vacation, all I ever wanted

One year ago, I was at a resort in the Dominican Republic having the most wonderful time imaginable.  This year, my summer vacation isn’t quite so extravagant, but I am looking forward to it none the less.  In a few weeks my husband, pups and I will load up the Matrix and head down to visit my mom in Destin for July 4th. 

White sugar sand, warm salty breezes, diving under the waves and the roar of breaking surf, short sudden storms that leave the air smelling electric, swim-suits thrown over lawn chairs to dry in the sun, pink shoulders, sun freckles across my nose, SPF 30 and aloe, tacky beach shops along the strip, free hermit crabs, henna tattoos, hair pulled back, sunglasses on, flip-flops 24/7 even at dinner, frozen drinks on weather-worn decks, fresh oysters, shrimp, grouper, amberjack, red snapper, wedges of lemons picked from mom’s trees, laughter between bites, everyone talking over each other, raising our glasses to the chef, walks along the docks at sunset, gulls and pelicans perched on pylons, boats straining against ropes as thick as my wrist, dolphins playing in the bay, craning our necks to watch the fireworks from the deck of the sailboat, music echoing out across the water and champagne on the beach at midnight. 

Another thing I love about beach vacations is being able to live out of a suitcase.  Life is pared down to the basics, the essentials, nothing extraneous to weigh me down.  I pack all my favorite clothes, the ones that fit the best or are the most comfortable.  I bring my cutest pajamas, two favorite swim-suits and three pairs of shoes to go with everything.  I have only one eyeliner, one eyeshadow, mascara and SPF 30 moisturizer.  Then throw in my hairdryer, a couple of books, my journal and a pen.  I take my small travel purse and empty my wallet of everything except license, debit card and health insurance card.  That’s all I need and it is liberating.  I like not having to sort through a closet full of clothes to find the one shirt that I really want.  When I’m on vacation, that shirt and the four others I love are all I have to choose from.  It’s like going to a restaurant that only has grilled salmon on the menu and you love grilled salmon. 

That’s the kind of vacation I want: I don’t have to make any decisions, but if I do, they are obvious.

thatched roofs and palm trees

I have returned from the vacation that I thought would never happen.  There was one minor glitch with our connecting flight in Ft. Lauderdale being that the seat numbers we were assigned didn’t actually exist on the plane.  We got an upgrade to 1st class, though, so no worries!  After that it was all thatched roofs and palm trees.  Pool drinks and blue water.  Ocean breeze and latin music.  I entered a state of relaxation normally reserved for coma patients or yoga masters.  Our biggest worries were what we were going to eat for dinner and if we were going to have a vodka tonic or vino tinto.  I read a book.  I got a tan.  I said “hola” and “gracias”.  I loved every moment. 

Here was the view from our balcony:

The picture does it no justice.  You’ll just have to go see it for yourself to fully understand how beautiful it is. 

countdown

No, not the Final Countdown (do duh doo doo, do duh doot doot doooo!), that will be happening next Tuesday night as I’m lying sleepless in my bed waiting for morning so I can drive to the airport.  But, we are counting down.  Five days.  Then I will be here.  I’ve never been anywhere like there before and neither has my husband.  We’ve been wanting to take a trip like this ever since we got together.  We are a couple who have a passion for travel, but who have never actually been anywhere.  Well, I’ve been a few places when I was a kid, but once you’re married, if you haven’t experienced something with your spouse, it’s like it didn’t happen.  Things are only truly real if I can share them with Tom. 

I’m buying trip insurance.  Just a little extra coverage to pay for an emergency flight home in case of a major medical incident or natural disaster.  How grown-up is that?  Am I a friggin’ responsible adult or what!?  When I was in college (and for many years after) when I went downtown for drinks or to a club or concert all I would take were my keys, debit card and drivers license (and maybe lip gloss).  Now, I add my health insurance card to that list (and my glasses).  Good by care free youth!  It doesn’t help that I work in insurance.  This job makes you constantly think about all the bad things that could happen and if you have the coverage to pay for it.  Not only am I an adult, but a paranoid adult.  Urg!  Man, do I need this vacation!

 

death, work and what I won’t talk about

Yesterday I was told I look like a dead woman.  Okay, apparently I look like her before she died, but still an awkward situation.  Am I supposed to take the comparison as a complement?  I have no idea what this woman looked like.  Am I supposed to feel bad that I reminded her of her dead friend?  Well, sorry lady, I was just trying to visit my friend and her new baby girl in the hospital. 

Said friend and her baby girl are the reason I probably will look like a dead woman soon.  I am filling my friend’s position at work while she is out on maternity leave.  Thing is, no one is filling my position while I am filling hers, so I have to do both.  Two full time jobs for eight weeks.  Well, now it’s seven weeks and two days, but who’s counting? 

My one consolation is that I am going on vacation in 28 days (yes, you better believe I’m counting).  But, I can’t talk about my vacation.  Just thinking about it makes my stomach cramp and my breathing erratic.  Talking about it triggers what I can only assume is a panic attack.  I am morbidly certain that something horrible will happen that will either prevent my vacation from becoming a reality or will make it far less than enjoyable. 

Looking forward to the future is an impossiblity for me right now.  I will only feel completely at ease after I have dropped my bags at the foot of my hotel bed and have filled my lungs with warm Caribbean air. 

posting drought

I know that if I expect you to read, you expect me to post.  Sorry for not keeping up my end lately.  I did go on vacation for a few days to visit mom in Destin.  Our first trip with my new car and new dog, Mathilda.  She turned out to be an excellent go-for-ride-dog.  I can’t wait to go back when it’s warmer to see how she likes the ocean. 
But, I’m home now.  So I’ll get back to work.  See, I’ve already started!

How my step-father almost died in his homeland and nobody cared

Or – The hills are alive with the sound of desperate gasps for air.

During spring break of my sophomore year of high school, my family went to Germany.  Some kids got to go to the beach or, you know, some place warm.  There is still snow on the ground in Germany in early April.  I shouldn’t complain, I was the only kid I knew with a passport, but I was a teenage girl and hormonally obligated to complain about everything.

My family at the time consisted of my older sister, our mom and Al, the man our mom had for some reason decided to marry some eight or so years earlier.  Al was of German descent and had been to the country before, but this was a chance to see it with the family.  Or, just a thinly veiled chance for him to get plowed off Jaegermeister in the land of its origin.

Even with the snow, it was a beautiful country.  We saw castles, the Alps, the Black Forest, ate sausage and Al got to drive like an asshole on the Autobahn.  He received that merit badge on two continents, we were so proud.

One night we were traveling to the next town on our itinerary and decided that it was getting too late to try to make it that night.  So, we started to look for a hotel.  Most of the hotels in that area were small, family run affairs with only a few rooms.  Apparently they fill up quickly because the first couple we stopped at were booked full.  I believe it was close to midnight when we finally found a vacant zimmer (Deutsch for room).  Exhausted from traveling we all settled into our room – that’s right, all of us were in one room.  Mom and Al in the bed, me in a hide-a-way bed and my poor sister on the floor.  Cozy.  The bathroom, like most small hotels in Europe, was down the hall.  I was the first to use it and discovered that after a few minutes, no matter what you were doing, an exhaust fan turned on.  I guess the owners figured better safe than sorry.

That night, I was brutally roused from a sound sleep by a loud thud and excessive coughing punctuated by gasps for air.  Mom turned on the light and we all surveyed the room with bleary eyes.  Al was standing, albeit bent over, by the bed and was the one making all the racket.  The corner of the mattress on his side was sagging, like one of the slats underneath gave way.  My sister, seeing that mom and I were alright, lay back down and pulled the blanket over her head.  Even in my post deep sleep daze, I realized what had happened and settled back down to resume my slumber.

Al suffered from sleep apnea, although it really was the rest of us who suffered.  His snoring could be heard from the vacuum of space.  Sometimes he would stop breathing and his brain would send his body some kind of signal which would cause him to wake up gasping for air like a re-animated corpse.  This is what happened that night, but at some point the bed slat had broken as well which just added another level of hilarity to the situation.

I could still hear the hacking and wheezing from under my blankets and it was really making it hard to sleep.  I hear mom tell Al to go to the bathroom and get some water.  He coughs himself out the door, mom turns off the light and sleep descends on us all.

I wake the next morning to find that all appears normal.  The bed was righted, Al was breathing and we were all looking forward to breakfast.  As we were talking while gathering our things, the events of the previous night were mentioned.  My sister and I laughed as we realized that at the time we were both thinking, “Mom will go check on Al if he doesn’t come back from the bathroom.”  Mom laughed because she was thinking that one of us girls would go check on him.  This just made my sister and I laugh even harder because mom obviously didn’t know that neither of us gave a rat’s ass if he choked to death or not.

That prompted me to say, “Well, it’s a good thing that he didn’t die in the bathroom cause that fan would have just turned on and no one would have known there was a dead body in there for a while.”

Oh, we all laughed and laughed.  Except for Al.  For some reason, he didn’t seem to think any of it was very funny.  Poor bastard never learned that if he was only able to laugh at himself every once in a while, one of us might have just given a damn.