Tips For Surviving a Hawaiian Cruise

You may or may not know this, but my last two posts have come to you from Hawaii! Okay, not exactly. I was in Hawaii, and left my pre-written posts with a friend so that I wouldn’t have to worry about putting them up while I doubled my weight in cheesecake consumption during my honeymoon cruise. The point is, I was gone, and now I’m back, and you didn’t even know the difference. Shabang!

Anyway, as with all my vacations this year, I came home with a list of helpful tips and advice for those of you who may be about to embark on a similar adventure. I also came home with a burn mark on my leg, and sans luggage. But more on all that in a minute.

The walls of the Queen Mary hotel are very thin. We arrived in California the day before our cruise left, and thought it would be very cool to stay at the Queen Mary, the ocean liner turned war vessel turned hotel, docked in Long Beach. Before you get ahead of yourself and assume that I play the (embarrassed) fool in this one, I’ll tell you that Dawson and I were the ones woken from a wonderful, much-earned sleep by the young, adventurous couple in the room next to us. Several times in one night. And in the morning. It seems that although the legendary ship was able to survive World War II, its walls cannot contain the sexual exploits of its passengers. Luckily we never ran into our neighbours. And I mean, lucky for them, because Dawson undoubtedly would have made a comment.

BYOD. Bring your own drugs. And I don’t mean the kind that will get you stopped at the airport or thrown in a foreign jail. I mean the ones to stave off motion sickness. Even if you’ve never had motion sickness in your life. Even if you are 100% sure you won’t need them. Because the truth is, you might. Your ship might sail through a storm, a mild storm yes, but one still able to rock your ship so much that at least 50% of the passengers have their heads in the toilet. And when that happens, you don’t want to be stuck buying drugs from the ship pharmacy because they will charge you eleventy-million dollars for eight cute, little, itty-bitty tablets. Even though the packaging box looks like it could fit seventy more pills in there.

Where applicable, rent mopeds. This was the most fun thing we did on our vacation, and potentially the most fun thing I’ve done ever. It even beats the time I touched Timbaland’s arm.* We tried to rent them in Hilo but a local woman advised us that Hilo’s many highways weren’t the best place to be with a souped up bicycle. Then we were going to try in Honolulu but I chickened out after seeing how busy the streets were. It turns out Kauai is the best island to moped around, as they have no major highways and no real metropolises. So Dawson and I hopped on and made our way through the mountains of the island where they filmed most of LOST, swam in a secluded fresh water pond, and found the best burger joint on the island. Possibly the best anywhere. It. Was. Awesome.

But don’t touch the muffler. Seriously. Don’t touch the muffler. Especially after you’ve been riding the moped mostly non-stop for five hours because it’s hot and will burn the shit out of you. Not literally of course, but it will leave a triangular shaped burn mark on your left leg when you accidentally skim it while trying to refill the gas tank. Which was nowhere near the muffler. 

BYOMK. Bring your own medical kit. Again, because you don’t want to be stuck getting your over sized band-aids and antibiotic cream from the ship’s medical office because it will cost you $60 just to meet with them. Also? When another passenger offers you a package of (sealed) antibiotic cream, thank him graciously and use it, but make sure to ask him if he’s a doctor. Because if you take the cream and assume he’s just being friendly and trying to help, eventually his comment that your leg looks inflamed will haunt you in your dreams until you break and decide it’s probably best to book an appointment with the ship doctor just to be sure, only to find out after you forked over the $60 that the friendly passenger dude is actually a legit doctor who gave you some medical supplies for free.

Always bring your ‘A’ game. Because you never know when a Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons cover band is going to pull you on stage to serenade you with “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” Your heart might be pounding, and you might not be able to see anything past the first two rows because of those blinding stage lights, and you might end up shaking for at least two more songs after your moment is over, but it’s okay. Just smile, and play along. Make faces, dance a little, sing along. After all, most of the audience is 60 + and they will love you hamming it up, and will tell you how great you were afterward. Except for the die-hard fan sitting next to you who asks you through gritted teeth if you even know who the band is (yes I do, thank you very much!), and the woman you run into a few nights later who pretty much tells you that you only got picked because you’re young.

Disneyland might not be a great idea on Thanksgiving. We disembarked from our cruise ship pretty early in the morning and had a whole day to kill until our flight home that night. We did what any reasonable person would do, and drove a rental car to Disneyland to kill some time. Smart, right? Except that that weekend was the American Thanksgiving. The three rides we went on took us over three hours, and by then we decided we might as well cut our losses and focus on dropping a small fortune on shopping purchases. Instead of buying tickets to the theme park, we should’ve just stayed in the shopping area located at the entrance. That’s where we bought most of our stuff anyway. At least we know now for the next impromptu trip during a major American holiday.

Airlines suck. This one isn’t really a tip; it’s just me ranting. Firstly, I don’t understand why airlines get to charge passengers extra money for checked bags. Isn’t that partially what we pay them for to begin with? And secondly, I don’t know how they lose people’s luggage all.the.damn.time. How freaking hard is it to send someone’s luggage on the correct plane? When I have a connection to catch, I manage to do it. Why can’t someone make sure my luggage does too? And when it doesn’t, why can’t people at the airport be nice and understanding about it? Why do they make it sound like it’s our fault for trusting and expecting airlines to do exactly what they said would do? Why? WHY, AIRLINES? WHY DO YOU SUCK?

Despite the airline fiasco, the burn mark, and not getting to meet Cinderella at Disneyland, the trip was amazing. I got to sleep in and take five hour naps, I saw a ton of waterfalls and walked where Sawyer, Kate and Jack walked before me, and I got to eat all of my meals without having to convince any other tiny humans to please for the love of God eat something. Speaking of, Thumper was reportedly well-behaved for all of her babysitters and didn’t seem to miss us at all. We called my mother in law from the airport to check in before coming home, and heard Thumper yell from the background, “I AM HAVING A GREAT TIME!” Of course, that didn’t stop her from breaking down in tears when we picked her up. After a fifteen minute scream/cry-fest, I asked why she was upset and she said she forgot that she missed us until right then. She’s been asking for a lot of hugs and kisses since then, and we’ve been milking it.

-Alice

*Okay, maybe not. Touching Timbaland’s arm while he walked past me at a Justin Timberlake concert was pretty cool. 

Things That Piss Me Off on a Good Day...

...and makes me crazier than a Real Housewife at some whacked-out dinner party on a bad day.

Pet peeves. We all have them. Oh yes, even you, Perfect Mommy. Stuff that even on the happiest of days makes you want to punch someone in the head. And it’s those same things that, on the unhappiest of days, make you want to rip off your own arm to use to bash someone in the head. Such as...

Honking your horn instead of going to the door

I’m not going to pretend I’ve never done this. I get that sometimes you’re in a hurry, or maybe you’ve got kids buckled in the back and don’t want to undo them all, nor do you want to leave them unattended. But here’s where I draw the line: if you pick someone up daily, or even weekly, and never once get out of your car to tell them you’ve arrived, you are an impolite prick. (Especially if you are about 50 years old and picking up your 75+ mother every day. Ahem! Neighbour of mine!) Why don’t we make a rule? You can honk once. Wait a little bit, say, one minute. Time it, if you like. And if the person hasn’t come outside, you need to get out and go get them, because if they didn’t hear the first honk, they are probably not going to hear the next eleventy-seven-thousand. If by the time you are out of the car, the person is already coming out, don’t be mad about “wasting time” having to get in and out of your seat. Chances are you will both be buckled into the car at the same time, in which case, you haven’t “wasted” any time; you’ve just done something with that time instead of sitting on your ass, taking your rage out on your horn (that’s what she said).

When clothing stores don’t have mirrors in the change rooms

Again, I understand the thinking behind this one. They want people to come out of the change room while trying on clothes partly so they can offer their services and advice but mostly so they can be assured that you’re not shoving 30 pairs of designer jeans into your purse. And that’s cool, I guess, except that sometimes I choose clothing that looks better on the hanger, or on someone that has perky boobs/a belly button that hasn’t been over-stretched/is nineteen, and don’t want to exit the dressing room before consulting a mirror. And you might argue that I have no business wearing anything that involves the word “mini,” and you might be right about that, but this is Canada, and I reserve the right to at least try it on. I would also like to reserve the right to try it on, look in the mirror, and take it right off without having to do a walk of shame in front of nineteen year old retail associates with perky boobs and perfect belly buttons.

Children repeating the same question seventy times

We haven’t quite entered the “why” stage yet, so I don’t know which one is actually more annoying. But for right now, I’d say Thumper asking “where the fruit loops go?” all morning takes the cake. There are only so many times I can give the same answer (“in your belly”), and then there are only so many other responses I can come up with (“they’re sleeping,” “at the grocery store,” “they’re working their way through your body and eventually they’ll be in your poop”). It’s also frustrating when the repeated question is “what’s that?” because, again, very limited response and also, when the question is being asked while in the car, it’s pretty hard to even know what the hell my child is referring to. Which reminds me...

Children who don’t accept that ‘I don’t know’ as an answer

Again, I don’t know how this will stack up against the inevitable “why” phase but I will say that I think getting clocked over the head at one of those insane dinner parties I was talking about would be less painful than having Thumper continually ask “what’s that?” while I’m driving because she won’t accept that “I don’t know. I can’t see it, I’m driving” is a valid answer. Despite what I might say when Thumper is a teenager, I don’t actually know the answers to everything. And I promise that when my child is old to enough to be asking real questions, if I don’t know something I will at least try to look it up and find an answer. Or make up something that sounds real enough. But for now, sometimes “I don’t know” is going to have to do, or else I’m gonna have to take myself out with the chair just to avoid the incessant question-asking.

Now because I would prefer to end this post on a positive note, let me tell you a few things that always make my days better.

-When I don’t have to beg Thumper to cuddle with me when we watch movies

-Reruns of Saved by the Bell

-Having an automatic car starter in the winter

-Waking up to my daughter singing the lyrics to “Marry You” by Bruno Mars

-Sleeping in

-Wine

And those are just a few of my favourite things! But seriously people, if you take anything away from this post, please remember the one-honk rule. Every extra honk you make earns you an extra punch from a disgruntled neighbour. Just sayin’.

-Alice

God Loves Shoulders too. I Think?

Before I get into this, I should say that I’m aware that I’m about to stick my foot in my mouth. It’s not that I want to offend anyone, but it’s pretty much inevitable when speaking about religion in any capacity. So this is my official disclaimer. I’m going to tell you a story, and that story takes place in church. I am in no way trying to piss anyone off so I apologize in advance if that happens. You have been warned.

About a month ago, I started taking Thumper to church. I grew up in Catholic family where, like most of the people I knew then, we went to mass every Sunday. And although when I was young, I didn’t really enjoy it, I happen to actually like mass as an adult. Of course, that doesn’t mean I go every week, or, ever really, because I’m also one of those people who thinks that being busy and sleeping in are (kinda) valid excuses. Also, I’ve been afraid of taking my child to church because I can’t stand the thought of other people staring at me and judging my parenting skills because my offspring can’t sit quietly through mass. Whatever. The point is, I finally felt it was time for us to give it a try and it turns out Thumper is pretty good at sitting (kinda) quietly during mass.

So there we were one Sunday, waiting for mass to start - sitting at the back of course, in case we ended up in need of a hasty exit- when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see an older female church-goer pulling the sleeve of my off-the-shoulder shirt back onto my shoulder. She leaned in close and said in a voice that can only be described as scary, judgey and condescending, “Do you mind to cover up?” Except that, of course, it wasn’t a question at all. It was a you-had-better-not-show-that-shoulder-in-these-here-parts-again statement. Except that she was Italian, not country western. Whatever.

Even though pretty much no one else could have seen or heard what had happened, I still felt embarrassed. And angry. And baffled. So I ended up not paying much attention to mass and trying to figure out what the hell actually happened, while wearing my off-the-shoulder shirt like a smock.

There are so many angles to this situation that I almost don’t know where to start. Obviously I don’t really know how she intended her comment to sound. Was she actually judging me and trying to make me feel like an unwed hooker? Or did she think she was being helpful and polite by asking me to be a little more conservative? Was she asking me to cover up for her sake, or for the sake of other sensitive church-goers? Or was it on behalf of God and for the sake of wearing your Sunday Best in His house? I’m only left to speculate.

If I hadn’t been sitting in a church where my grandmother and aunt are well known, I might’ve dropped the sleeve right off my shoulder again. But considering my aunt had introduced me to the woman who asked me to cover up the very week before, I figured that I should continue to wear my shirt as a smock/moo-moo for the duration. It was a decision I made out of respect for my aunt and grandmother, but it begs the question, why does everyone else wear their Sunday Best?

My first instinct is to say the idea was born out of society’s need to impress and outdo each other. The idea of us wearing our fanciest clothes to church reminds me of the first half of the 20^th century, where, it’s my impression anyway, most families were taught to project an image of perfection, up to and including having the best clothes, immaculate hair and the most well-behaved children. And so, as much as I can’t blame that woman for thinking it was inappropriate to show some shoulder skin in church because it’s clearly just what she was brought up to believe, I feel that the notion is a bit out dated. It’s now the 21^st century where our society, or maybe it’s more accurate to say the younger generations, at the very least, are trying to be more accepting of each other, where imperfections, whatever they may be, are okay, and where being different, be it coming from a blended family, having a different sexual preference or not wearing the “best” clothes, doesn’t automatically have to be a death sentence.

That’s not a totally fair assessment of the situation though, because there are people who believe that wearing your nicest clothes to church is a sign of respect to God. And while I do understand this belief, I can’t say that I agree with it. I think that the basic teaching of any faith is to love your neighbours and be kind to one another, and I think that your clothing has no bearing on your ability to follow that lesson. In the end, I believe that whether you’re in your own house or God’s house, being a good person is more important than the clothes you wear while doing so. Wasn’t Jesus friends with prostitutes and outcasts? Something tells me that Mary Magdalene didn’t have the best clothes in Jerusalem, but is that what Jesus asked of her? No. He didn’t ask her to cover up her shoulder. He asked her to treat others as she wanted to be treated, with respect, kindness and compassion.

I know this topic is not as simple as I may have made it seem. I know the teachings of the Catholic Church have their roots in ancient times and traditions and are so much more complex than I have given them credit for. No matter the comments and opinions that this post is going to inevitably gather, both from friends and strangers, I’d like to continue believing that the God I believe in doesn’t care what I wear to mass, as long as I’m there.

So will I be wearing my most conservative best dress to church next week? Nope. But I’m probably also not going to ever wear my off-the-shoulder shirt there again. Not because I believe that woman was right to ask me to cover up or because I think I should have to cover up, but because I believe that respect is a two way street.

Also? That chick was scary and I’m actually very passive aggressive and will do just about anything to avoid awkward confrontations. Plus I can stick it to the man in many other ways. I did have a baby out of wedlock and live in sin for two years. And I don’t wear pantyhose when wearing skirts and dresses. Take that, big scary Italian broad!

-Alice

First Comes the Baby Carriage, Then Comes Marriage...Wait, What?

I’ve been married now for a week and two days! I promise that soon I will stop talking about it. Not because I want to stop talking about it, but because I know that even here on the Internet, I’m turning into that friend that everyone hates because she won’t shut up about her wedding. Soon, it will end. Just not today.

Last week, shortly after the ceremony ended, my grandmother came up to congratulate me. She said that when the Reverend announced us as husband and wife, he said “for the first time,” but she thought it would have been more appropriate if he had said “it’s about time.” If you knew my grandma, you wouldn’t think that was mean. She is hilarious, really. Because although she is ninety-four and totally traditional and Catholic, she feels that she’s been on Earth long enough to be able to say whatever she wants. And even though she always does say whatever she wants, whenever she wants, and usually repeats herself, she is a very loving woman.

Despite her awesomeness and how much she loves me, she made it her mission during my pregnancy to always list off the reasons why Dawson and I should have gotten married the minute we found out we were pregnant with Thumper. I believe the phrases “legitimate children,” “not living in sin,” and “why in the world would anyone choose to be an unwed mother” were often used. Now that we are actually married, I’ve found out the real reasons why it’s a good idea to get married and then have babies.

The number one reason is that planning a wedding while caring for a toddler is not fun. Or productive. You’ll either need a super awesome blog partner who can watch your child while you try on dresses/meet with the florist/practice one of your many dance numbers, or you need to bring that child along while you “search for reception venues.” I have the phrase in quotation marks because it should really say “desperately bribing your child into behaving while trying to appear capable of functioning at an adult level.” And you might think that being a stay-at-home mom will give you an advantage in getting things done well in advance before the big day, you know, because you can work on the little things while your child sleeps. But let’s face it. If you so much as whisper while that kid is sleeping she’ll wake up, so making phone calls is out. And cutting paper is also too loud a task to undertake during this time. And when she’s awake, she’s scribbling all over your millions of lists and trying to play with the My Little Pony and Optimus Prime figurines that you’re using for cake toppers and doing anything she can to make you wish you’d have followed Grandma’s advice and opted for a shotgun wedding.

The number two reason is that executing said wedding while caring for a toddler is not easy, because everyone you would normally ask to babysit will be at the aforementioned party. And bringing a toddler to a wedding is also not a good option. Although, I did hear a story once about a couple who set up two playpens in the corner of the reception for their little boys and the kids just slept away amidst the festivities. Good on ‘em but that never would’ve worked for my party animal child. You already know that Thumper’s turn as a flower girl didn’t exactly go as planned. Well, maybe it did go as planned, if by “as planned” you meant that she would run up the aisle screaming and crying. And though I was adamant that she not be present for the dinner portion of the reception, Thumper did make a brief appearance during the tail end of speeches and the beginning of the dancing, where she proceeded to run amuck with the ribbons we had used for one of the dance numbers, which included poking one of the bridesmaids in the eye with the baton end.

Having babies before your wedding will also make planning your honeymoon trickier. Not only do you have to find someone crazy enough to want to your offspring around 24/7, but you have to spend ten extra hours packing for your child. And you end up looking like a crazy person because not only have you packed everything your kid owns in four over sized bags, but you’ve included several different lists (I told you- the lists never stop.) The ironic thing is, you’re only packing so much crap and making so many lists because you are trying to make life easier for the babysitter by anticipating any and every possible thing they might need, but really, you’re probably making it harder because they have to keep track of all that shit you packed. So...sorry to the family members and friends who are watching Thumper over the next two weeks. I’m sure if you chuck an empty shoebox at my daughter, she will be amused for at least three days, so you don’t really have to bother with the bag of books and toys I sent.

Really though, I shouldn’t complain too much because I do have an amazing network of family and friends who are always willing to step up and help when they can. So thank you to everyone who watched Thumper during the planning process or who is about to watch her while Dawson and I get to go away for what will probably be the only vacation we’ll ever get sans kids for at least the next twenty-five years. And the truth is, as crazy and hectic as it was having a baby first, then the wedding, I really wouldn’t have had it any other way. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the amazing photograph of Thumper about to enter the ceremony venue, clutching her stuffed rabbit and bawling her eyes out. A photo that no doubt will resurface on the day of her own wedding.

-Alice