Sore Loser

Married, over 13 years, and I’d never played Monopoly with my husband.  Now that we’ve spent an evening doing just that, I can tell you this:

My husband is a total a-hole when it comes to Monopoly.

Caleb received the game for his birthday, which was on Sunday.  Caleb was the car, John was the battleship and I, of course, was the top hat.  Because I look good in hats.

John greedily took Park Place and Boardwalk, was spiteful when I got a hold of Marvin Gardens, and had a look of utter glee in his eyes when I landed on his two-housed Indiana Avenue.  Also, he tried to trade Caleb one utility card for Connecticut Avenue, which would have given him a monopoly.

I quickly put a stop to that. 

The protective instinct is strong in mothers, even during games of Monopoly.  What I don’t understand is why Caleb, despite my allowing him to pay half in rent when he landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, still hooted when his father tried to financially bankrupt me.  After I stopped yet another shady deal between John and Caleb, I looked Caleb squarely in the eye:

“Say you don’t appreciate that, Caleb.”

“I don’t appreciate that, Caleb!” was his response.  He and John howled together.  I felt dumb.

It should come as no surprise to you that I lost. In the end, I had a house on Baltic and two “get out of jail free” cards.  We didn’t exactly finish the game as the board was destroyed by an encroaching Australian Shepherd.  As far as we can tell, Caleb, thanks to landing on the Free Parking spot several times, came in at a close second, and John, thanks to his shrewd business sense and lack of pity, won.

Toward the end, I considered Monopoly divorce just to get half of John's Monopoly cash and real estate.  Unfortunately, there are no “Monopoly divorce” guidelines.  They should probably add that in the next edition.  I bet fewer boards would be thrown across living rooms.

(I get a little emotional during board games, which is why we don’t play Scrabble any more.)

Here is a fuzzy picture of fuzzy Kiah before she went all Napoleon Bonaparte on our board game:   

Don't Use Psychology On Your Wife

I am writing a “novel.” I am putting “novel” in quotations because I find that “putting things in quotations” makes things appear “less pretentious.”

A few months ago, I had two chapters and a lot of problems. For instance, I didn’t know how my “novel” would end. This is a serious problem discussed in detail in the imposing “Plot and Structure” book I picked up years ago when I was a part of the Writer’s Digest Book Club. I belonged to a lot of book clubs back in the day. There was the Disney Book Club, the Cookbook Book Club, and the Writer’s Digest Book Club. Never mind that I didn’t have kids and didn't cook or write. I had dreams. And writing a “novel” has been a dream of mine since I first picked up a pen to write the thrilling short story, “I Wish My Parents Would Get Me a Dog.” (I was so naïve back at six.)

Today, I have 8 chapters, a notebook I carry around with me in case I suddenly get inspired right there in line at Rite Aid, those incredible Sharpie no-bleed pens, Papermate pencils, a sort of outline in the aforementioned notebook, a complete set of Calvin and Hobbes cartoons for when I get discouraged and feel like crying, and most importantly, an ending.

I have an ending.

Several months ago, I read the first chapter to my husband, who is the meanest person in the world. He loves me, but he can be very, very cruel. He gave me “constructive criticism.” I was told my theme was cliché and that my choice of certain words “ridiculous.” Then, he gave me a kiss on the forehead and told me to work on it.

I’m not even kidding.

Last night, I asked John why he hadn’t asked me how my “novel” was going. He put down his book and said, “How is your novel going?”

“Do you remember what it was about?”

“Yes, of course I remember what it was about.”

He didn’t, which really doesn’t bode well for me, I guess. He asked for the “manuscript.” I refused because his last criticism had gutted me.

“I gave you constructive criticism!” he protested.

“NO!” I said. “You gave me criticism. Constructive criticism means saying some nice things, too.”

“Actually, psychologists say you shouldn’t say nice things when giving constructive criticism because when you actually criticize, the person won’t take you seriously. So, no, I didn’t tell you good things. I told you helpful things.”

First of all, men, never use psychology on your wife, especially when she’s writing a “novel.”

Second of all, I can find no such evidence of his above thesis. Dr. Clifford N. Lazarus, Ph.D says to sandwich criticism in between layers of positivity.  Dr. Clifford N. Lazarus has the most awesome name I've ever heard and therefore I believe everything he says.

Finally, I’m reluctant to ever let John read anything of mine ever again, though undoubtedly I will because I actually respect his stupid mean opinion.

This is all leading up to the following: I may ask one of you to read my “novel” one day soon, and when I do, I only ask that you please use the sandwich method of constructive criticism.

(If people are going to use psychology on me, I should at least be allowed to choose the type of psychology.)

The Post Where John is Exonerated

The career that has chosen me, motherhood, and the career I am simultaneously striving toward and pulling away from, writing, are both lonely professions.

Motherhood might be the loneliest of professions. Especially stay-at-home motherhood, lauded by my working friends as the most sacrificial of endeavors. Some wish they could stay home with their kids, too. Others admit they don’t think they are cut out for the job. When "real" professionals ask me what I do, they always respond with: you have the most important job in the world! It’s as if they know they have to assuage my atrophied mind.

I’d rather they didn’t say that. I would never gush at my kids’ pediatrician, say, and insist that he has “the most important job in the world.” I don’t know what “the most important job in the world” is. I’m sure motherhood is up there, but scientists developing vaccines, those who keep our sewers running, and the people who make diet Dr. Pepper are pretty darn important, too. The false-sounding sentiments about the importance of motherhood by lawyers and accountants and brokers and teachers, ironically, make me feel small.

After all, an important job is not always done well. And motherhood is certainly no exception.

I’m not doing it that well, lately, as evidenced by the mess in my house, late homework notes from teachers, the tangles in my little girl’s hair, and the fact that my little boy is running around saying, “Well, crap!” every time he doesn’t get his way. (I laughed the first couple of times. Now, I feel sadly resigned to his potty mouth.)

I feel overwhelmed, busy, and oftentimes, alone. Moms are busy. We are too busy to talk to other moms, and when we do, we talk about our kids. It’s a lonely life.

Monday, my husband left for Albany until Wednesday with a promise to call on Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day, with its over-commercialized hype and friends on Facebook proclaiming their husbands as the greatest ever while singles feel left out and stay-at-home moms remember Valentine’s Days of yore, when they were younger and prettier and had a night out to look forward to. Yesterday, Ella, who had a hoard of candy stashed somewhere, ate that hoard and moaned about a stomachache all day. She finally threw up on my dad and stepmom’s chair last night while I was trying to watch a Cary Grant film. It was not the best of days.

“Can you believe,” said John via telephone, “that I proposed to you fifteen years ago?”

“What? No. Thirteen years ago. You proposed thirteen years ago.”

“Really? Huh. I thought it was fifteen.”

At that point, I was feeling pretty grouchy.

“Where are my flowers?” I demanded. This is especially romantic, to demand flowers over the phone on Valentine’s Day when you know very well your husband has not ordered you flowers. It’s great for morale.

“Flowers? What flowers? I’m taking you to Philadelphia this weekend,” he said. (This is true. We are taking a much needed getaway to the city of brotherly love.)

I sniffled.

After the kids were tucked away, I folded laundry while watching old episodes of House, selected a new book to begin, and wandered up to bed at around 10:30.

It was depressing.

The phone rang.

“Did you like your flowers?” John asked.

“What flowers. I didn’t get any flowers,” I said.

“Check the porch. You probably didn’t see them. There should be a box of flowers there for you.” I grumbled and plodded down the steps in my slippers and opened the door. There, in the dark of the night, was my husband, hands full of roses and candy. Let me tell you, I haven’t cried happy tears in a long time. Because when you’re lonely, sometimes you just want someone to hold you for a long time and remind you that what you do is worthwhile. That you’re loved. That it doesn’t matter if you are dripping black mascara on their white Van Heusen collared shirt.

If you get a chance, call someone you care about today. Remind them that what they do is important. That it is important enough that they should strive to do it well. Especially if that someone is a mom… or a writer.

Remind them that they are loved.

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe (& other Christmas stories)

I

It’s the Christmas season and you know me, holly in my heart (Cary Grant in An Affair to Remember)

The following are directed at me every year over the holiday season. I would like answer concerns and questions about being a girl named Holly born four days after Christmas so that I never, ever have to answer them again.

1. “You name is Holly? Wow. You must, like, really love Christmas.”

Oh, I do. I love Christmas, and so much more than people named, like, Beverly. How can you love Christmas when you’re named Beverly? Also, I love Christmas so much more than people NOT born in December. How can you love Christmas when you were born in July? Preposterous.

2. “You were born at Christmastime? Did you, like, get cheated out of gifts?”

Not when I was younger. My mother always made my birthday very special.

However, things are different now, and yeah, I totally get gypped come my birthday. It’s an awkward time of year to have a birthday. It’s not like you can compete with, well, you know. And the one time I crossed my arms and complained that I wasn’t getting enough attention, people thought I was being “selfish” and “sacreligious.” (Wasn’t Jesus actually born in June?) So I don’t complain anymore- I just weep silently in my bed. Birthdays are for kids, not adults, anyway. And I don’t need anything. I want a lot of stuff, but I don’t need anything. So, don’t worry about me and the presents I’ve been swindled out of. I’m okay.

II

My Husband Sexually Harassed Me Under the Mistletoe

Today, the Christmas season is a shell of its It’s a Wonderful Life former self. Mr. Potter, despite what you saw on film, has not been defeated. Nativity scenes are out: singing the tune of "The Carol of the Bells" to sell bargain-priced designer-labeled clothes is in. Christmas caroling in the mall is a potential fire hazard, but Black Friday shopping has become a tradition in many families. Mistletoe is being banned from office parties so that corporate executives can still have “Santa Shots” (this is an actual drink) and not get stuck under the mistletoe while inebriated. Darn that mistletoe, inviting sexual harassment charges with its lascivious plant motives.

I was never kissed under the mistletoe until after I was married. Not that I didn’t want to be. I mean, how romantic is that, getting caught under the mistletoe with the object of your affection? I may have lingered by a sprig on an occasion or two, just to see if I could gain the experience of being kissed under the mistletoe, but alas… no one ever noticed.

One year, John and I were at a party where mistletoe was prominently hung from a doorway. I stood boldly underneath and called my husband over. Utterly clueless, he wanted to know what I wanted. Why had he been dragged away from playing Call of Duty? (Which is a wonderful wartime game that’s a staple at any traditional Christmas gathering, along with eggnog and candy canes.)  Also, I think maybe he’d had a couple of Santa Shots.

I directed his attention to the mistletoe above us, and this is what happened: John sniggered, grabbed my butt, pulled me in close, and laid a noisy, lingering smooch on my mouth. He tasted like peppermint schnapps.

My husband sexually harassed me under the mistletoe.

And I loved it.

III

We Wish You a Merry Christmas

The twins have been happily practicing their preschool Christmas program songs. At home, they sing loudly and unabashedly, so I was surprised when their teacher informed me that during practice at school, Ella had repeatedly dissolved into tears, ran into her teacher’s arms, and had hid her head while shaking like a leaf. Ella, who is not a naturally quiet individual, has auditory sensory issues and is unnerved by resounding ambient sound. Being in large, cavernous places where echoes bounce and shrill voices carry brings my usually boisterous little girl to her knees. So on the day of her program, I made sure to get a spot right up close, so that if she began to withdraw, I could grab her and hold her.

Ella sashayed down the aisle in her Christmas gown, beaming at us, shaking her hand bells with enthusiasm. She came down first because she was the smallest and needed to be placed at the front of the group. Daniel stood a little ways behind her. The first song began, and Ella’s face went from joyful to terror-filled. She stared at me. I grinned at her. “Sing,” I mouthed.

The sanctuary was packed with moms and dads and grandparents and siblings, and the crowd absorbed the sound beautifully. No echo. No reverberating bells. Ella relaxed noticeably and stayed with her classmates. She didn’t open her mouth and sing during the first song, but she stayed there and stared, somewhat dazed, at the crowd.

By the last song, she was into it. The following is a video of her preschool class singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Ella got a little carried away. She was the only child who twirled during the program. (Which was no big deal considering two songs before, she jumped up and down and then sat for half the song.) Note her unique dance movies during the “singing” verse. Please ignore the constant wiping of her nose with her hand.

Daniel was incredibly proud of his tie. When I showed it to him he gasped.

“It’s a real tie?”

"Yes! A real tie!”

"Just like daddy’s?”

“Daddy would never wear a black vest over a red shirt,” John said. “We are not gangsters.” Daniel was too busy taking his tie out of his vest and putting it back in to listen to his father's weirdness.

Today’s song for Monday: We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

Married Female Seeks Male Friend for Regular Lunch Dates

This cartoon is in no way relevant to this post.  I just thought it was funny.

“Holly, why aren’t you blogging much lately? I really miss it.”

Not one of you has said the above, so here I sit, in a pool of narcissistic self-pity.

Okay, I’m over it and am ready to move on.

So, the husband is a social butterfly, and any given day of the week, he’s bopping off to some fancy restaurant to have lunch with a client or friend while I sit at home and eat the twins leftover PB &Js. (Now might also be a good time to mention that he drives a luxury vehicle and I drive a rusty Grand Caravan that leaks.)

So, yesterday evening, John’s cell phone rang. He answered it and said, “Veronica! Hello.” And then he walked out of the front door and into the driveway to speak to her. Alone. In private. Away from me.

Naturally, I went and opened the front window to eavesdrop. I couldn’t hear anything because Caleb kept asking me what I was doing, and when I shushed him he asked, “Are you trying to spy on dad?” When I said yes, he wanted to know why and, quite frankly, I was at a loss for words. Then I bumped my head and the whole thing was completely foiled. So I went outside and stood next to John and glared at his phone until he got off.

“You have too many female friends,” I announced.

He protested. Veronica, of course, was not calling to be social; it was work related.

“You’re always going out to lunch with other women.”

“I never go out with another woman. Sometimes in a group, but not one on one.”

I listed at least four women I knew he’d gone to lunch with. Alone. And the jerk just stood there with this dopey grin on his face.

“Are you jealous?”

For the record, no. I am obviously a catch. Veronica is probably ugly and stupid.

Still, it isn’t fair. Which is why I decided to launch my own personal search for a male friend. I thought up the following advertisement:

Greetings men! Do you like friendship? Do you like lunch? Me too! Let’s get together and have interesting conversation, snack on appetizers, and maybe play some raquetball afterwards. My 4-year old twins will accompany us on most occasions. Try not to hit them with the racquetball. Or your racquet. Good news on that front- they generally don’t finish their PB&Js, so, free dessert! By the way, if you want to call to chat during dinner, please feel free to do so. That’s what friends of opposite genders do! Also- if you are friends with Veronica, please don’t bother responding to this advertisement.

I scratched the above in favor of a better idea, one that I felt was more beneficial to my marriage: I called the husband to plan a lunch date for tomorrow afternoon. But I couldn’t get through to him because I had forgotten to pay his AT&T bill, and they had cut off his service.

And I wonder why he sees other women…

Happiest Girl...

Married 12 YEARS! This calls for the dedication of a supremely cheesy yet very sweet song...

Skippidity doo-da

Thank you Lord for making him for me

And thank you for letting life turn out the way

That I always thought it could be

There once was a time when I could not imagine

How it would feel to say

I’m the happiest girl in the whole U.S.A.

Fresh Tomatoes

Marriage, you may have guessed, can be incredibly difficult. Case in point: John has incredibly low standards in the movie department, and I have to live with it. Different taste in movies is the #2 cause of divorce, right after finances, so the odds are definitely stacked against us. Yet, we tarry on.

I am addicted to the website Rotten Tomatoes. If RottenTomatoes.com does not give a movie a fresh tomato rating, I don’t want to see it. 9 times out of 10, I defer to the good people behind Rotten Tomatoes. John, on the other hand, snubs most “fresh tomato” movies in favor of movies with (and I quote Keanu Reeves as Neo in The Matrix): “Guns. Lots of guns.”

So last night, John and I watched the pop-up AMC version of The Matrix on TV, which is really useful if, for instance, you’ve always wondered what song they play at the end when Neil flies into the sky looking very, very cool. It’s “Wake Up,” by Rage Against the Machine, which the pop-up feature told me was “fitting.” Thank you pop-up feature!

Until about two years ago, I thought Neo’s name was Neil. I was teased mercilessly for this.

“Yeah- a computer hacker who can choose any alias in the world chooses… Neil. Ha ha ha ha!”

I still submit that it sounds like his little leather-clad chums call him Neil.

“He’s the chosen one! And his name is… Neil! Ha ha ha ha!”

Recently, John made fun of me for calling Adobe… Adobe. Rhymes with lobe. Apparently it’s Adob-ee.

“A-dobe. Ha ha ha!”

You can see what I’m up against here.

Last week, John went to the Family Video because, and he said this so sweetly, he “wanted to rent a movie for me.” I was incredulous, but off he went. He came home with the Denzel Washington flick, Unstoppable.

“Wait,” I said. “I need to check Rotten Tomatoes.”

“It’s Denzel Washington. You’ll like it.”

“I’ll be right back.”

“Holly, let’s just start the movie.”

“It’ll only take a second.”

“Hol-“

“I ONLY WATCH FRESH TOMATOES!”

John’s eyes usually get wide at this point. Our marriage is totally on the rocks.

Lucky for him, Denzel generally makes only fresh tomatoes. And in case your marriage suffers the way mine does in the movie department, you should know that The Matrix is a fresh tomato, too.

Prelude to Insomnia

So, last week, I set my turkey baster on fire while cooking my homemade tomato sauce. The reason my turkey baster was lounging there next to the burner isn’t really relevant. I may have panicked a bit and blown at the fire, which only fanned the flames. My next course of action was to throw a washcloth on it and sort of half-yell, “Um- fire situation here! Small fire!” The husband came in on his white steed, took over, and then gave me his “intense” look.

This is why I don’t cook.

The family eventually made it to the table, and John attempted polite dinner conversation.

“Did you hear about what’s going on in Wisconsin?”

“Yes, they won the stupid Super Bowl. I was present at the game, if you recall. The women were sitting on the floor while the men were sitting on the couches? Remember?”

“I don’t recall that, but that’s actually not what I’m talking about.”

“Well then please proceed and tell me what’s going on in Wisconsin.”

“The new conservative governor is pushing new legislation, trying to make it illegal for government workers to unionize, and people are totally freaking out. 25,000 protested.”

“That’s quite a few people for Wisconsin.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“Guess the Super Bowl afterglow is over.”

“Indeed.”

“They make cheese in Wisconsin.”

“That’s true.” Pause. “You don’t really care about what’s going on in Wisconsin, do you?”

“Not at this particular moment. I’m still mourning the loss of the turkey baster.”

“Yes, with all the basting you do, I understand your grief. So. What did you do today?”

“I’ve been working on the ultimate workout playlist. Speaking of which, I have a question for you. Is there an easier way to scroll up and down on the iPod? I put my thumb across the circle, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Let me see this- this is how you work it.”

“Oh! You scroll up and down by going AROUND the circle! The middle of the circle doesn’t do anything!” Pause. “You know who would really enjoy my kickass workout playlist? Those people in Wisconsin. It was would totally pump them up. Great protesting songs. Like, for instance…” I scrolled through the songs like I’d been doing it for years, “"Right Now" by Van Halen.”

“Van- Van Halen?”

“Yes. 'Right Now' by Van Halen.” More “intense looks” commence. “Are we not a fan of Van Halen?”

Apparently we are not.

Later that evening, I curl into bed with my tattered copy of Great Expectations. (You think it is tattered because I have read it over and over again. Not the case. It is a used Penguin copy I “borrowed” a very long time ago when I was a substitute teacher. Imagine what the Wisconsin protestors would do with that piece of information.)

John yawns and gets ready to turn off his light.

“Y’know?” I say, “Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.”

John perks right up.

“Really?”

“What?”

“You just said reading Dickens is an aphrodisiac.”

“I said no such thing. Why on earth would I say that? Stop looking at me that way.”

“Here are your words, verbatim, ‘Reading Dickens is a definite aphrodisiac.’”

“I said reading Dickens is a great soporific device.” (Pointed yawn.) “See? I’m sooo sleepy.”

(Sometimes I confuse words with others. Aphrodisiac might be one of those words.)

“Just admit that you said aphrodisiac.”

I consider this.

“It’s been a long day, what with the compiling of great eighties hair band songs, nearly burning the house down, and now I’m trying hard to work my way through this enchanting but sleep-inducing tale of redemption. We’ve had a trifle misunderstanding! I’m not even sure why you married me, anyway. I obviously have the IQ of a gnat.”

John mumbles something about the reason he married me into his pillow, and it sounds like it had nothing to do with my brains.  I read to him in a British accent, because reading Dickens in a cockney accent is just so fun, and he's asleep in five.  I’m left alone to ponder what the heck Pip sees in Estella when he could have the perfectly lovely, warm, and hardworking Biddy. The house still smells faintly of burnt rubber, and I can’t get Van Halen out of my head. I'm so sleepy, but won't drift off for another three hours.

Van Halen and Dickens, by the way, don’t mesh very well. 

Sometimes, that’s just the way things are.

Great Expectations

Sometimes I like to say things just to get a reaction out of the husband; this is a time-honored game played by all wives. For instance, I might say:

“If our next child is a girl, I want to name her Dakota.” And he’ll snort up the Dr. Pepper he was drinking and cough and carry on, and I will sit there, greatly amused. Who knows if he’s more surprised by the prospect of bringing another child into this recession-ridden world or by the idea of naming her after South Dakota (NOT North Dakota- are you kidding me?); it doesn’t really matter. It’s better entertainment than even Justified- season 2 of which premieres this week for your information.

So today, while we were talking on the phone, I caught him off guard with the following,

“I’ve already saved up $450.00 toward the new furniture.” There was an immediate chortle.

“Ha ha. That’s interesting.”

This comes with a sad background story. The couch we have in our playroom/ sun room/ the room that Kiah the Wonder Dog has ruined… is ruined. Once a cream colored couch, it is stained and sagging. The coils are broken and the cushions are ripped. If one actually dared to sit upon it, they might wonder if they were being sucked into quicksand or perhaps falling down into Alice’s Wonderland. Now, no one will ever sit on it again because the day before yesterday, Kiah peed on it, and I gave up. We agreed to throw the couch out.

I have had my eye on a new set of furniture for a while, and have been socking away money on the sly. The room it will go in is a big, beautiful room with skylights and walls of windows, and it is under-utilized. This is the very speech I gave to John after he said “that’s interesting.” He said “that’s interesting” like we weren’t going to spend my $450+ dollars on furniture- like we might spend it on something else. He is gravely mistaken. Plus, my $450 is hidden in a surreptitious location and he’ll never find it.

After my “sunbeams through the skylights warming our new furniture” speech, the conversation took a surprising turn, and John said something that caught me off guard.

“I’m going to burn our old couch.”

“Um- I think that would be frowned upon.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, by our neighbors. I think it would be frowned upon by our neighbors. And possibly the fire department. And maybe the town zoning board. And our insurance company.”

“I could take it somewhere else and burn it. Maybe I’ll take it to Billy’s yard. We were just talking about burning couches the other day!”

They were just talking about burning couches the other day. How fortuitous that a couch in need of burning should turn up.

They can burn it up and smoke it if they want, I don’t care, so long as I get my furniture. (My apologies to Billy’s wife.) I’m almost 1/3 of the way to the point-of-sale. I have great expectations for this set of furniture: lounging in the sun reading Great Expectations, drinking Dr. Pepper and snacking on chips while surfing the internet, taking a long snooze with my beautiful daughter, Dakota…

Great expectations.

2-year old Ben on the couch that may very well be torched. 

Greyness- A Thanksgiving Post

The husband is going grey at an alarming rate. He thinks he looks “distinguished” or some such malarkey.

The initial onset came during his third year in law school- he was running the law review, studying for the bar exam, taking classes, and juggling both a baby who screamed from 4pm to 2am daily and a wife whose postpartum depression made her most unlovable.

After a bit of research, I was shocked to learn that stress has not been biologically linked to the onset of grey hair. I’ve always been intrigued by the possibility that a sudden trauma could turn just a part of a person’s hair snow white- like that girl in the X-Men. (My brother-in-law has a white patch of hair. I always assumed he was abducted by aliens and returned to earth thoroughly traumatized with a newly obtained white streak of hair. This would also explain why he is the way he is.) However, there is no concrete evidence that stress actually makes a person’s hair go grey, or that trauma can turn a streak of hair white. The white streaks are actually indicative of something called poliosis- a weird melanin thing. (I still submit that it seems highly coincidental that John’s hair went through such a marked change during the aforementioned period of time.)

For the sake of consistency, let’s pretend stress does make one’s hair go grey faster than genetically preordained. John’s hair is getting worse, and he has made it clear he will never cover up his grey with Just for Men or any other hair dye. I don’t think I’d want him to, anyway, but it’s strange to think that in a few years I’ll be sleeping with a man who’s completely grey. A man I made grey.

I fear that this past year I may have contributed to the silvery strands of brittle hair. I mean, the bad economy and the life-sucking job are certainly also to blame, but I definitely helped. And for that I feel very, very sorry.

I feel sorry for all the nights John came home and I hadn’t bothered with dinner because the kids wouldn’t eat it anyway. (I HATE dinner time.)

I feel sorry for taking advantage of his allowing me to sleep in mornings. (And I wonder why he dozes off at 9:00pm just when I’m raring to go.)

I feel most sorry for a lot of other things that I’m just not going to divulge because you’d probably spit at your computer screen. Let’s just say I can be difficult.

I am not sorry for not ironing. I loathe ironing. He can iron his own damn shirts. (We put that in the pre-nup.)

Don’t get me wrong- he causes me unneeded stress, too. He snores. He hoards mugs. Coffee mugs. We have over fifty mugs and he keeps bringing home more. He recently brought home four matching Senator George Maziarz mugs. Four.

He adopts a new catch-phrase every year or so. When we met it was, “For the love of God!” Recently, he would insert “At the end of the day…” into any given conversation. Lately, it’s “That’s great hustle!” I don’t even know what that one means.

He won’t watch a movie filmed before 1985. He insists he will, but he won’t. He’d fall asleep. He couldn’t pick out Humphrey Bogart in a lineup.

But he loves me. I mean, he really loves me. And he’s infinitely patient with me. I see those grey hairs, and I’m reminded how lucky I am. Because he’s never, ever walked away.

So I’m thankful. Thankful for every single hair I’ve made grey, and for the ones I have yet to turn. Infinitely thankful.

(Happy Thanksgiving.)

A Wedding and Time with Family

We have just returned from a short kid vacation, which is completely different from an adult vacation, where adults come home feeing rested. I admit that a kid vacation has moments of fun, but is mostly full of parents shouting things like, “Quit lollygagging!” and “Why didn’t you go to the bathroom when I asked you to go?” and “Look! Look at the horses! Look! TURN YOU HEAD AWAY FROM THE STUPID MOVIE AND LOOK AT THE HORSES OR WE ARE TURNING THIS CAR AROUND AND GOING BACK HOME! Aren’t they lovely?”

We checked into our hotel on Friday evening. Apparently, kids are not born knowing what a hotel is, and you have to actually sit down and explain the entire concept of a hotel, from the checking in to the checking out parts. As we meandered in to our Comfort Suites Inn in Lancaster County, Caleb and Ben grew wide-eyed as they perused out the lobby area, which was complete with floral sofas, chairs, and a large flat-screen television showing an episode of Sponge Bob Square Pants. We checked in, rode in the elevator up to the third floor, and the kids gathered round as we popped the keycard into room 302. They immediately rushed into the room and predictably began bouncing from one queen-sized bed to the next as John and I became suspicious of the Comfort Inn’s definition of the term “suite.” According to the FreeDictionary.com, a suite is “A series of connected rooms used as a living unit” and not “One large room with two beds and a couch.” Nevertheless, we ultimately opted not to seek larger lodgings and hunkered down in our poorly-defined but pleasantly cool “suite.”

We were foremost in town for my sister-in-law’s wedding, which was to take place the next day at the unholy hour of 10am. We unpacked, found that episode of Sponge Bob on the television, and got ready for the rehearsal dinner. As our time of departure approached, we told the boys to put their shoes on. Caleb stared at me, with a blank expression.

“Where are your shoes?” I asked.

“I took them off by the door.” I looked over by the door. They were not there. I sighed, impatiently.

“I took them off by the downstairs door,” he explained.

“Me too!” said Ben.

Explanation #1: The lobby is not our own personal “downstairs,” but a public gathering area where shoes are not only permissible, but encouraged.

 Day 1:  The Rehearsal Dinner

One of these brothers is not like the others...

The last picture of the "Jennings" siblings- although Carl was coerced into taking Mary's last name, Mary is now an Edwards.

Ella found a box to sit in so she was happy.

Day 2: The Wedding

So this was taken by Lisa because I wasn't there.  Because Ella wanted to talk through the entire ceremony.  She saw her uncle Scott, the love of her life, and threw a hissy fit when he didn't come and sit with her. I spent the majority of the ceremony outside the chapel seriously considering selling my daughter on ebay. 

I'm very proud of my FIL for not bawling like a baby throughout the entire ceremony and reception.  Everyone was concerned about this.  He was quite mature about the whole thing. 

My daughter is a party girl.  She danced to every song.  I was terrified she was going to be trampled.  She did the electric slide, the cha cha, and here she is with Carl, leading the train.  I had to drag her off the floor kicking and screaming when it was time to go. 

Daniel, on the other hand, drank too much wine.  I kid. 

Caleb and his cousin Celeste.

Day 3: A Quiet Day with Family

John and his brother, Mike.   We spent the day at their house.  I hope I didn't offend Mike's wife, my gorgeous SIL Johanna.  I a) was completely ambivalent about the World Cup finale and b) referred to the ladies from Sex and the City as "walking STDs."  I should not have done that.  Especially since I have a mug that says "I went to Maryland and got Crabs."  Johanna made a wonderful barbecue lunch and I got to cuddle with my nephew Julian.

Caleb quote:  In Pennsylvania, they pronounce their J's like H's.  I think Albert Pujols is also from Pennsylvania.

Daniel and Julian.

Ben and Daniel loved their hotel bed.

Day 4:  Off to Baltimore

Caleb

Caleb and his aunt Lisa by the Inner Harbor

I have the world's greatest sister-in-laws. 

I was granted a reprieve from holding Daniel all day.  Grandpa took over.

So the Baltimore Aquarium had an "Invasion of the Jellyfish" exhibit going on.  Ben and I are totally pumped.

Ben's favorite part of the entire trip.

And now for some wicked cool pics of different types of jellyfish:

And  shark.  I am afraid of very few things (with the exception of Niagara Falls, climbing down ladders, those creepy twins from The Shining, and snakes.) But I swear, if that shark had turned toward me and opened its mouth, I would have peed my pants.  Or passed out.  Or both.

Day 5:  We take a train ride through Amish Country

At this point, I'm resigned to his clingy behavior.  And a little train sick, too.

A bucolic farm. Authentically Amish. 

They had a blast.

We had a fantastic time, but I'm ready for a real vacation. Not one where I threaten my kids into sleeping and then sit by the pale lamplight and read a book for two hours until I get tired.

The kids were beat.  Ben had to be continually reassured that no one was going to take our hotel room while we were out. 

Explanation #2:  We reside in the hotel room until we check out.  No one else goes in and out.  Except the maid.  But she is completely not interested in your blankie and your doggie.  And she won't steal your swimsuit, either. 

This was a genuine concern of his, and he was always eager to get back to the hotel to make sure everything was as he left it. 

Final Caleb quote: (We were in a gift store and walked beneath a framed picture of the American flag with the following caption:  America, Land of the Free.)

"Mom.  A long time ago, when America wasn't so free, blacks and whites couldn't sit together on the bus.  And they couldn't drink out of the same drinking fountains.  But then Martin Luther King came along.  And it's a good thing he did. Otherwise, Mary might have never been able to marry Carl."

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails....And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. 1 Cor 13

He Leaves Belts Places

John and I do not argue in a healthy way. Which is probably my fault. He accuses me of taking a jujitsu approach when receiving criticism. If John, for instance, implies that the house is messy or that I should put my keys away so I can find them the next day, I retort with something like “YOU LEAVE BELTS PLACES!!!” Because he does. He never puts his belts away. He comes home, takes off his stupid belt, and leaves it in a place that is not his closet.

It is hard to keep a clean house when your husband leaves belts places. Also socks, shoes, and other work-attire accoutrements.

Last evening, we enjoyed a raucous night out with my sister Mary and her husband, whom I will refer to as Nate, because that is his name. We went off to a really wonderful Mediterranean restaurant in the city, Eros, which is behind and to the left of the Little Theatre. Not 2 Vine. Go beyond 2 Vine.

Lest this turns into a restaurant review site, I will just say the following: if you happen to have the chance to go out with friends or your significant other and you choose The Olive Garden instead of Eros or Scotland Yard or DaVinci’s, I think you are making a colossal mistake. I guarantee that the food is better, the service more personable, the atmosphere distinctive, and the wait nonexistent at Eros. And the price is comparable.

The Olive Garden is prosaic.

I ordered a cucumber melon soup followed by an entrée of Mousaka with sautéed vegetables, which I ordered simply because I got the opportunity to say Mousaka out loud. Mousaka. What a great word! The soup was refreshing. Mary tried it and agreed it was refreshing.

John ordered a bottle of red wine which he and Nathan enjoyed. This is one of those restaurants where the waiter presents the wine, pours a little bit so you can swirl it and sniff it, and then waits while you taste and approve it. If you are knowledgeable about wine, you can make informative and arrogant sounding comments about the bouquet, and about whether the wine is fruity or dry or whatever. This is what my husband said when presented with the bottle:

“Look! There are monkeys on the label!” I can’t take him anywhere. And he leaves belts places.

(I don’t drink; I am still a recovering alcoholic.)

After eating, John wanted to show Nate and Mary his office at The Firm. I should now mention that my dad also works at The Firm, though in a different department than John. I should probably also mention that on our way to The Firm, I suggested we go up to my dad’s office and “do something to it.” I was vague on the what. I had this idea that since we were all hankering for dessert, we might eat all of his M&Ms, which he keeps in a container at his desk. But when we got there, there were no M&Ms, so we vandalized the place instead. By vandalize I mean we flipped some pictures upside down. By “we” I mean John and Nathan, who worked while I wrung my hands and fretted about the consequences of such an action. Mary sat grimly and supervised.

I’m not sure that this is going to go over well this morning. I expect a phone call at any time. I might add that my dad and stepmom were watching my kids while we were doing this, so the guilt is somewhat compounded. 

I'm admitting all of this first thing because I have a very hard time keeping secrets.  Not important secrets.  Let's just say I would make a very bad poker player.  Big, personal, secrets?  I'm like Al Gore's locked box.  Your secrets are very safe with me.  And with my twelve closest friends.

John, who is by nature a loquacious being, becomes even more long-winded after a couple of glasses of wine. He has a tendency to give whole seminars on subjects of interest to him: a lengthy history lesson on the Smiley Face murders, perhaps, or a philosophical diatribe against people who don’t take responsibility for their actions.

Last evening, we were all set to watch at episode of Arrested Development before Mary and Nathan disappeared into the fog (because this is what we do), when we were awarded a long, impassioned speech from John.

Which may have led to an argument between me and John. Which I think I won, because we did end up watching some Bluth family hilarity.

So last night, I crawled into bed, feeling a little contrite, when I saw a long, fat belt, sprawled out on my side of the bed like a python. John lay there, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Unjust retribution!!!

I then I found a long, skinny belt, coiled beneath my pillow like a black mamba.

He leaves belts places. And it drives me nuts.

Last Romance

“Men always want to be a woman’s first love. Women have a more subtle instinct: What they like is to be a man’s last romance.”
~Oscar Wilde


John proposed to me on Valentine’s Day. The day has extra significance to us- it’s not just another sappy holiday like it is to the rest of you schlubs. We do something extra special, like order in Italian food and watch DVRed episodes of 30 Rock on the TV.

John had big plans on that Valentine’s Day. He had procured reservations at a restaurant on picturesque shores of Lake Ontario, where he was going to pop the question and then fill me full of chicken marsala. (Yum.) He had tickets to a local show at Geva Theater, where we were to cuddle and not actually pay attention to the performance because we would be duly intoxicated by the presence of one another and therefore unable to focus on anything else.

The ring had been burning a hole in his pocket for a good week, I believe.

I ruined his plans by coming down with strep throat and the most horrific sinus infection I have ever had. I spent that February break from college in a feverish daze on my mother’s couch, probably causing my family members more pain than I was actually in.

John couldn’t wait. He threw out his initial plans, sent my family out of the house, knelt down next to the couch and asked a make-up free, pathetic excuse for a girl who could no longer breathe through her nose to marry him.

She said yes.

I made a valiant effort to revive myself by ingesting Advil and insisting that John take me to the restaurant on the lake. I ate about two bites of chicken. I recall that it was an extremely painful two bites of chicken. We left rather quickly and went back to the couch and watched a cheesy movie.

I spent the rest of the week on that couch, sick as a dog, staring at the diamond on my hand and smiling stupidly.

(Best Valentine’s Day ever.)

Now With Better Resolution...

I think one of John’s great disappointments in life is that he married a woman who cannot tell the difference between high definition television and standard television.

John received a blue-ray player for Christmas from his parents and has been downstairs popping various movies in the thing to demonstrate its extraordinary capacity for enabling the ultimate cinematic experience.

“Look! Honey, come see!”

I go look.

“The Star Wars dvds look so amazing with the blue-ray’s up-convert technology!”

“Pardon me there?”

“Up-convert technology. The blue-ray takes our dvds and makes the resolution better than in our old dvd player. It’s not as good as if they were blue-rays, but the picture is much better than before.”

“Okay then. I’m going to finish this here pumpkin pie now.”

“You don’t notice the difference, do you?” The disappointment in his voice is palpable.

“Not so much,” I say.

He proceeds to pop in the new Star Trek blue-ray he bought, and then Cars, which causes a frenzy among the younger crowd dwelling within the confines of these walls.

“It’s so amazing,” John whispers.

Right.

This week, he somehow conned my father out of his old speakers- behemoth monstrosities that now loom over us in the living room.

“The sound is so amazing,” he whispers.

Right.

I can’t complain, however, because my ever-loving other half bought me the yuletide gift of furniture. I now have a micro-fiber loveseat and couch and a bountiful assortment of cushions.

He moved the recliner from the living room into the already crowded library/ dining-room/ piano room. I am opposed to this. Really opposed to this. But I can’t say anything because HE BOUGHT ME FURNITURE! I am in such a state of bliss that I am letting this go. (Until a couple of weeks from now when he starts traveling for work. Then, I will simply move the recliner back to its rightful spot in the great room and he will inevitably become annoyed and move it back next to the piano and then I’ll move it back where I want it and this will go on until he gives up because I am more stubborn than he is. And more right than he is, too.)

Ahhh, the holidays. No better time to have meaningless, trivial battles of will with one’s spouse. No better way to end the year, either.

Merry Christmas!

Why We Do the Santa Claus Thing

Most men and women, before they embark on the glorious journey that is marriage, have necessary and important conversations. The most important, possibly, is the “are we gonna have kids?” conversation. Such a talk might go something like this:

“So, how many kids do you want?” she asks.

“Two is good,” he replies.

“I want five,” she says.

“Three it is,” he compromises.

“Fine,” she says. “So are we gonna do the Santa Claus thing or what?”

“I really could care less.”

“All right, then! Let’s do this thing!”

At least, that was pretty much the conversation John and I had. And then, ha ha to him, we had twins.

I don’t ever remember ever believing in Santa Claus, although my younger brother and sister did, and I do recall delightly in the consumption of the cookies they left out for Santa after they went to bed. After they grew up, I couldn't wait to do the Santa Claus thing with my own kids, and now I delight in eating the cookies they leave out for Santa. It is good, clean fun. A little fattening.

As I got older, it seemed every parent or parent-to-be had opinions about the jolly old white-bearded man with the wicked cool red winter suit. Some believed he distracted from “the true meaning of Christmas.” Others didn’t like lying to their kids. We all know I have no quandaries about lying to my kids, so that brings us to “the true meaning of Christmas.”

As fellow blogger Michelle recently pointed out, Christmas did not begin as a religious holiday and nowhere in the bible does it indicate Christ’s birth should be celebrated. (Let’s put Christ back into Christmas really doesn’t make sense- he was never there in the first place.) Christmas was initially a holiday that celebrated winter solstice; Christmas as we know it today is simply Christianity’s reaction to a popular pagan holiday. (Jesus was actually born in the fall.)

Santa Claus, on the other hand, is based on a bishop lauded and subsequently sainted for his extravagant gifts to the poor. (This was before the Reformation.) The idea of Santa Claus actually has roots in Christianity. Christmas, um, doesn’t really so much.

I love Christmas. I love the carols, I love the story of Jesus’ birth, I love nativity scenes and lights on the houses and the smell of Christmas trees and decking the halls and all that stuff. I applaud Christians for turning Christmas into their own celebration of the greatest event in the history of the world.

I also love to spur my children’s imagination. Is there a greater gift than a really good, really primed, imagination?

One of my favorite books is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. The main character is a poor little girl who lives in the Bronx. No, I’m kidding. She lives in Brooklyn.

See? I have a compulsion.

Anyways, she is a “storyteller” and these two paragraphs illustrate her parent’s differing opinions about spurring on their daughter’s fledgling imagination:

Lately, she (Francie) had been given to exaggerating things. She did not report happenings truthfully, but gave them color, excitement and dramatic twists. Katie (her mother) was annoyed at this tendency and kept warning Francie to tell the plain truth and to stop romancing. But Francie just couldn’t tell the plain undecorated truth. She had to put something to it.

Although Katie had this same flair for coloring an incident and Johnny (her father) himself lived in a half-dream world, yet they tried to squelch these things in their child. Maybe they had a good reason. Maybe they knew their own gift of imagination colored too rosily the poverty and brutality of their lives and made them able to endure it. Perhaps Katie thought that if they did not have this faculty, they would be clearer-minded; see things as they really were, and seeing them loathe them and somehow find a way to make them better.

The next chapter, noticeably, begins with: Christmas was a charmed time in Brooklyn.

Caleb is slowly putting two and two together. He was pretty sure the Santa Claus we saw on the street last week isn’t the same one that made an appearance at his school. He asks me strange questions, like:

“When Santa sees a reindeer in the woods, does he grab it so he’ll have even more reindeer on his sleigh?”

“No. I think he’s happy with the eight he has.”

“But wouldn’t more reindeer make him go even faster?” Caleb asked.

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Nine, anyway.”

“Pardon?”

“Nine. There are nine reindeer. You forgot Rudolph.”

“Yes. I guess I did. Nine, then.”

I’m so prepared for the day Caleb no longer believes. I'm prepared for the inevitable accusation that I, ahem, lied. I have a great book to recuse myself of any responsibility: it is called, Santa? Are you for real? The answer is happily non-committal.

In the meantime, I’m truly enjoying watching Caleb work it out for himself.

The Possible's slow fuse is lit
By the Imagination
~Emily Dickinson

How do YOU feel about the jolly old white-bearded man with the wicked cool red winter suit? I won't be offended if you think I am totally off my rocker... it's been known to happen before.

Is This the Little Girl He Carried

I started dating John my freshman year of college. Sometime that fall, he took me home to meet the family, which, upon reflection, seems a bit soon, but I went full of nerves and apprehension and a curiosity about where it was John hailed from.

Upon walking into John's home for the very first time, a little girl bounded down the steps and jumped into John's arms, shrieking his name.

Mary. The baby sister. Sweet Mary with long brown hair and big brown eyes and a perpetual, contagious grin. The impetuous daughter with four older brothers and a pastor for a father. She had to be special.

She was nine years old and, despite the fact that her older brother teased and tortured her over the years (I know… I saw the videotapes) she obviously adored him. And it could be that moment, when I saw my future husband carrying his little sister up the stairs, that my heart melted and I saw a possible future with him.

I watched Mary grow from a little girl into a moody adolescent (though moody for Mary is good-natured to the rest of us) to popular, busy teenager to a college student to, could it possibly be? An adult.

She grew up so fast. I watched her squabble with the brother closest to her in age, roll her eyes countless times at her mother, feign absolute horror when her brothers teased her, get dreamy-eyed over several different boys, bat her eyelashes at her father and inevitably get something out of him... and then there were the soccer games and the basketball games we went to, watching her, always the star, always a beautiful streak across the field.

Always generous. Happily giving up her bed to me when I spent the night. Sharing her sweatshirts and giving me the latest benign gossip, always with a hug and an infectious laugh, always falling asleep in some odd place, like the middle of the living room floor with her dog curled up next to her.

Then she became aunt Mary. She helped when I was at my wit’s end, a friend, a babysitter, a housekeeper when my children were just babies. She read books and played hide and seek and effortlessly cleaned my kitchen so I could run errands or meet John for lunch or hide in my room for a few moments of peace.

When I was on bed-rest, she did loads and loads of my laundry, folding her brother’s underwear, my underwear. She matched socks and folded shirts and put it all neatly into baskets.

She is one of the few people I’ve never heard say a bad word about anyone.

She loves her family, she loves God, she loves… this guy Carl.

Carl, who has accomplished the amazing feat of garnering all of her brothers' approval, who is kind and thoughtful and smart and who really, really loves her.

Last week, they got engaged. This little girl with chipmunk cheeks and a diary with a lock and key, who had a poster of Legolas on her wall and wanted to be a dolphin trainer when she grew up is... getting married next summer.

Dear God, I hope he knows how lucky he is.

Congratulations Mary and Carl!

Holly's Adventures at Sea (and some on land, too)

On July 28th, Holly writes:

We are leaving August 22 from New Orleans to a couple of spots in Mexico and then back to New Orleans again. I'm totally pumped. I plan to eat, sleep, read, eat, swim, and terrorize Mexican natives. It's going to be totally sweet and awesome.

The following is an account of said journey across the great Gulf of Mexico.

Day 1: The day in which Holly and John leave for the warmer part of the country, called "The South."

We awoke at 4:30am and stumbled around in the dark and left for the airport, but not before returning our movie rentals to the Family Video. The flights were uneventful. We arrived in New Orleans and took a shuttle bus right to the port of New Orleans, which is the most amazing port at the end of the very brown Mississippi. It is everything that the Rochester fast ferry COULD NEVER have been because, even though a hurricane did not recently ravage our fair town, no tourists seem to ever cometh forth.

If you, like me, love being a tourist, New Orleans is the city for you. Its airport is named after Louis Armstrong, for heaven’s sake. It is a cool town. You can participate in all manner of guided tours: haunted house tours, cemetery tours, bayou tours, garden district tours, riverboat cruises, and the list goes on and on. We had about three hours to kill before our big boat left the port, so we wandered about the French Quarter and marveled at the wonder that is the city of New Orleans, a city that because of its poorly planned geographical location simply should not be.

We also marveled at how ridiculously friendly Southerners are. Now, I realize that New Orleans’ residents are sensitive about certain cruise lines and other tourist companies heading out of the city with Katrina never again to return, so some of their exuberance might be attributed to the mere excitement of reclaiming their glory as a top-tourist destination in the U.S. (The streets were pleasantly filled but not overflowing with plump white people taking pictures with bulky cameras underneath bright-colored sun visors.) But most of the tourists hailed from Southern towns like Memphis or Baton Rouge. I have a strange suspicion that their kindness has something to do with the fact that Southerners are brought up with good old-fashioned manners and an ethos of genuine consideration. I have never met so many people I really like gathered in one place before. Except for that guy who cut us in line as we were about to purchase beignets at Café Du Monde. Not cool, dude.

We wished we could have stayed late into the evening, when the streets come alive with jazz and blues and the smells of Cajun cooking, but alas, the ship blew its whistle and we had to be off.

Some interesting facts about Louisiana:

...In Louisiana, biting someone with your natural teeth is considered a simple assault, but biting someone with your false teeth is considered an aggravated assault.

...Louisiana is the only state that still refers to the Napoleonic Code in its state law.

...The Superdome in New Orleans is the world’s largest steel-constructed room unobstructed by posts.

We climbed aboard our big boat in the late afternoon and settled into our cabin where I took a much needed snooze. Later that evening, I had steak for dinner. Cooked medium.

Day 2: The day in which Holly makes good on her promise to sleep a lot.

I took a nice long morning nap, had a late lunch, and then had an afternoon siesta. I read a bit in between.

John and I contemplated various shore excursions. I was excited about swimming with dolphins. It has been my lifelong dream to swim in spiritual symbiosis with the gentle dolphin. My dreams almost came to fruition during our Bahamas trip in 2005; alas it was not meant to be. Dolphins, apparently, get “aggressive” with pregnant women. I was forbidden to get in the water with dolphins. In fact, that trip was the only time in my life I feared stepping into the ocean and spotting a dolphin, not a shark, fin.

BUT… this August day, I was happily not with child and ready to make my life-long dream a reality, despite John’s insistence that anyone who hates pregnant women has got to be an &*!#*. Then I saw the price-tag for the dolphin excursion. $179.95. Per person.

Perhaps swimming with dolphins is not so much a dream as it is a remote desire...

This was the night I dragged John to the karaoke lounge after our late dinner. I signed up to sing a song and waited patiently as person after person was called to the stage.

Keisha from Baton Rouge! Who all is from Baton Rouge? (The crowd goes wild.)

Mollie from Chattanooga! Who all’s from Tennessee? (The crowd roars!)

Jared from San Antonio. Who all’s from Texas tonight? (A steady clapping of hands.)

Finally they called me up. I received applause BEFORE I EVEN SANG! That’s how nice Southerners are. Then, our hostess, an extremely hyper short lady, asked where I was from. I shouted, with perhaps a bit too much pep, ROCHESTER NEW YORK!

Dead silence. Nothing but the sound of crickets, chirping. This is amazing since we were in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. Hyper short lady doesn’t even ask if anyone else is from New York. Instead, she states… “It’s okay! I’m from New York too!” I think she was trying to reassure me?

That evening I had lobster for dinner. With butter. Lots of butter.

Day 3: The day in which Holly terrorizes Mexican natives and swims.

We left the big boat to head out to the town of Progreso, Mexico, where we were told there would be Mayan ruins to look at. We found a reasonably priced tour on land and boarded an air-conditioned bus that traveled through the Yucatan to Dzibilchaltun,the remnants of a once large city of Mesoamerica. The Mayans did a weird and useful thing and incorporated their knowledge of astronomy into their architectural monoliths and buildings. During the equinox, the sun aligns with the Temple of the Seven Dolls, creating a luminous spectacle that always draws a huge crowd. It has been determined that some of these structures served as a calendar. I’m not quite sure how, BUT the calendar seems to point to a marker-date when the sun perfectly aligns with the southern star gate building during the winter equinox in the year 2012.

The Temple of the Seven Dolls

It you didn’t know already, best you hear it from me. I don’t mean to shock you but the end of the world is coming, and it’s coming in December of 2012. Be ye prepared.

Religious wack-a-doos from all walks of life across the globe believe this to be the truth and, do not be alarmed, actually associate the end times as described in the bible with these Mayan astrological predictions. If you want to learn more about this, I will be printing out flyers and leaving them tucked inside car windshield wipers in mall parking lots within the next couple of weeks.

(OR watch the movie starring John Cusack coming out this fall.)

If there are creatures such as this walking on land, who knows what lurks within murky Dzibilchaltun waters.

I also jumped into the famous Dzibilchaltun cenote only to quickly climb out with much fanfare as little fishies were biting my toes. I didn’t realize they were just little fishies. I felt fairly certain a creepy and evil vestige of Mayan history had emerged from this deep cave just to pull me down into its watery netherworld. Hence, I shrieked and flapped and frightened the Mexican natives with my outlandish behavior.

This is a cenote. Now you know.

I was quite exhausted after that ordeal so I went back to the ship and took a nap.

I had steak for dinner. Medium rare. And ice cream for dessert.

Day 4: The day in which things take a turn for the worse.

Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare?
Behold a God; mine is the watry care:

Through your wide realms I take my mazy way,

Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray:

No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores,

But one who rises in your native shores.

Let not his punishment your pity move;

Is Juno's hate an argument for love?

Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew,

Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true.

Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost,

Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast.

While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain,

Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain,

Which thus break forth.

This arm decides our right;

Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight.

Ovid, The Metamorphoses

It was going to be a bad day. I knew this as I lay, writhing on a cot in the big boat’s infirmary in intense stomach pain, looking up at a (relatively) small, Polynesian man who nevertheless loomed over me armed with a long and portentous looking hypodermic needle. He then said the following:

“I would now like to stick this in your butt.”

(Rather long and awkward pause.)

John replies:

“I can almost guarantee you’ll have to buy her dinner first.”

Apparently this is what comes of angering the Mayan gods with my facetious talk and improper behavior on sacred grounds.

Should I not have pretended ancient Mayan peoples were about to burn me alive?

They gave me pain meds in the form of pills, injections, and a liquid medicine laced with lidocaine, which I promptly threw up. There has been much speculation as to what made me so sick. My theory is the recent inhalation of rich, fatty foods like steak and butter and ice cream. Of course, that explains the stomach cramps but not the intense and persistent vomiting. That can be attributed to a) a nasty little Mexican germ or b) the ghost of my diseased gallbladder come back to torment me.

I spent the next 24 hours in my cabin. At some point, we received a note under our door, informing us that I was quarantined and if they caught me leaving my room, they would be forced to shoot me in the head and throw me overboard.

On the bright side, I was to receive all of the FREE BOTTLED WATER I WANTED!!! Because that’s what one wants in a really great vacation: free bottles of Dasani.

John, who loves his cell phone, finds reception no matter where he is. He called my mother and informed her of my precarious state. After hearing our tale of woe, she paused and then told him the following:

“She really should have come with a warranty.”

I had nothing for dinner. I ate nothing all day.

Day 5: The day in which Holly revives herself by walking about the ship contemplating the purchase of items that are clearly overpriced. She also mopes quite a bit because she was unable to enjoy the beautiful beaches of Cozumel. She comforts herself by taking a nap.

The morning at sea was rough; we entered choppy waters and even ventured through what one adorable Southerner called a “squa-all.” We spent a considerable amount of time on the top, front deck staring into the horizon, spotting ships and oil rigs and the occasional manna ray that bellied up to the surface.

We ate our last dinner with our table companions: all couples from Southern States. They were the greatest people. I truly feel that I could bop on down to Chattanooga tomorrow and show up on Harold and Stacy’s doorstep and they might actually let me in. And be happy about it. Maybe. Then again, I think they might believe I have the plague…

Our server's name was Margo. I wanted to tell him my niece's name was Margot, but then I thought better of it.

We spent our last night in the big boat’s Universal Lounge where we watched a broadway-style musical entitled Ticket to Ride: A Tribute to the Beatles. I enjoyed it. I may have even waved a glowy stick around. John fell asleep but I woke him up during the singing of the nah nah nah nahs in Hey Jude.

Day 6: The day in which Holly must admit that despite being incapacitated for 20% of the trip, she still had a totally sweet and awesome anniversary vacation with her hubby, who, it so happens, is the most understanding, patient, and forgiving husband on earth.

The flights home were a little turbulent but were, for the most part, uneventful. Our children were returned to us in superior form. Ben keeps calling me Grandma. This is annoying. Daniel cries for his Nini. This, too, is annoying. Ella calls John Gampa. This is normal, and we are relieved.

Would I go on a cruise again? Yes, but only after I give my delicate internal system a good three years to recover. Until then, you can find me repelling down the Grand Canyon or reading a book on the beaches of the Outer Banks. I’m going to be a land creature for a while.