Eating mudpies

January 30, 2013 by 8 Comments

God made dirt. It won’t hurt.

I’m not sure there has ever been anything written about parenting multiple children more true than this ecard. Yes, it’s effing hilarious. But the truth often is, right? It also reminds me of the perceived ‘Curse of the Middle Child’, and the over-abundance of photographs I have of Sugar Bean and Butter Bean as infants and toddlers, but the lack of pictures of Sweet Pea during those stages. For awhile, I was worried she might think we stole her, and couldn’t take pictures because of it…lol. Anyway, I believe the photo ratio has finally evened out because THEY ALL LOVE THE CAMERA. And the feeling is mutual 🙂

But, I digress.  Back to eating dirt.

Personally, I was scared shitless when Sugar Bean came along, and I was a new mommy in Los Angeles. Because, y’all….I was raised in the South, by a mama who was 40 when I was born. Which, in itself was not cool for the 70’s. I mean, from what I understand, she was told there was a 50/50 chance I would either be of genius level intelligence or suffer from some sort of mental deficiency, simply based on her age, and the risks associated with having a baby during ‘THE CHANGE’. And I guess the jury might still be out on which one I grew up to be depending on whom you ask. My point is, because most of my childhood friends’ parents were the ages of my older siblings–I’m the youngest by 12 years in my family–which meant my mom’s friends had teenagers, not toddlers….I was a solitary child. Didn’t really have friends over to play, for this reason, and hardly remember going to others’ homes until I was well into elementary school.  Playing with other kids wasn’t referred to as a ‘play date’ when I was young and  ‘Mommy & Me’ groups/classes didn’t exist. In other words, the raising I got in the South, and the parenting I witnessed my siblings exercise upon my nieces and nephews, didn’t really jive with the world of motherhood in Los Angeles I was thrust into in 1999. To say I was clueless, is, well….an understatement. So I did the only thing I knew to do…try and fit in. Especially since the alternative, stereotypical (and often mocked) familiar traits of a Southern mama involved standing around barefoot in my front yard, with my baby girl propped on my hip wearing nothing but a diaper while  gossiping  with my neighbor about what ingredients she used to make her version of a 7-layer Surprise (it’s a dessert). No, I’ve never made one, and we lived off Melrose, so I never ventured over to meet the neighbors either.

OH. THE. HORROR.

At first, I attempted to do everything the other ‘hip moms’ did. I had a fancy diaper bag, and bought Sugar Bean’s clothes from trendy little boutiques I heard about, to wear on play-dates, or to our Mommy n’ Me classes. Hell, I even jumped on the bandwagon of ‘organic’ baby food, which was rumored to be an absolute must for my angel, despite the fact that all it’s really made of is vegetables grown in the dirt with only sunlight and water to help them along. In other words….just like the ones I helped my Papa tend to in his garden…my whole life. Once harvested, pureed, jarred, labeled and sold at inflated prices in stores like Whole Paycheck, Whole Foods, it’s then referred to as gourmet organic baby food.  Who knew? We went so far as to hire a nanny for a little while, to be an ‘extra pair of hands’, because I convinced myself I needed help…with ONE CHILD…even though I was a SAHM, without so much as a shred of a job beyond housewife/mother. My siblings were laughing, my girlfriends were laughing, my in-laws were laughing, and in hindsight, it’s rather embarrassing, I have to admit. Why, you ask? Because it was obvious to everyone but us, that The Man and I were clearly , trying to Keep Up with The Whoevers. It ended up biting us on the ass some years later, after Butter Bean was born, when said nanny went rogue on us and almost turned our fairytale into a “life imitates art” exhibit straight out of  “The Hand That Rocks the Cradle”. THANK GOD my sisters had some sense, and managed to stage an intervention.  But that, is a post for another day….and several bottles of good Pinot  🙂

Things moved merrily along, and we added Butter Bean to the mix, just when Sugar Bean started Kindergarten.  Given my over-achieving, type A nature, and obvious need to ‘win’ I even took part in the evil world of competitive birthday party throwing. If you know what I’m talking about, you’ve probably done it…at least once. If you don’t, it’s best not to even ask for details. Trust me on this one, and laugh at the notion…if it were in fact an Olympic sport, this village idiot would be decorated like Michael-freaking-Phelps.

I was doing everything right, or so I thought, until it came to discipline. That is the one area of “Parenting LA Style” that always baffled my mind, as it seemed to be entirely absent from the motherhood spectrum as exhibited by the moms I encountered, once Sugar Bean started school. You see, I was taught to obey when my mama or daddy said “No”. Not to ask why, and then be given an explanation, followed by a ‘choice’. If I didn’t behave as I was told, I faced consequences, sometimes involving wooden spoons, belts or switches I had to fetch from the yard myself. There was no talking back, or ‘using my words’, no timeouts and certainly no dedicated ‘cool down corner’, complete with burning candles and calming music, for me to go and chill out in, if I disobeyed. I can just imagine the place my Daddy would have put me in had I ‘used my words’…lol. Nonetheless, I did my best to conform, only reverting to REDNECK MAMA every now and then when I just didn’t have another feasible choice. At the end of the day, I’ve done what works for our family, and used a combination of methods that appear to be most effective. Punishment fits the crime so to speak, and it’s different for each Bean. I guess that’s all we can do, right? Sure, my way is different from the vast majority of moms in my circle, but nobody judges. Anymore…lol. But I have tried REALLY REALLY hard to make The Beans say ‘yes ma’am, no ma’am/yes sir, no sir’, in an effort to hold on to some shard of dignity when we visit the South. Not only is it ingrained in my personality, it’s just plain respectful. I’m 41, and I still say it when responding to those older than I by a span of years. It’s about 50-50 at this point with The Beans, and it does set them apart from the pack when they utter those words in mixed company. Also, I must give them props for their table manners and social graces, and for remembering never to call their friends’ parents by their first names. Not even when THEY give permission. Simply unacceptable.  Basically, I’m trying to raise open-minded, socially aware and tolerant, respectful, independent, strong women who have impeccable manners and behave like Southern Belles. Oh, and to know when to utter “Well, Bless your heart”  as opposed to “WELL. BLESS YOUR HEART!” 🙂

Right about now, you may be wondering how on Earth this is all going to come together at the end of the post, and why I chose to write about it today. It’s because Sugar Bean is 13 now. THIRTEEN. She thinks I’m over-protective, and admittedly, I am. All of her friends have a Facebook page and I am making her wait, under the ‘terms of service agreement’ that you must be at least 14. I flipped out when she signed up for Instragram, and gave this long spiel about NEVER posting pics of herself, or sisters, because I worry about cyber-geo-tagging of pictures. Again, I warned her of the threat of the people behind the profiles not being whom they say they are, and assured her it has nothing to do with my trust in her, but my distrust of others. So she made her account private, and posted pictures of her toenail polish, our dog, and our bearded dragons. That got old, so she deleted her account. All of her friends stay connected via some form of social media, and I am depriving her of that. I also feel like she doesn’t try and forge friendships as often because she is afraid of not being able to participate in activities that appear to be normal for the tween set. And I don’t want that.  Am I crazy for being so protective?  I mean, I did relax and relent on the issue of allowing her to walk down to a pick up spot with her friends after school each day. Of course, I’m there waiting when she arrives and there is no ‘hanging out’. Go ahead, call me a Helicopter Mom. No, wait…don’t. I’ve never been one to fight her battles, or forbid climbing on a jungle gym out of fear she might fall. So maybe I’m more of a Tent Mom. You know, attempting to shelter her from the possible storm that may be awaiting her in the world of social networking. Hmm.

I realize I am a big hypocrite, as I am baring my soul here, being public and posting pictures from time to time….of The Beans. And maybe I am being too paranoid. It’s been on my mind a lot lately, so I talked about it in a therapy session this morning. Turns out, my doc has a 13 year old daughter, and he talked me off the ledge. Reassuring me I am doing all the right things…staying involved, monitoring things, and explaining my concerns and hesitation due to my skepticism of others, not because I distrust her. Then he admitted his 13 year old daughter has a Facebook page. It’s the way EVERYONE connects, arranges outings, and communicates in general. He also said the chances of any of my valid, yet paranoid concerns, coming to light for Sugar Bean under my watchful eye, would be basically less than being struck by lightning. Twice.

So, after much deliberation, both through internal dialogue with myself, and discussion with The Man and The Doc…..Sugar Bean will be connecting to the social networking world this evening.

But she has no idea….yet 🙂 I imagine her reaction will be better than when she got her iPhone for Xmas.

Breathe in, breathe out….breathe in, breathe out…repeat.  Oh, screw it. Who am I kidding?

I’m gonna need a Xanax washed down with some Jack Daniels before sitting down to sign her up on Facebook.

The teenage years are going to put me in the dirt….eating mudpies.

 

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A day in the life.

January 8, 2013 by 16 Comments

 

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The Beans went back to school yesterday, but school day mornings around here have become quite the dramatic production. Emphasis on DRAMA.  First of all, Sugar Bean, is 13. I could stop right there, without any explanation at all and 99.9% of you would still know what I mean. However, I’ll elaborate. Because that’s one of the things I do best, besides over-sharing and rooting for my Crimson Tide.

With her, there is none of the usual teenager-not-wanting-to-get-out-of-bed riggamaroll, or the “MOM…NOTHING FITS ME!! WHY CAN’T I GET NEW CLOTHES? FUCK!!” (If you haven’t seen it, there is a great example of this in Judd Apatow’s new film THIS IS 40. A must-see if you have kids, especially teens). Life up in here would be grand if it were just that simple. But oh no…I get the emotional stuff almost every morning, and the kid hasn’t even started her period yet! The golden moments of  “I hate cheerleading, and don’t like going to the away games (there is one today). It will take me forever to do my homework afterwards, and there is no adult supervision once we return to school (yes, a teenager complained about this)” and “My entire 7th grade year is being ruined, because I’m miserable cheering and you won’t let me quit. Other girls are quitting. You don’t care about my happiness.”  And during these rants, I have to resist the urge to say “Because I will be 41 tomorrow and know infinitely more than you, so shut the eff up”, remain calm and… parent. Before 8am. Before I’ve had caffeine. Or changed my clothes, brushed my teeth, and peed! Just about the only thing this follows is….The Man’s departure for work.

Now, I should mention that I was a cheerleader myself, both in junior high and high school, but had no part in Sugar Bean’s decision to try out. In fact, it was a shock to me that she wanted to. So, she can’t hang this one on me for forcing her into an activity she desired no part in. Nope, not my fault. I will, however, take full responsibility for refusing to allow her to quit. It’s one of those points of parenting where The Man and I absolutely agree, because we made a mistake early on and learned from it. Yes, that really happens. Anyway, there is a rule in our household now: If you start an activity  as part of a team, you fulfill your commitment, as part of the team. Unless unforeseen circumstances like this prohibit you from doing so. 

In other words, we are not raising quitters.

So I try to explain this to her, and convince her it WILL get better. I declare that cheering for basketball is more fun than soccer, and CFE’s because the games are more exciting to watch and the crowds tend to be larger and more enthusiastic. I also point out that we live in a small, close-knit community (yes, those exist in LA), and if she quits the squad, it may hurt her chances of being chosen for, or allowed to participate in future team activities next year or in high school, because she will have the reputation of being a quitter, and therefore, be viewed as unreliable. In an attempt to validate some of her feelings, I even agree with her about a few of her grievances, which I know to be true, and offer to come to the game today and speak to the cheer coaches in an effort to gain insight into why she is so miserable doing something she wanted to do! I try to relate what she is feeling to my own experiences as a cheerleader. Big mistake…HUGE. She sulks and says, “It was different then.Plus, if you are there, I will mess up. There’s too much pressure.”  But I am steadfast in my decision, and she concludes her rant (keep in mind it’s been going on relentlessly for almost an hour now) as she exits the car saying “I don’t care about school or the year anymore. It doesn’t matter.” Talk about making me feel like shit for parenting, and causing worry about all sorts of things that could result from my refusal to allow her to quit cheering. So I have decided to go to the game. To observe. I won’t approach the coaches, or draw attention to her misery in any way. But I need some answers!

Now, compared to Sugar Bean’s morning tirades, Butter Bean and Sweet Pea’s antics in the mornings before school appear like the actions of angels. But, they still turn the task of getting them ready for their day into complete havoc . At the ripe age of 8, Butter Bean hates to get out of bed. But when she does finally spring forth, there isn’t much I have to help her with beyond fashioning her hair into a ponytail. Extremely independent, that one. Definitely a chip off my block. She is somewhat of a tomboy, so she doesn’t give much thought to what she wears, and settles on jeans and a cute tee with a hoodie most days. Easy, right? WRONG. Her main purpose in the mornings is to antagonize her baby sister, Sweet Pea, who takes sensitivity to a new level, much to the delight of Butter Bean. That child cries from the moment she gets out of bed, and continues for at least 20 minutes. It’s almost impossible to get her dressed, as she is a mini-fashionista and very concerned about how she looks. If she’s picked an outfit that doesn’t fit the weather outside, and I gently point that out, the waterworks start. She takes it personally, and considers my concern for her being cold an insult on her fashion sense. After several minutes of hemming and hawing, we can usually agree on something….as long as it involves wearing tights. And a dress, a skirt, or a tutu. In general, Sweet Pea hates pants, unless they are brightly colored or embellished jeans. Or in rare cases, cargo style. Once dressed, the tears stop long enough for her to make the trek from her bedroom to the bathroom, where I must brush the tangles out of her hair while she screams like a banshee and declares that she knows I’m hurting her on purpose! All the while, Butter Bean is standing in the doorway, backpack loaded onto her shoulders, breakfast of choice in hand….with a devious smirk on her face…watching. You can imagine what goes down when Sweet Pea catches Butter Bean observing. “Mama, she’s looking at me with an ugly face, and it’s making me sad!” Cue more tears. Where is Sugar Bean, you ask? Halfway out the door, sighing loudly, and proclaiming that if we don’t leave right that second, we are going to be late.

Which we never are, of course.

These are my days. One bleeding into another, when school is in session, with only slight deviations from this to the next. Today’s hiccup was that, before crawling into bed last night, I took the time to sit down and write in a card for The Man. I wrote some words of encouragement for the day, along with loving phrases, sealed it in an envelope and carefully propped it in the pocket of his gym bag, where he would be sure to find it. Just because. I know i enjoy ‘little things’, and unexpected gestures, so I thought he might as well. He  startled me awake by asking where his coat was, and then barked at me because I was disoriented and couldn’t answer him. It was, after all, 5 am, and I had only been asleep for 3 hours. So what? I’m a night owl. The nap was decent. The waking, was not. Much to my amazement, there was no mention of the card, and he hurried out the door without even saying goodbye or I love you. I thought to myself, he was obviously in a hurry, and it fell out of his bag. He hasn’t read it. Yes! That’s it.

Then I found the card, ripped from the envelope, lying on the dining room table, just above my heart which fell to the floor beneath.

So that was my morning. How was yours?

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a year-end wrap up…in 47 minutes or less (because that’s all that is left of 2012)

January 1, 2013 by 4 Comments

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I’ll try to make this short and sweet, by simply making a list of the good and bad moments of 2012 up in my Calibama State of Mind. Mostly because lists are easy to follow, and I wasted time creating the ecard image, and now only have 17  no minutes left. Procrastination at it’s finest. Classic me. Some things never change, and I work better under pressure, so no judging….got it?

Let’s start with THE BAD, shall we?

1. We moved. Not much more needs to be said other than the process of it sucked the life right out of me for a good 3 weeks. Unless I win the lottery, I am not leaving this house. EVER. 

2. The Man was between film projects for much of the year, and home a lot, which drove me bat-shit crazy. He needs hobbies that do not involve chasing me around trying to undress me while I have 8000+ things to do. Hoping that developing a few is on the top of HIS resolution list.

3. The Beans had to quit gymnastics. You can read about that here. I’m still heart-broken and don’t like to talk about it. Hopeful that training resumes in 2013.

4. Lester, our beloved 13 year old, Chihuaua had to be put down 🙁 That story is here.

5.  The Beans got head-lice. Twice. Pissed doesn’t even begin to describe my mood on those occasions. Yes, I blogged about it…here. 

This is the shit I’m running from, once I get my new sneakers. Tomorrow.

But onto…

THE GOOD. Which I will be expanding on, in MAGNANIMOUS PROPORTIONS.

1. ON JANUARY 9, 2012…MY 40TH BIRTHDAY…THE ALABAMA CRIMSON TIDE WON THE BCS NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP. Best. Present. Ever. ROLL TIDE ROLL….and onto the National Championship game we go once again this year!!! 

2. I started this blog, along with a FB fan page and a Twitter feed dedicated to it. It speaks for itself, I believe. And I plan on paying A LOT more attention to it.

3. I got a real writing gig, that actually pays a little. I need to maintain a bit of anonymity where this is concerned, but trust me….IT’S AWESOME. And literally fell in my lap at a much needed time. As the saying goes, “When life shuts a door, God opens a window somewhere” 🙂 

4. We moved.  Even with the colossal headache the execution of it was, it’s a good thing too. We down-sized, into a cozy place that is more affordable and closer to The Beans’ schools. Less to clean for me, smaller monthly nut….win-win, right?

5. One of my besties had a baby boy, and I am his Godmother. So now I have a son in addition to The Beans 🙂 Oh, what fun we are going to have!!!

6. I made some really great new friends, in the blogging world, and in real-life. Also reconnected with some old friends. You know who you are 🙂

7. My whole family filmed a book trailer for a zombie novel titled “100 Days of Death”. The novel will be out this year, and you can watch the trailer here. We had a BLAST!!

8. I was invited to be a contributor for MomsLA, a phenomenal group of bloggers. I’m still shaking my head at this one. Honored does not even scratch the surface of how this made me feel.

9. My niece, Meaghan, got married, and I got to attend the wedding in Alabama and serve as a bridesmaid. Hadn’t been home to Bama in over 2 years, so this was PRICELESS.

10. I was gifted a ‘We Can Do Hard Things Sign’ by Momastery and Barn Owl Primitives, on the eve of the 17th anniversary of my mama’s passing. The women responsible for this will NEVER know how much it meant.

So, clearly, the good outweighed the bad, at least on this list. There are, of course, several catastrophic things that happened that must remain unwritten. But those have either been kicked to the curb already, or are well on their way to being eradicated.

2013 is going to be divinely kick-ass. HUGE things are on the horizon for me, The Man and The Beans. There simply is no other option.

Who’s with me?

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A Post-holiday vacation….in all it’s GLORY

November 22, 2012 by 19 Comments


As soon as the topic for this week’s Theme Thursday was decided upon and announced, as “My Biggest Vacation Disaster” I immediately knew the story I wanted to share with y’all. It’s an adventure straight out of National Lampoon’s Vacation franchise. That is, if one of their movies was set on a Carnival Cruise ship.

I only wish it had been a trip I TOOK. 

No, I didn’t cheat, and fabricate a story about a disastrous vacation with my family. I didn’t have to. My niece, Ryan Anderson,** and her husband actually had one worthy of an award, and she agreed to let me share it. I mean, why wouldn’t she? After it happened, she sent the following letter to American Express, and the Director of Public Relations called her on the phone, laughing hysterically, saying that everyone in the office now had a copy on their desk and nobody could get any work done because they were all giggling breathlessly. At the end of the phone call, they were discussing the possibility of making it into a commercial. Seriously.  Intrigued? Read on….

Dear American Express, 

Sitting around the house late one night after Christmas, my husband Hank and I, childless and full of adventure, poured some cocktails and spontaneously decided to take a Carnival Cruise over New Years. He spent the next hour or so online looking for an available cabin, and I truly believe we booked the last one….in the world. We rented a car that Friday morning, and headed down to Cape Canaveral, Florida, where we stayed the night at the Radisson Hotel. We boarded the cruise ship Glory the following Saturday morning. Our itinerary was 2 days at sea, a day in Cozumel (boring), a day in Belize City (not what I had expected), a day in Costa Maya (LOVED IT), then on to Nassau, Bahamas after a couple of days at sea.  We arrived at the port in Nassau at about 10:00 a.m. The night before, Hank read the daily schedule for the next day, and saw that we were due to leave Nassau at 16:00 hours, giving us plenty of time to enjoy the day before we got back on the ship. So, excited about Nassau, we disembarked in our bathing suits (mine was a skimpy little two piece thing), grabbed a taxi, and headed over to the Atlantis Resort where we purchased a day pass and spent the day relaxing on the beach. It was absolutely beautiful!!! The water was so clear, and the waves were perfect!!! After we got tired of the beach, we headed back to the main part of the resort, toured the stunning aquariums, then walked outside to shop some more and check out all the beautiful yachts docked at the piers. It was truly an awesome day. Around 3 p.m., we decided to head back to the ship so we could leisurely check back in before everyone else, pack, and get ready to enjoy the last night of our vacation. On the way back, we took a wonderful water ferry taxi, then walked through the local craft markets at the dock where I purchased a very cool pair of leather handmade flip-flops. Still can’t wait to wear them!!!

Tired, sandy and a little burnt, we left the craft market and walked towards the Glory. All of the big ships were there as well, so I asked Hank if he would take my picture with all the cruise ships behind me, before we boarded. He said yes, of course, so I immediately tried to pump up my wet hair and make myself look cute for the picture. I was standing there smiling with my head and hip slightly cocked to one side, like the ultimate dork tourist in my skimpy bikini, posing for my picture…Hank raised the camera to his face…I give him a big smile…and then, I watched all the color slowly drain out of his face. I was still smiling (my cheeks were beginning to quiver) as he slowly lowered the camera back down. With jaws dropped, he pointed to our ship behind me and in a weak voice Hank said…”Baby! The boat is moving! Our ship is leaving the port!”

Irritated at his lame attempt at humor I rolled my eyes, exercised my cheeks for another smile and reposed for the picture because I didn’t believe him….for those of you who know us really well, you know that Hank messes with me all the time. He is the ultimate smart ass.

I decided to give him what he wanted….you know, haha, joke’s on me, and turned around. My jaw dropped too….especially when I looked up to the top of the ship and saw everyone on the deck yelling and waving good-bye to Nassau.

With arms flailing we start running towards the ship like idiots, to no avail. It wasn’t stopping…I whipped out the camera and videotaped our ship sailing off into the sunset while we ran at break neck speed to another Carnival ship in port for help. They basically, in a short direct way let us know that we were S.O.L. Yes, my friends, we “missed the boat”. We were stranded in the Bahamas in wet bathing suits watching our ship sail off without us.

Ok, so, we are standing there speechless and helpless on the pier of a foreign country. Our wallets are on board, cell phone, keys, clothes…EVERYTHING, except thank God, our passports and our American Express card. Yep, that’s it…that’s all we had besides our camera. After making a second attempt to try to recompose ourselves in front of all the tourists who had now caught onto what had just happened to us, we ran back to the security station and contacted the ministry of tourism, with the hope of maybe getting ferried out the Glory. No such luck…the ship could not be stopped.

Ok, so, let’s back up to the day before (well, really the night before….in the casino on the ship…after cocktails…), Hank saw on the daily schedule that we were scheduled to leave Nassau the next day at 16:00 hours, which, of course, is 4pm….apparently, the “six” in “sixteen” stuck in his head, so all day long we thought the ship was leaving at 6:00. Yes, I just threw my husband under the bus.

We left the port authorities and grabbed a taxi after being assured that we could fly back to Cape Canaveral within the next hour, then get back on the ship the next morning to retrieve our belongings. Oh, if it had only been that easy!

We finally arrived at the Nassau Airport, and booked the last flight (7:30pm) to Orlando through BAHAMA AIR…ok, who has even heard of this airline? My thoughts exactly! We purchased the tickets, and proceeded through the airport to American customs. Of course, everyone in front of us have luggage, bags, purses, cute little souvenirs from their vacation in Nassau….Us? Nothing. We stepped up to our customs booth, and the officer slowly looked us over, cleared his throat and finally asks, “Uhmm, where are your bags? And how long have you been in the country?”
Hank and I looked at each other, looked back at him and said, “Everything we own is on the Carnival Glory, and we have been here for 6 hours.” He laughed out loud at us…I mean, who wouldn’t? Here we are getting ready to board a flight in semi-wet bathing suits, our legs and feet still have sand from the beach all over them, we have no luggage, and at this point we are beginning to smell.

Then, if that’s not enough, they walk us out onto the tarmac up to a little prop plane! At this point, I was scared to death and freezing my butt off. The flight didn’t even have beverages. I told the attendant that I was thirsty and she went to the bathroom and handed me a cup of tap water. Hank and I spent the entire flight huddled up together to fight off hypothermia. At every bump and drop in the air we professed our love for each other, wondering if it was our last moment together on Earth.

Thank God, we made it back to the States alive. We left the airport after I hurriedly purchased a sweat shirt and hailed a taxi back to Cape Canaveral to the Radisson hotel, the same hotel we stayed at the night before we departed. The taxi ride cost $100….we didn’t care, we just needed sleep, food, and warmth. Oh, and by the way, let me give you a visual of what I looked like. By this time, my inner thighs were so chaffed from the salt water and running around Nassau in a wet bathing suit, that I thought they were going to bleed, so I am gingerly walking around like I rode a bull for 8 hours, with my legs spread apart so my thighs don’t rub together. It wasn’t pretty and it hurt like hell. Also, to add to the visual, I have really curly frizzy hair that must be maintained with products and a hairdryer to look presentable. Mix that hair with sand, salt water, and give it a windblown effect…and you can imagine what I looked like. I was a dead ringer for the Bride of Frankenstein. My lips were also burnt and slightly peeled back, drawn taut from dried salt that I got tired of licking at some point on the plane.

We finally got to the hotel. Ahhhh, sweet peace. The first thing I did was run a hot bath while Hank went to the front lobby to get glasses and any free toiletries the hotel could offer. In the meantime, while soaking my thighs in hot water, I picked up the phone and tried to dial 411 to get my mother’s new phone number because she had just moved. I am no good with numbers, and I don’t have to be since all the numbers are programmed into my cell phone. HA! Where is the cell phone? Exactly…so, I dial 9 to get an outside line, then 411 for information….Can you imagine what happened next?

“911, what is your emergency?” I was horrified and apologized for inconveniencing them, that I just dialed the wrong number (apparently my finger didn’t push the 4 down all the way). I hang up, and completely exhausted, just give up and sink down into the tub. Hank comes back and I told him about the phone call and asked him if he would get Mom’s number for me. He did. 5 minutes later, the Brevard County police show up banging on the hotel door with flashlights. Hank goes to the door, opens it to find 2 officers on either side of the door with their hands on their guns. They weren’t playing around either. He assures them it was a mistake, but they insist on seeing me to make sure that I am not a bloodied and bruised up wife. So, there I am in the bath tub, trying to keep my boobs under the water line with one hand and the other hand struggling to cover up my hoo-hoo with any soap suds floating around in the water while they looked me over. My God….did it end there?

No.

We finished off the night with some much-needed cocktails, and, naked from lack of clean dry clothing, ate hot wings delivered by a local restaurant who took American Express. Outside, our rental car sat gleaming in the moonlight, locked, in the weekly paid for parking lot with things we could have used, LIKE CLOTHES….but, oh yeah, the keys were on the  ship.

We woke up hours later, took a taxi to the port, and what do you know? Security would not allow us back on the ship to get our things. We had to sit on a metal rod bench (that must have been constructed by the same companies who make the furnishings for death row cells) still in our bathing suits, with minimal clothing, from 7:30am to 10:30am until the ship’s purser finally brought our things to us, which had been METICULOUSLY packed and inventoried on sheets of paper. On the papers each item was listed as “found” and then “placed” wherever, in whatever bag they had chosen. I mean, seriously…these people were thorough!  For example, I had a partly used roll of stamps in my purse, and whoever the unfortunate soul was who had the task of packing our things, actually had to count out each stamp and inventory how many= 92…seriously, you should see the inventory papers. EVERY single item that was in our room was listed, which we had to go over one by one with the purser so he could mark it off the list. With my heart pounding and my face full of shame, I silently poured over the contents until I finally found what I was looking for. There it was, in all its glory, my hot pink dildo. I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life. With impressive professionalism, he quickly checked it off after I nodded my head and moved on to the next item, which was not as bad but I am sure caught them by surprise…the two boxes of “decorative teeth” with fake diamonds embedded in them. Yes, the grills…the ones I had laughed so hard about that Christmas as I stood in line at the mall for an hour waiting to purchase them for our stockings. We actually wore them one night to the disco on the ship, and no doubt laughed by ourselves at how funny we were as we tried to dance to rap music.

So, we finally got our belongings, took a taxi back to the Radisson so we could load up our rental car and get the hell out of Brevard County, and I will be DAMNED….at some point while we were on the cruise, a drunken guest of the hotel had vomited all over the passenger door handle and door. It was pink and chunky and absolutely just not fair! The hot Florida sun had hardened it, and I couldn’t open the car door without tissues…it was beyond disgusting.

So, there you have it. The story is priceless, and I can’t believe all of it happened in less than 24 hours.  I simply had to share it, because if we hadn’t had our American Express card with us, I can’t fathom how horrible this experience could have been. Thank you American Express, I’m so glad we didn’t leave home without you!!!!!

….and HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Sincerely,

Hank and Ryan Anderson

**Not only is Ryan my niece, she is also the talented author behind the novels in The Detective Hank Jordan Series, and you can order her books here.

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