Vacation 2011: The Ups, the Downs and the Iguanas

There were many portents (yes, I am comparing my life to a Shakespearean tragedy) that our vacation in Puerto Rico might not meet my vision of the relaxing, fun-filled days of frolicking on the beach by day, watching the sunset by night as my two angels are on best behavior out of gratitude that their parents got them the hell out of this miserable Chicago weather. It became brutally clear to me that being a mother on vacation is eerily similar to being one every other day of the year. Except you are spending a lot more money causing a heightened level of annoyance when your children are not behaving and obsessing over whether they have enough sunscreen on. My children were deliciously delightful half the time during our sojourn, and complete miserable freaks the other half, leading me to believe they are Cybill with slightly fewer personalities.

Before this getaway even started, the following occurred:

Portent Number One: We were required to send a cashier's check via Priority US Mail to the condo we rented. Said check, per the USPS, arrived on a certain date, but the recipients confirmed it did not. I traced it, with the USPS insisting it had been delivered. It had, in fact, not. We cancelled the check, and I initiated an investigation with USPS. They said they would get back to me "within two business days." That was 47 business days ago.

Portent Number Two: We booked award tickets on United Airlines  (a company which incidentally can bite me) but could not get a direct flight for our return. I reluctantly booked a connection through DC. Exactly three hours after booking it, the direct opened up. I called United but was told I'd be charged $150 per ticket ($600 total for the mathematically challenged out there) because it was a "change of route." How exactly does our changing the route using miles cost United ANYTHING let alone $600? And kindly don't get me started on their baggage fees. I'd make a Friendly Skies witticism here but it's probably already been done ad nauseam.

Portent Number Three: I have never had a spray tan, but because I could have potentially starred in Powder II, I decided to try it. The gal with the hose asked whether I'd like light, medium-light, medium-dark or dark. Having never had a spray tan, I left it up to her discretion, directing only, "Just don't make me look ridiculous." Let's just say "ridiculous" must be subjective because I emerged from my session looking like the love child of a female oompa loompa and C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man.

 A few highlights of the trip:

There was a large, functional gong on each floor of the resort. This puzzled me deeply. It's as if the designer thought to himself (it wasn't a female I can tell you that), "Hmm... you know what's missing from this kid-infested venue? There simply isn't enough noise!" The gong just so happened to be right outside our door. What a pleasure it was for every passerby under the age of 14 to take a whack during all hours! So enjoyable was it I might go buy myself a gong as I miss the gonging disrupting my REM sleep on a regular basis since our return.

Puerto Rico might soon be taken over by iguanas in a mass revolt reminiscent of a B horror flick. The place is crawling (literally) with them: they are the size of large cats and seemingly have no fear of humans. I like an animal that is terrified of superior species as nature intended. But the iguana, in its ruthless quest for french fries and other food eaten by tiny tourists, JUMPED ONTO OUR LOUNGE CHAIR and perched itself atop our beach bag. (Interesting iguana trivia: they don't respond to the command "shoo shoo!" like a bird might.) The fact my husband missed that photo opp might be grounds for divorce. I wonder if anyone ever listed as the reason on a  divorce decree "Iguana dove onto our bag and my now estranged husband missed the shot." He did manage to get this one of Moxley about to possibly lose a nose or other facial extremity:



Halfway through the trip, Lulu informed me she wants her name to henceforth be "Flower." This is troubling on many levels, least of which is that there are only three possible destinies for a person with an affinity for the name Flower: a dope-smoking slacker, a cult member, and worst of all, a tree hugger. I don't need some smart ass teenager lecturing me about my carbon footprint and pestering me to buy locally grown organic food while living rent free in my home. At least if they are dope smokers they will be too busy stuffing their faces with Pringles and onion dip in a fit of the munchies to bother me too much and a cult member probably won't be in touch at all, rendering them fairly low maintenance. The Flower thing may or may not be related to fact the girls now only want to wear clothing items besieged by flowers.



I used to think parents who stuck their children in the Kids Club on vacation were assholes. Now my first and foremost concern when planning our next getaway is that they have one, preferably one that operates all day every day.

I suppose I could write about our joyous moments as well, but if I wanted to write joyous crap I'd be published in one of those Chicken Soup books or similar. I'll let some photos speak for that side of the trip:

Self-Made Signage

I went to the dentist today and took a potty break in the bathroom the dentist shares with other offices and found this sign hanging inside the stall.  It made me almost miss the hijinks of working in an office. Like people putting notes on their lunch bags stored in the common fridge so food bandits won't steal it. Once at my last job I saw a yellow post-it note on a brown paper bag in the fridge that said, "This is MY lunch! Go make your own, it's not that hard!" The handwriting was that of a madman, a madman whose lovingly made peanut butter and jelly sandwich had been stolen one too many times. It had a "I'm mad as hell and I'm not gonna take it anymore" furious scribble to it that I appreciated. But the message itself was direct, succinct, even providing a thoughtful suggestion with encouragement that the task was perhaps not as difficult as the lunch bandit had imagined. Perhaps that lunch bandit did in fact start making his own lunch after encountering that note and thought after he put the top piece of bread with jelly onto the bottom piece slathered with peanut butter, "You know what? It ISN'T that hard!"

But this sign. This sign has not left my mind since departing the dentist's office. I can just picture the lady stomping back to her office, grabbing a piece of paper off the printer and furiously writing her outrage in, not polite cursive, but a very blunt print. Why does only Flush get the courtesy of filled in block letters? Do you think she did several rewrites before deciding on exactly three exclamation points after "Before you leave" but only two after "I don't want to do it for you?" Do you think she brought a roll of tape with her into the bathroom or assembled her sign with a small strip of tape in the isolation of her cubicle? I wonder if she displayed it proudly to co-workers as she made her way back to the bathroom with this message that seems to me will just tempt the non-flusher to continue not flushing. This is almost like an "I dare you" to a non-flusher I would imagine. It probably will spark a "whatchya gonna do about it" reaction in someone who doesn't flush their own waste.

I think I would have made my sign more official if I were so inclined to tape a message in the public restroom of my workplace. I might have made it in PowerPoint and put some letters in bold red and such. I might have implemented sarcasm: "As much as I enjoy viewing your excrement, my carpal tunnel syndrome is flaring up so for the time being would you mind flushing yourself?" Perhaps I might have signed it from "Management" so it had a veiled threat that the non-flusher could lose her job for further offenses. Perhaps I'd even add some design elements to match the restroom decor. I bet I'd spend an entire afternoon creating my sign rather than doing my work.

Speaking of work, I am taking pictures of bathroom signs that are none of my concern when I should in fact be working. But there is none of this fun sign-leaving business going on in my bedroom where I do my work. Maybe I'll leave a sign on the bathroom mirror for  my husband to artificially create the camaraderie of the workplace....

If It's Okay for a Princess...

At first glance, you might think the disturbing part of this photo is that my daughter is drinking out of a bowl. Really, that's the least of the problems depicted in this photo. First and foremost, it is WHAT she is drinking. Are you ready? Green bean juice. Or more accurately, the watery remnants of what canned Del Monte no salt green beans come packed in. (Good thing I keep "shit loads" on hand...) The girls recently decided they like their green beans "juicy" which means they don't want me to drain the watery crap out. These are the same girls who won't take a bite of hamburger or chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese or anything else normal children actually eat. But green bean run-off? Yes please may I have another!

The second most disturbing part is that when I told her not to drink from the bowl (does one use a spoon to eat green bean water like a soup one wonders?), Lulu indignantly replied, "That's how Belle ate when she had dinner with the Beast!" Oh, well then, carry on.

CINDERELLA ATE MY DAUGHTER INDEED.