If I hadn’t already booked this 7 day cruise to the Caribbean, I’d take all the money and time I’ve put into it and go get drunk at a local park. I’d then use the leftover money for bail.
Alas though, it’s my gift to my son for his graduation and 18th birthday, so I can’t do that.
I’m trying to plan a vacation with virtually no experience, search for a swimsuit that doesn’t scare the children and not focus on the fact that I have to people. This might explain why I’m stockpiling my benzos while simultaneously trying not to eat them like tic-tacs.
Vacations are expensive! I see now why we never go anywhere. I don’t have credit cards and I don’t have a savings account. I’m working my ass off 60-70 hours a week and contemplating cashing in my old 401K to cover this trip. It’s for a good cause, right?
I mean who wants to sit in a stateroom with their sweaty palmed mother while she drinks all the bootlegged whiskey she brought because she couldn’t afford to buy drinks on the ship? Not me.
That Beach Bod:
I’m fat. That’s OK from an aesthetic point of view.
I’m certainly not going to gorge on bean sprouts, cut out soda and ride my bicycle’s seat like a hooker just to lose 10 lbs for this cruise. What I can do is make this fat look good. That means tanning before I hit the beach so I don’t end up looking like a lobster straight outta Hell’s Kitchen. Also actually buying a bathing suit (What the hell is a tankini anyway?)
I’ll be slathering on skin firming cream to tone up these soon-to-be tan cellulite ridden thighs. Oh, and nothing says “Let’s just break up now,” than having your boyfriend help you get your measurements so you know exactly what size to buy that bathing suit in.
The massive amounts of emails coming in from Tripadvisor, Expedia, Ship Mate and Carnival about things to do and where to go and how to dress. (Yeah, we aren’t doing a formal dining night, that’s just absurd.) I’m not the most organized person in the world, so have fun trying to sort through all that junk and figure out what will be helpful in planning our fun in the sun.
Never Mind the hassle and keeping track of what on-shore excursions we will be doing. Just deciding what to do is a headache. We have limited time at each port so trying to fit in a lot of fun in 8 hours is hard. Hard! (That’s what she said.)
I’m not about to go through half my day in paradise listening to “I don’t care, what do you want to do?” “I don’t care, whatever you want to do.” That’s enough to make me want to turn the damn ship around myself and go home and that isn’t happening because I’ve already put my hard earned money into this shitastophy trip as it is.
Oh and when a friend turned me on to several affordable websites for summer clothing and swim apparel? I’m over here signing my ass up for e-letters and updates just so I can get the online coupons!
I’m seriously thinking about just Googling every damn thing and winging it. I wing life every day so it probably wouldn’t be a big deal.
The thought of hanging out with people. People I don’t know. This is a no brainer. Did you know there are actual Facebook groups specifically for our cruise date?
I’ll admit it: I’ve been hanging out in cyber space with these complete strangers. I’ve been clicking on their profile pictures and judging them. Trying to figure out their level of “fun” and holy hell are these people serious about their cruising!
Acronyms everywhere and I find myself searching online for the meanings, much like I scour Urban Dictionary just to figure out what my son is talking about. I feel like a fish out of water. (See what I did there?) I’ll be damned if I’m going to look like I don’t know what I’m doing.
Suddenly the thought of swimming with the Stingrays in the Caymans seems almost normal compared to all the crap I’ve mentioned above.
Maybe I should just take my money and buy a plastic pool, air horn, captain’s hat and some cat litter at Target and pretend. Kids still like to pretend, right?
Who am I kidding? We’re going to go and have a great time and annoy the shit out of everyone with our vacay pictures when we get home. That’s what assholes do.