This Post Brought To You By Sore Throats. And Rum.

This is John:


You all met him previously when we went ruby mining. He's the husband of my beautiful sorority sister Toni.

John's a great guy. I call him my "snorkel spouse." He and I have been known to get into plenty of trouble with some fins and lots of water.

But last week, in Curaçao, John exceeded my snorkel limit.

This is us, starting off on what I thought would be an innocuous exploration of the house reef.


Little did we know...

Here is our resort:


And this is the route of Death Snorkel Expedition 2010:

(Oh, yeah. Click on that sucker and make it bigger.)

What made this the Death Snorkel was the current. On our way out, we fought against the push of the ocean. We finally found, well past the dolphin pools, a ladder and a walkway through the aquarium. Ah, wonderful. We're saved! In the little lagoon area at the base of the ladder were four teens snorkeling and having fun. My first indication that getting out here was a bad idea was the arm punch I received from one of the riff-raff. Now, mind you, we're still in the water. So, I whipped my head around and I was all WTF? and his face (behind the mask and snorkel) was all Who the Hell are you? (but read that in Dutch because he was probably Dutch, which according to Babelfish translates as Who is u? but I'm 99.9% sure Babelfish is wrong and can, therefore, suck it.) and suddenly, I found myself in an underwater Robert DeNiro moment (You talkin' to me?!?).

John and I exited the water, relieved that the madness of Death Snorkel Expedition 2010 was over, and who should we meet but the Evil Dolphin Trainer who yelled at us to turn around and go back. She was Dutch, too, and when she started shooing us back into the water with her hands, I knew we were cooked. So, we jumped back in the water and headed back the way we came. This time, the current pushed us but the waves sometimes crested over the top of my snorkel.

Hello! Mouthful of saltwater line 3!

By the time we returned to our beach, my legs and ankles were killing me and my lungs and heart were calling for a timeout. We kissed the sand, kissed our beloved spouses, and trudged back to our rooms. Now, you're probably wondering why I went into this whole, long, boring diatribe. Well, it's because I'm sick. I'm back from vacation and I'm sitting here with a nasty sore throat and an aching head. I'm just feeling yucky and I blame John. Because he's an easy target. Because he pouted and was all DER! You're going to go snorkeling with me right? RIGHT?!? It's going to be fu-un! I promise! Because he was coming off a cold when we arrived in Curaçao. Because I'm sure I woke up in the middle of the night last Tuesday and watched John lick all the doorknobs in our condo.* And because he took this picture of me:


And for that, he must pay.

*OK. He wasn't licking doorknobs. But he was injecting live rhinovirus into our rum drinks.

Translations

When she asks:

Does this dress make me look fat?

What she's really asking is:

Even though my body has changed due to having children/age/10 boxes of Hostess cupcakes, do you still find me physically attractive? Would you throw me down and do me right now? Would you mockingly tell Robert Pattison "Nuh-huh! My ho looks better'n your ho!"?

If he replies:

No.

What he's really saying:

Oh, God. Not the question. Anything but that. I can't handle it. Why is she always asking me that?!? I mean, the sex is still pretty good and she knows how to fix a mean pot roast/toilet/Dodge Ram 3500 Pickup 2,400CC engine and she doesn't complain about me hogging the remote. Well, she doesn't whine all that much about it except when I watch NASCAR/UFC/Star Trek. I mean, she's got some serious lady wings and I can see her spare tire, but I guess she looks OK in it. I don't want to piss her off, so I'll say no.

If he replies:

Yes

What he's really saying:

Wait, did she ask me if I look fat in that dress? Because I have worn it a few times and it does make me look all beefy and stuff. So, I'll say yes.

So, ladies. If your man has ever answered Yes, then don't get your knickers in a wad. It's probably a case of someone not paying attention. And wearing your clothes when you're not at home. At least, that's what I think.

Check back next week for a definition of Dude! Today was a triple Higgins day!

Friends and Loved Ones

We didn't go on our anniversary trip alone. Nay! We went with our great friends Toni and John.

Toni and I are sorority sisters and old college roommates. We've known each other for 14 years and I waited 12 of those years to see Toni happily settled with someone special. And John? Oh, yeah. He's that kind of special:


That's John. On the last day of our trip. After a couple of beers and a rum runner that was all rum and no runner. Coupled with the sun and one too many fish fingers with fries? You get a very. Special. Husband. For Toni.

I had always threatened to send Toni to Space Camp if she didn't find the right man. I figured if I had found my special someone there, why couldn't she? Lucky for her, she found John without the geek-fest. The only thing that upset me about their twosome was their wedding date - last year on May 27th, on our 12th anniversary. That? Made me giggle with glee. What made me sad was that was one day before J-man's due date and, in the end, two weeks after he was born. Me? Traveling to Brunswick, Georgia? Two weeks after giving birth? A five hour drive? Me and the little one?

Wasn't. Gonna. Happen.

I cried most of the day. I was a sniveling, worthless mess of a breast-feeding mom who couldn't be there at her best friend's wedding.

But? I got the best part of the whole deal because the four of us celebrated our anniversaries in the Caribbean. And John? It feels like we've known him for as long as we've known Toni.

Drunken coconut rum "I love you"-s all around!