Our Brief Beach Getaway: A Re-cap

Hello, Readers! We are back from our 3-day vacation in Cancun, Mexico, home of the white sand beaches and the shockingly blue, deliciously warm water. It really is a beautiful place and we love the resort, despite having a few leetle mishaps here and there on vacations past. But those vacations? Those were week-long vacations with little girls in tow. It’s completely natural to encounter a few snafus when you’re traveling for that extent of time with children, is it not? Absolutely.

I was certain that this little getaway would be snafu-free because a) we were only going to spend 3 full days in Mexico and b) the girls were in Texas, with my husband’s extended family, so it was just us chickens and c) we have already paid our dues–and more–to the Travel Gods (those dickweeds), so the way I figure it, we’re good to travel snafu-free for the rest of our lives.

Heh.

Perhaps I asked for it, because the day before we left for vacation, I was so organized, so on top of my game, that I was beginning to gloat a little. Take that, Travel Gods! I am boss of your ass. I had myself packed, the girls packed, the refrigerator cleaned out, the Mozz-man booked at doggy daycare, the cat booked for periodic visitation, the medicine bag stuffed with any and all things we could possibly need, the travel electronics/entertainment charged and ready…

Heck, I was so organized that I delivered soup and lasagna for 10 to Miss M.’s school, because we feed the staff on parent/teacher conference nights. And I made dinner for us, using up all of the perishables in our refrigerator. Boss, I tell you.

Then the morning arrived, and our vacation began to resemble a strange game of High/Low.

High: everyone wakes up on time, breakfast is eaten, showers happen, spirits are good, and when I shout, “We need to be out of the door in 5 minutes,” nobody freaks out.

Low: until a minute later, when someone does. I hear a howl come from the girls’ playroom. “The cat just peed all over my Christmas bean bag chair,” Miss M. wails. She bursts into tears. Jesus. “Honey, can you handle this?” I holler, busying myself with unplugging appliances. He investigates. “Umm, I think we should handle this when we get back,” he says. “Are you nuts?” I say.  “It’s cat urine. Cat urine is never, ever, something you can leave until later. The entire house will reek.” “But…” he says. I cut him off. “Let me grab the upholstery cleaner.”  I walk into the playroom. And then I get it. The cat piss isn’t really the big problem. The problem is, my husband tried to take off the soiled cover of the bean bag chair, only to discover that there’s a hole IN the bean bag chair. The GI-normous bean bag chair that is not, actually, filled with beans but little, teeny, round balls of…I don’t know, silica or something…and now the balls are spilled everywhere, all over the floor. Curses are thrown. Bean bag chair is thrown out, into the garage. I’m maniacally vacuuming up little white balls that shoot all over the place rather than going into the vacuum. “Are these fucking things poisonous to cats?” I screech. Because yeah, that would be awesome to come home to a dead cat in the house.

High: despite the late start, and having to drop Mozzy at day care, we still get to the airport at an okay time–we won’t miss our flight. Exhale.

Low: when we open the trunk of the car to get the luggage, I look at the contents of the trunk and say, “Uh, babe? The blue duffel? The one with all of the girls’ clothes in it?”  He looks at me blankly. “Where was it?” I think for a minute. “Upstairs, by M.’s room.” Sheeeit. Nothing like dropping your kids off at the in-laws without a stitch of clothing, or toothpaste, or hairbrushes, or undies. We are parents of the year.

High: we do have the carry-on bag with the electronics/snacks/amusement for the flight.

Low: D.’s inhaler is in the other duffel, she has a cold, and has a history of wheezing and VOMITING on airplanes without the said inhaler. Hoo-boy.

High: the flight is vomit free, the girls arrive in Texas (albeit bare-handed) and we settle in on our flight to Mexico, cocktails and in-flight movies in hand.

Low: my in-flight movie is “Gone Girl.” “Gone Girl” is a very fucked up, very anti-marriage, very terrifying movie to watch before you go on a romantic getaway with your husband. I watch, horrified, as Nick and Amy Dunne say hideous things to each other and do even worse. By the time our plane lands, I am certain that my husband secretly hates me, is screwing a twentysomething tart and that my marriage is over.

High: we arrive in time for a dinner over the lapping waves and indulge in icy martinis, succulent tuna tartare and juicy beef tenderloin. Exhausted and sated, we fall into bed and sleep like stones.

Low: the first thing my husband says to me in the morning is, “I really don’t feel so good.” This is the man who has the immune system made of adamant. I feel his forehead: hot and clammy. He has the chills and says his body aches all over. He spends all day in bed. I sulk by the pool with a book and spend the whole day obsessing over “Gone Girl.” What am I going to do when my husband leaves me? Is he really sick up in that room or is he faking it, trying to gather the courage to tell me he doesn’t want to be married any more? Oh my God, is that what he’s doing up there? How bad is it going to suck to be 45 and single? Oh, wait, I have a birthday next week. 46 and single. That night, I eat a room service club sandwich, watch my husband toss and turn in bed, and despair.

High: morning dawns and hubs feels fine. We walk hand-in-hand on the beach, tilt our faces up to the sun, take a dip in the infinity pool, eat fresh seafood and have a happy hour drink at the swim-up bar. As the sun starts to set and the weather cools, we decide to grab another drink and head to the hot tub overlooking the beach.

Low: once in the hot tub, we get cornered by some loudmouth blowhard from Boston who talks and talks and talks and we cannot get rid of him. Suddenly, my husband looks at his watch and says, “Jesus honey, we have to get out of this thing. Do you know that we’ve been in here almost two hours?”

Low: it is extremely unhealthy to spend the day in the sun, have a couple of drinks and spend two hours in a hot tub. I’m fucking delirious. Before dinner even arrives, I morph into a weeping puddle of nerves and sob to my husband, “It’s over. I know it’s over. You’re leaving me, aren’t you? I know you’re leaving; I can tell. When were you going to tell me? Oh my God! Our marriage is over.” My husband helps me lurch to bed, hands me a bottled water and three aspirin and whispers in my ear, “You. Are. Nuts.”

 

**to be continued**

Tagged as: Gone Girl fucked up my vacation, vacation, vacation mishaps