkel gear and instructed to jump off the boat and snorkel around the front side of the reef. I made everyone else jump in first because I'm a baby when it comes to being cold. One by one, the other members of my family jumped into the water and reported their experiences back to me. Finally, I clenched up and went for it. Whaaa! That was some cold water! I've been in colder water but on a much hotter day.
I eventually acclimated to the temperature but I couldn't seem to get the hang of snorkeling. I must be claustrophobic because I had all kinds of problems breathing through that tube. I spent the majority of my time practicing above the water and being overcome with jealousy that Megan took to it effortlessly. It got to the point where she was instructing me. "Mom, you're moving too much. Just relax and float and put your face down!" Wouldn't you know it? When someone explained it to me in a non-British accent, I totally got it. I followed her instructions and started to enjoy it when I realized I was trembling from the cold. Since I wasn't thrashing around anymore, I wasn't able to maintain my body temp. I was so fed up by then I just swam back to the boat. Luckily, 5 minutes later they sounded the horn for everyone to come back so I didn't feel too slighted.
Once I climbed back aboard, the misery multiplied. I was soaking wet, no towel, and the boat started cruising toward Stingray City at a brisk clip. Neal couldn't believe how cold my skin felt. I couldn't believe I was still conscious.
When we arrived at Stingray City, I was finally dry thanks to the frigid air whipping around me. Even the thought of petting the stingrays was not appealing to me at that point. Nothing short of al-Queda was forcing me into that water again. The sun was finally starting to warm things up and I was determined to bask in it. I gleefully watched as Neal and the kids swam among the stingrays and one of the guides caught one for me and the other weenies to pet from the ladder of the boat.
Once back to shore, we headed over to Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville for some lunch. Trent was fascinated that another restaurant actually went over-and-above the fun factor of Chuck E Cheese's. He quickly ordered his food and went straight over to the water slide. Megan stayed with us as we drank our yard-long daquiris and watched unseamly middle-aged people try to hang with college kids in the ring in the center of the restaurant. Watching the shenanigans, we soon realized why a "cheeseburger in paradise" cost us $15. They use that money to recoup their liquor costs. I kid you not...people were doing conga lines past the bartender as he poured tequila straight from the bottle down their throats.
The final excursion day was spent in Cozumel swimming with dolphins. I highly recommend this for anyone who doesn't have a deathly fear of dolphins. They're like ocean-dogs...cute, smart, and trainable. Megan and I decided that if we ever get "Oprah-rich", we're buying a dolphin habitat. This was our favorite excursion...so much so that we purchased several photos and the DVD of us swimming with them. They're so persuasive, I just handed Neal's wallet to them and told them to take whatever they thought they needed.
We had some time to kill after the "dolphin confrontation" (as Hank Hill once called it) so we walked to a local public beach. It was totally unlike how I thought it would be. I pictured white sands, blue water, and tropical fish. We got blue water alright but we also got a rocky ledge, litter, and a dog that almost peed on our bag had I not yelled at him as he was lifting his leg (I've used the word "peed" twice in one post. Wow.) Neal was the only brave soul who dove from the ledge, following the lead of two young Mexican men who arrived on a moped with the dog in tow. Trent desperately tried to find a safe entry into the water but there just was nothing available. So the three of us baked on the rocks and guarded our stuff while watching Neal swim. I couldn't take his gloating after about 5 minutes and told him it was time to go.
The next day was spent trying to pack the suitcases strategically so that all the souvenirs could fit and generally just lounging by the pool. I was ready to be back in my own bed again. I was sick of everyone else on the ship. As I was taking inventory of the week, I concluded that we all could have lived fulfilling lives without ever visiting Jamaica and that I would have traded that day to get home a day earlier to get a jump-start on the laundry.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Sweets and sweetie-pies
It's almost 5:00 pm on a Sunday and I have no idea what to cook for dinner. The only thing that sounds good right now is Girl Scout cookies. I'm really starting to think I have a problem with these things. (The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?) I have the ability to resist them if I have reinforcements with me. For instance, Neal, Trent, and I were leaving Lowe's today when we were jumped by a couple of uniformed pushers trying to entice us with their caramel-laden treats. I literally had to look away from them in order to resist a hasty purchase that I would have regretted 10 pounds and two dress sizes later. I know it's karma's way of getting back at me for selling cookies outside the YMCA in Houston several years ago. These sweaty people would emerge from the gym and attempt to walk past our table but we could always tell which ones were serious about getting fit and those that were just getting their money's worth for the membership they bought in order to comply with their New Year's resolutions. The weak always worship at the altar of Thin Mints.
On the home front, Trixie is no longer with us. It took a few days, but Trent's initiation tactics finally caused her to growl and nip at him. He just doesn't understand that dogs don't like being hugged to the point of near asphyxiation. Neal reluctantly returned her to her foster home and bid her well. Meanwhile, I stayed home and used the vacuum to remove any trace of her. I think Remington was secretly celebrating on the inside. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if Remi and Trent conspired to get her out of the house so Remi could take possession of her new cushion to sleep on. He has been lopped all over it ever since.
Neal and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary recently by acting like we'd been married 30 years. Dinner and a movie, no cards exchanged, me presenting him with a practical gift (clothes to wear on the cruise), and him sending a bouquet of flowers to my place of business. Pretty standard stuff but appreciated nonetheless. We're pretty low-key so this kind of observation of our anniversary fits us just right.
The stupidest holiday ever invented falls just a couple of short weeks after our anniversary. How can we be expected to get all stirred up for Valentine's Day (or "Forced Romance Day") when we just acknowledged our epic love two weeks prior? Valentine's Day is a pain in the rear regardless of your status. All it can do is cause sadness, resentment, or embarrassment. Sadness if you're single, resentment if you "outdo" your significant other, or embarrassment if you didn't meet expectations. Everything has to go perfectly from the perspective of both parties for this to be a win-win. Rarely is that the case, especially with women.
Valentine's has to be approached very carefully in the sense that you can go one of two ways: You can try to top what you did for Christmas, in which case you are setting a terrible precedent for future Valentine's Days, or you can act like you're above it and keep reiterating to your significant other that you "don't need one day on the calendar to celebrate your feelings because you do that every day of the year." Either way, you're not in a good place. In this economy, I would opt for plan B. This is the approach that Neal and I have adopted but the only reason it works is because it's mutually agreed-upon. Perhaps that's why Valentine's Day was created -- to set boundaries and test compatibilities. It also just happens to work for us because we have Christmas, our anniversary, and "VD" all in a less than two-month span...and this year, we "overstimulated" the economy for Christmas so it left plenty of residual for the other two occasions.
The other bad thing about Valentine's Day? That would be the people who pronouce it "ValenTIME's Day". If I hear you say that, I will take one of those candy hearts and I will....make you EAT it!
On the home front, Trixie is no longer with us. It took a few days, but Trent's initiation tactics finally caused her to growl and nip at him. He just doesn't understand that dogs don't like being hugged to the point of near asphyxiation. Neal reluctantly returned her to her foster home and bid her well. Meanwhile, I stayed home and used the vacuum to remove any trace of her. I think Remington was secretly celebrating on the inside. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if Remi and Trent conspired to get her out of the house so Remi could take possession of her new cushion to sleep on. He has been lopped all over it ever since.
Neal and I celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary recently by acting like we'd been married 30 years. Dinner and a movie, no cards exchanged, me presenting him with a practical gift (clothes to wear on the cruise), and him sending a bouquet of flowers to my place of business. Pretty standard stuff but appreciated nonetheless. We're pretty low-key so this kind of observation of our anniversary fits us just right.
The stupidest holiday ever invented falls just a couple of short weeks after our anniversary. How can we be expected to get all stirred up for Valentine's Day (or "Forced Romance Day") when we just acknowledged our epic love two weeks prior? Valentine's Day is a pain in the rear regardless of your status. All it can do is cause sadness, resentment, or embarrassment. Sadness if you're single, resentment if you "outdo" your significant other, or embarrassment if you didn't meet expectations. Everything has to go perfectly from the perspective of both parties for this to be a win-win. Rarely is that the case, especially with women.
Valentine's has to be approached very carefully in the sense that you can go one of two ways: You can try to top what you did for Christmas, in which case you are setting a terrible precedent for future Valentine's Days, or you can act like you're above it and keep reiterating to your significant other that you "don't need one day on the calendar to celebrate your feelings because you do that every day of the year." Either way, you're not in a good place. In this economy, I would opt for plan B. This is the approach that Neal and I have adopted but the only reason it works is because it's mutually agreed-upon. Perhaps that's why Valentine's Day was created -- to set boundaries and test compatibilities. It also just happens to work for us because we have Christmas, our anniversary, and "VD" all in a less than two-month span...and this year, we "overstimulated" the economy for Christmas so it left plenty of residual for the other two occasions.
The other bad thing about Valentine's Day? That would be the people who pronouce it "ValenTIME's Day". If I hear you say that, I will take one of those candy hearts and I will....make you EAT it!
Thursday, January 22, 2009
The Labricorns...ready for our VH1 "Behind the Music" special
The passports arrived with incredible expediency on January 17, making it one of the last wondrous feats of George W.'s administration. We had applied on December 27 and were convinced that we would get them in the knick of time for our vacation in March, but alas, they arrived in all their federal government glory. As disappointed as I was with the passport photo that I submitted, I was pleased to see that I look much better with a watermark over my face. It does wonders for a pale complexion. Neal still has obvious bedhead in his photo. Nothing can camouflage that.
In other news, we have completely succombed to technology. Over the past few weeks, we have discovered all that Facebook has to offer, caught on to this texting craze, and met lots of new online "friends" through XBox Live.
I resisted Facebook for as long as I could. Quite honestly, I had not visited my MySpace account in months because it has become so skanky on there that I felt I needed rubber gloves to touch the keyboard whenever I was logged on. And furthermore, I didn't really miss it that much. In short, it had run its course. But every time I checked my e-mail, there was an invitation from someone to join Facebook so I reluctantly took a peek. That was my first mistake because it has resulted in major time suckage ever since. I can kind of justify it though because it eliminates the need for high school reunions and other such events. In fact, I can log onto Facebook and see what a classmate from 20 years ago is doing this very minute (or within a few hours, usually). I haven't seen this person since we left our graduation ceremony and probably never will again but I know what they had for dinner. Who wouldn't want that information?
I have long scoffed at texting -- the logic being that however long it takes you to text information, you can accomplish the same thing in a fraction of the time using your voice. The few times I attempted to "fit in", my thumb was "textually challenged" and I was ridiculed, usually by my daughter or sister. My theory was that perhaps texting was not made for people over the age of 30. After all, we grew up in the 70s and 80s when there were no cell phones or internet and you actually had to interact face-to-face on occasion. I kept that theory in my pocket and then whipped it out whenever someone would ask me why I don't text. ("Because I'm not a socially-retarded moron!") But let's be real for a moment...there are plenty of people out there that I really don't want to talk to. This is my get-out-of-jail-free card. So the fact that my daughter surpassed her allotted number of texts per our cell phone plan gave me the excuse to institute unlimited texting for all of us. (Forget punishing her, right?) So my new theory is...if you got it, use it.
Playing "Rock Band" via XBox Live has been completely irrisistable to Neal and Megan. They are constantly joining musical forces with people whose handles include "Stinky Hobo" and "Here 4 the Buffett" to create auditory magic. Our crew here at the five acres is known as "The Labricorns", named after the offspring that would result from the mating of our dog and a mythical creature. Normally, Neal grinds the lead ax, Megan comes in on bass, Trent provides a rousing vocal, and I bang the skins. It's pure bliss until one of us drops out, then we search for a sub online. "Stinky Hobo" is a recurring player who got on the mike looking for Megan. Neal picked it up and in his deepest voice said "She's not here and this is her dad." We haven't heard from Stinky since.
Mine and Neal's 15th anniversary is just around the corner, then two weeks later, it's Trent's birthday. Plenty of blog fodder awaits.
In other news, we have completely succombed to technology. Over the past few weeks, we have discovered all that Facebook has to offer, caught on to this texting craze, and met lots of new online "friends" through XBox Live.
I resisted Facebook for as long as I could. Quite honestly, I had not visited my MySpace account in months because it has become so skanky on there that I felt I needed rubber gloves to touch the keyboard whenever I was logged on. And furthermore, I didn't really miss it that much. In short, it had run its course. But every time I checked my e-mail, there was an invitation from someone to join Facebook so I reluctantly took a peek. That was my first mistake because it has resulted in major time suckage ever since. I can kind of justify it though because it eliminates the need for high school reunions and other such events. In fact, I can log onto Facebook and see what a classmate from 20 years ago is doing this very minute (or within a few hours, usually). I haven't seen this person since we left our graduation ceremony and probably never will again but I know what they had for dinner. Who wouldn't want that information?
I have long scoffed at texting -- the logic being that however long it takes you to text information, you can accomplish the same thing in a fraction of the time using your voice. The few times I attempted to "fit in", my thumb was "textually challenged" and I was ridiculed, usually by my daughter or sister. My theory was that perhaps texting was not made for people over the age of 30. After all, we grew up in the 70s and 80s when there were no cell phones or internet and you actually had to interact face-to-face on occasion. I kept that theory in my pocket and then whipped it out whenever someone would ask me why I don't text. ("Because I'm not a socially-retarded moron!") But let's be real for a moment...there are plenty of people out there that I really don't want to talk to. This is my get-out-of-jail-free card. So the fact that my daughter surpassed her allotted number of texts per our cell phone plan gave me the excuse to institute unlimited texting for all of us. (Forget punishing her, right?) So my new theory is...if you got it, use it.
Playing "Rock Band" via XBox Live has been completely irrisistable to Neal and Megan. They are constantly joining musical forces with people whose handles include "Stinky Hobo" and "Here 4 the Buffett" to create auditory magic. Our crew here at the five acres is known as "The Labricorns", named after the offspring that would result from the mating of our dog and a mythical creature. Normally, Neal grinds the lead ax, Megan comes in on bass, Trent provides a rousing vocal, and I bang the skins. It's pure bliss until one of us drops out, then we search for a sub online. "Stinky Hobo" is a recurring player who got on the mike looking for Megan. Neal picked it up and in his deepest voice said "She's not here and this is her dad." We haven't heard from Stinky since.
Mine and Neal's 15th anniversary is just around the corner, then two weeks later, it's Trent's birthday. Plenty of blog fodder awaits.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Cruisin toward possible disaster
Well, it happened. Neal hit his mid-life crisis. First, the Mustang convertible. Now, he has met a "lady" on the internet who has captured his heart.
Her name is Trixie and she's part german shepherd and part huskey. I'd like to say that I'm as fond of her as he is but her fur (which is white, thick, and very whispy) has saturated every square inch of the house. In fact, I have witnessed her hair floating through the air like snowflakes. She also has some less-than-desirable habits which have led me to nickname her "white trash."
However, she tolerates Trent well which is the most one can ask of a dog. It has been our experience that about four out of five dogs are terrified of Trent upon first sight and the rest are at least half-leary of him until they realize he's fairly harmless.
As usual, I have an uncanny ability to point out the negatives in every situation and didn't hold back with this household addition. So far, I have enumerated at least five of her bad habits. She drinks water from the toilet and then lets it drip out of her mouth, forming a trail that details her whereabouts since leaving the bathroom (that's technically two bad habits). She becomes incontinent when confronted with attention after having been left alone for an extended period of time. She invites herself onto the furniture. She has attempted a couple of escapes but her efforts were botched.
Then, there are the added complications of a second dog: double your vet bills, double your pet-sitting bills, double the fur tumbleweeds in the house. But on the flip side, there's double the wags, double the kisses, and double the companionship. That's a fair trade, I suppose.
I'm already dreading leaving the dogs for a week while we go on vacation for spring break. We finally broke down and booked a cruise since, from all accounts, we appear to be the last family on earth that has not cruised. It's almost a requirement these days. I can't communicate with certain people sometimes because I can't relate when they use a cruise simile in the conversation. For instance "That's a nice house but the master bath is like a cruise ship bathroom" (judging from the context and using my common sense, I can deduce that a cruise ship bathroom is tiny but I'd like to check it out firsthand). Or "That buffet is the best one since our cruise last summer!" (I'm so old-school I still use Vegas references when discussing the superlative in buffets but apparently cruise buffets are in contention for the ultimate prize).
I'm hoping and praying that I don't get kidnapped in any of our foreign destinations. Not just for the obvious reasons, but my passport photo is the absolute worst picture of me that has ever been captured digitally (I've had worse ones captured on film but between the two mediums, digital can at least be enhanced so there's really no excuse). I can just picture myself sitting with my captors in some dirty hut in Central America while they turn on their little TV and my passport photo is all over the screen. That's my idea of torture. The photo is so bad that people would probably just assume that my captors had already tortured me, forced me to read propoganda, and then snapped my photo to send to the media so that it's evident to everyone that these guys mean business. Maybe I'll dig up my Glamour Shots from thirteen years ago and put them somewhere that Neal can easily access them if I turn up missing. Unfortunately, I have aged since then and I don't make it a habit of wearing satiny green jackets and heavy makeup but at a minimum, I'd look nice and airbrushed. That's the image I'd like people to take away with them.
"It's too bad they never located that woman with the smooth, ideal complexion and the gorgeous shiny jacket!"
Her name is Trixie and she's part german shepherd and part huskey. I'd like to say that I'm as fond of her as he is but her fur (which is white, thick, and very whispy) has saturated every square inch of the house. In fact, I have witnessed her hair floating through the air like snowflakes. She also has some less-than-desirable habits which have led me to nickname her "white trash."
However, she tolerates Trent well which is the most one can ask of a dog. It has been our experience that about four out of five dogs are terrified of Trent upon first sight and the rest are at least half-leary of him until they realize he's fairly harmless.
As usual, I have an uncanny ability to point out the negatives in every situation and didn't hold back with this household addition. So far, I have enumerated at least five of her bad habits. She drinks water from the toilet and then lets it drip out of her mouth, forming a trail that details her whereabouts since leaving the bathroom (that's technically two bad habits). She becomes incontinent when confronted with attention after having been left alone for an extended period of time. She invites herself onto the furniture. She has attempted a couple of escapes but her efforts were botched.
Then, there are the added complications of a second dog: double your vet bills, double your pet-sitting bills, double the fur tumbleweeds in the house. But on the flip side, there's double the wags, double the kisses, and double the companionship. That's a fair trade, I suppose.
I'm already dreading leaving the dogs for a week while we go on vacation for spring break. We finally broke down and booked a cruise since, from all accounts, we appear to be the last family on earth that has not cruised. It's almost a requirement these days. I can't communicate with certain people sometimes because I can't relate when they use a cruise simile in the conversation. For instance "That's a nice house but the master bath is like a cruise ship bathroom" (judging from the context and using my common sense, I can deduce that a cruise ship bathroom is tiny but I'd like to check it out firsthand). Or "That buffet is the best one since our cruise last summer!" (I'm so old-school I still use Vegas references when discussing the superlative in buffets but apparently cruise buffets are in contention for the ultimate prize).
I'm hoping and praying that I don't get kidnapped in any of our foreign destinations. Not just for the obvious reasons, but my passport photo is the absolute worst picture of me that has ever been captured digitally (I've had worse ones captured on film but between the two mediums, digital can at least be enhanced so there's really no excuse). I can just picture myself sitting with my captors in some dirty hut in Central America while they turn on their little TV and my passport photo is all over the screen. That's my idea of torture. The photo is so bad that people would probably just assume that my captors had already tortured me, forced me to read propoganda, and then snapped my photo to send to the media so that it's evident to everyone that these guys mean business. Maybe I'll dig up my Glamour Shots from thirteen years ago and put them somewhere that Neal can easily access them if I turn up missing. Unfortunately, I have aged since then and I don't make it a habit of wearing satiny green jackets and heavy makeup but at a minimum, I'd look nice and airbrushed. That's the image I'd like people to take away with them.
"It's too bad they never located that woman with the smooth, ideal complexion and the gorgeous shiny jacket!"
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