April 2011 Archives

I think Farley taught us that we have room in our hearts to love dogs. To save just one, and then love the heck out of it. He also taught us to clear all food up to 6' high, and hide all shoes, and when you do, a couch will work just fine to eat. But mostly, that we have room in our hearts to love another dog. Announcing the arrival of joy and hope to our family: Maybee.

Maybee was left in a crate next to her mom tied to a pole somewhere in Kansas. Maybee was scheduled for being euthanized. When they called Debbie at Helping Hand 4 Animals, they told her she could definitely have a few male pups and maybe a female. Translation on that was they were waiting on some test results to see if they should even bother to keep this dog, or put her down. And so be it, Maybee came to be named. When Debbie got there, she convinced the vet to let her have Maybee.

So, when we found her on petfinder.com, it was her name, and not necessarily her picture that caught my attention.

I know that we could rename the dog. But I like Maybee. It makes you reflect on the word. Gives it a little more meaning. The word maybe could be the best word to initiate hope to a child. And so, it is with great joy, that we welcome Maybee - a sign of hope and possibilities for all great things to our family.

I look at dog's in a whole new light after reading A Dog's Purpose by W. Bruce Cameron. I realize it's a novel. But you read it and then I challenge you to see dogs the same. I'm taking a copy to my vet.

Maybee is an Australian Shepherd mix. I'm a bit concerned she'll be too smart for us. She is very sweet. Very feisty. And has very sharp teeth. She cried when the kids went to bed last night and woke up groggy until the kids walked in - she perked up elated to see them. Maybee is going to be good for the kids. And the kids good for her.

When I went to sign and pay the adoption fee, Debbie told me that our vet gave us a resounding reference, one of the nicest vet references she'd ever heard. Our vet explained to Debbie that, "They did everything right for their dog at all the right points of his life." And that's how you make a heartless non-cryer cry. I bawled when I came home and told Ricardo.

We've learned a lot about the process of finding a pet and adopting. We met the foster mom. It's one thing to want a family pet. But to welcome and help many pets is a thankless job. I also met, Debbie, the woman who saved Maybee. She volunteers at the Humane Society by day, works her own animal fostering program by day and night. The people who foster and save dogs are truly committed. It's been a long time since I've been in search for a dog. So, immersing in their world just for a few weeks was an eye opening experience.

So, for the sake of your community, please adopt a pet. Never ever ever buy a pet from a breeder or a store. You may think you want a particular look or breed. But that's stupid, and it's really not what you want at all. What you're really looking for is a pet to give love to and a pet who receives your love. When you buy a pet at a store or a breeder, you are placing your vote that puppy mills are okay. I encourage you to consider the mutts, or even the pure breds who need homes. And if you don't want any pets, please consider your next donation going to a pet foster program or a humane society. And just Maybee you can help too.

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Loving You Is Easy by Sarah McLachlan

I mean really, the dog is irreplaceable. But he set a pretty good precedence, don't you think?This is Ricardo and Farley sharing a noodle. Think lady and the tramp, except there's no lady in the picture.

It's taken me a while to be ready for another dog. I didn't think I would want one. Perhaps I even exuded the magic word, "Never". It's a very yummy word. I eat it a lot.

The process of mourning the loss of a dog as a mother was a bit tricky. First, I had to get the kids through it. And then Ricardo took it hard, and I hadn't prepared myself for that part of support in a marriage and all of that. After all that dust settled, I was sad and missed my dog and questioned whether we should have even put him down or let him live miserable. And then it just became apparent, there was a void in our lives. In our whole family. It was too quiet. No one barked when someone knocked on the door. No one greeted us with a wagging tail when we walked in the house.

When we lost Farley I was certain that I never wanted another pet again. Citing that there would never be another dog like Farley. And there won't. What I wasn't accounting for was that we are a family with love to give to another furry soul.

Can you fill a void of the loss of a dog with another dog? I think so. It's not so much a void of sadness as a shared joy we want back. For the last year, we've emoted family sympathy for our ol pal, even while he was napping next to us. Just kinda felt bad for the guy.

I firmly believe the kids deserve a family dog of their very own. To start the whole process together.

So, we have started the process. And yes, there is a process, it turns out.

We're currently awaiting our application being approved. My, how times have changed. When we got Farley, MyDaph said "I"m going to go get a dog. Wanna go?" I rolled my eyes at the idea, but jumped in the car anyway. We showed up, MyDaph paid the lady and we left with the greatest dog in all of the universe. Done.

Getting a dog now - even adopting or rescuing a dog - still requires cash. But there's a longer process. I appreciate the process as it's helping the community be respectable pet owners. But we're really ready! C'MON! There is a waiting period, an application to fill out, a home visit, and a meeting of the dog to family to make sure everyone is a match. Ricardo doesn't know what's worse - making 8 year olds wait, or making me wait. Probably the latter.

Surely I've lost my mind by adding on another breathing, mess making, eating, demanding, and pooping livestock in our house. Probably. However, I've discovered an ulterior motive to this puppy searching and waiting business though. And I'm taking full advantage of it. Remember that mommy outburst about cleaning I had?

Which one, Les? Funny, y'all.

Well there's a new sheriff in town: Puppy. The foster dog organization has to do a home visit. I've explained to the kids that if we don't pass inspection, not mommy's inspection, but puppy inspection, we don't get the dog. And then I also explained that puppy's are very different.

"They eat everything. EVERYTHING. So, if you like your shoes, socks, legos, swimsuit, homework, you should put them away."

I have never seen the house so clean so quickly in all my days. And although I'm certain the newness will wear off and the kids, as historically proven in their 8 year career, will forget and leave their stuff out. For once, it won't be my lesson to teach. The dog will simply eat it. It'll no longer be "Mommy threw away my favorite shoes that I left at the on separate stairs."

There will be no more malice. But simply a really cute puppy to face that destroyed your stuff.

In the past, Ricardo's been in charge of feeding the dog, and I inevitably get doody duty. Oh, the parallels with that one and motherhood.

Today we have our home visit and meet the puppy. I refer to her as THE puppy because we are SO going to pass this home visit & meeting. I look forward to the puppy breath, the clean your stuff up lessons, the inside jokes as a family, watching my kids love unconditionally, and sharing the joy in a family pet.

So Farley, we honor you in our quest to share love with another furry soul. You trained us well, ol boy. We'll be sure to tell the next pooch to send you thanks.

That's how we roll.
Song of the day: Hyim - D.O.G.

I'm watching Hoarders the other day, and the lady says, "I just decided to quit cleaning up after everyone. So I did. I went on strike." Then she chuckles that crazy mom hoarder chuckle and follows up with, "I guess I never came back from the strike." Her strike started 20 years ago. Her kids are grown, married, and live far far away. Her husband is somewhere in the creepy maze of clutter.

I thought to myself, "Wow, that one's crazy." Until today.

The kids are 8 years old, and we've been married for 10 blissful years, and I still haven't solved the ultimate dilemma: To clean up everyone's crap or to not clean up everyone's crap? That is the question.

To clean it up, keeps us all breathing clean air. It keeps CPS from checking on me. It keeps the mold from the floors where my kids leave their wet towels. And it keeps me from breaking my ankle when the kids leave their cars, stuffed animals, shoes, and footballs right at the base of the stairs. Every time. The filth in my house is a health issue. This also provides a point that I'm a stay-at-home mom, cleaning is part of the gig, I suppose. However, I'm kinda a part time worker too. So there. The down side of To Clean Up Everyone's Crap is they never learn to do it themselves. My hope would be that they leave in correct cleanliness and then go off to college and can't stand a filthy room. The reality of that dream is they'd call me over to clean it.

To not clean means I just sit around in vain and wait for someone to do something. And then when they don't, I get Mommy Dearest Wacky on their asses.

That's kind of where I'm at today, once again. Except today, it's been a "To clean up everyone's crap" kinda day. I resolved to get the laundry done, and helped Max organize and clean up his closet. Ricardo is not his usual self and is hanging out on the couch. As it turns out, he's not superhuman, and doesn't even have a uterus. Wait, neither do I. What I'm getting at is this isn't his normal gig, so I opt to go along with it. I consider his rigorous schedule of working full-time while making straight A's in grad school. And each time I pass the couch he's lounging on, I remind myself of the fact that I'm leaving for 4 days for a writing retreat. Then I remember that I'm suppose to have writing done for the retreat, and I'm lugging laundry instead. Silent rage ensues further as I realize he's having a very tough time taking note of my full-on passive aggressive pistation at this point.

The kids are dancing around my cleaning. I'm trying to ignore their carefree weekend glee while I find a rotting apple core in a football helmet and dirty socks in a bathroom vanity drawer. The trash can is 2" from the violated drawer. What the hell?

I'm doing my best to suppress my ever growing rage and disgust. When I go to grab the hanging laundry in the laundry area. I swoop the hanging clothes over to one side and it the bar holding this weeks and last week's laundry comes crashing down. It's a very loud crash. And I might have wailed a loud frustrating primal sound in an effort to muffle any mommy expletives. You know, still maintaining that passive-aggressive rage and all. Anyways, it was loud. Had I heard it, I would have rushed down to make sure the laundry victim was okay. But no. No one came to my aid. No one even shouted from the couch, "You okay down there?" No one even waited for a commercial to come check on me. Nuthin.

It took me a while to clean up the crash. And as I started, Max came down, you know the kid who's closet I'd just cleaned and reorganized. The kid who's laundry is now officially cleaned in a record best - 2 days. And you know what that punk says to me? He looks straight at me and that colossal mess and with complete concern in his eyes, he says, "Mom, can I go to Bobby's house?"

"Eff you kid, get over here and help me."

Fine, I didn't say that.

I said in my best irritated you better get this tone as a message voice as I could, "SURE. GO. OVER. TO. BOBBY'S. THAT. WOULD. BE. GREAT. JUST. REAL. GREAT. KID!" Just like that.

He got my message loud and clear. So efficiently in fact, he turned and ran to safety at Bobby's.

I finished the laundry and as I walked out of my room, I noticed, the laundry basket was full. Of dirty clothes. Again. Catherine Zeta-Jones recently checked herself in a hospital for bi-polar disorder. Her husband just went through intensive chemo, his ex-wife is suing them, well there's the paparazzi and all, and she has two kids. She's a mom. So, while I watched Matt Lauer review the symptoms of bi-polar: particularly the cyclical extreme moods of highs and lows, I couldn't help but chuckle while I folded the next round of laundry and contemplated going on strike.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: The Bug by Mary Chapin Carpenter

Ahhh, the joys of Motherhood.

I found a spot on my chest. As mentioned before there's not a lot to my chest, and thanks to a long line of skin cancer, I thought it might be a good idea to get the spot checked out. Sure enough, I've finally been validated in my hypochondria and blaming my lineage, the doctor concurred, it was something to have looked at.
"Yeah, I get that a lot."

The very cute doctor noted that it is raised and crusty (easy, Champ) and so he wanted to shave it and send it for testing. I wonder if there's a central biodome location with all of my contributions like my uterus, or moles, or phlegm. I bet I have my very own shelf.

I didn't even have to take off my shirt. I offered. But as usual, turned down.

"So, what did you do today?"

"Oh, not much. Had my chest shaved."

Nice.

They numbed me up and whipped out their very archaic, yet sharp, razor blade. I didn't see any rust, so, I just went with it. And while the doctor has his hands on my chest - he explains that indeed, this is a common spot for this type of thing on women. Because as it turns out - wait for it.....

wait for it.....

wait.....

The chest is more exposed. NICE.

I'm petrified and awaiting results.

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Skin by Sade

upbeat
I picked up this new app that counts your strides per minute and sets your music to your pace. On top of that, there's an option where Sally Edwards will coach a running workout. I thought it would be a new challenge - as if Lori kicking my tail in class Monday through Wednesday, and then subliminally all the other days isn't enough.

So, I get the app and decide to test it out on the track at the gym while the kids have their swim lessing. I follow all the directions, get it all set up, and get started, and the first song is Nat King Cole's "The Christmas Song". That's weird. I mean, I know my pace is a little slow, but really, that's kinda harsh. Let's try something else, so I skip ahead and it goes to Adam Sandler's "The Adventures of a Cow". Although poignantly titled for said adventure of said cow, this isn't even a song to match up with my "strides per minute" pace. It's a comedy skit. Okay, I get it. Real funny, y'all. I try to pick up my pace, and the Sally Edwards app senses my keen effort. And switches to wait for it...wait for it...Young At Heart by Frank Sinatra. Oh. My. Gosh.

Really guys? Come on! And goes from bad, to really bad, to insulting to super worse with "May It Be" by Enya. How is this even on my ipod, it's from that Hobbit people movie. Finally I get some Ali Farke Tourre which is my relaxing & cooking tunes, but I opt to go with it, motivated only because it's got a pretty good beat. Heck, it's got a beat, folks. Let's do this. I'm finally getting the groove of the app and the run coaching and the strides per minute and all that.

And Sally Edwards comes in my ear and tells me I'm in the middle of some kind of up-ladder torture workout and to increase my run stride to 80%. Uh, ok Sally, cuz I'm pretty sure I'm already way beyond 80% with that whole Adventure of a Cow kind of a stride, but okay. I resolve that this is going to be a great workout...tomorrow...when the kids are at track practice. And then Norah Jones comes on and serenades me while I'm still running. Dangit! That's it. I quit for now, since I was just testing it and all. I consider the fact that I've been laughing - out loud with ear phones on so probably extra loud - each time a song has been dealt to me and imagine the smartass who did the programming for this app. My workout is just as much of the laughing as it is the running. I walk down the steps, noting that I've stopped running, or jogging at 80%, whatever, and I've started walking, and yet apparently my strides per minute hasn't changed because the music hasn't changed. My lack of challenging myself is all right there in the only thin part of my body: my eardrums.

I make it down to the the kids finishing up their swim lesson and sit down. The app is still going, and a few seconds after I sit down, it switches, because clearly my pace has changed from barely moving to not moving which necessitates a music change to Tracy Chapman's "Let it Rain" comes on. Nice. I have a faster pace sitting down than running to "Adventures of a Cow."

I'm pretty sure this is not the swift and sarcastic kick in the ass that Sally Edwards intended. But for once, someone one has gotten the message through to me. If I want my gangsta rap and hip hop to run with, I'll simply have to pick up the pace. Sign me up.

So, there's an app for getting me to workout harder? Apparently.

As it turns out, there's a method to how you get your strides per minute calculated and I was not holding my ipod correctly. My pace should have been double what it recorded. So, there's hope for me and Sally Edwards D-Jaying my run for me yet.
That's how I roll.

Song of the day: If I Only Had a Brain - Harry Connick, Jr.

If only grocery shopping were this easy.

Now that the kids are in school, I have the distinct pleasure of grocery shopping all. by. myself. It is a luxury I do not take for granted. I kiss Ricardo goodbye and explain that I'm going to take my time and if he doesn't hear from me in 3 hours, check the credit card charges online and then make a decision on which authorities should be called.

"3 hours?!" He says.

And then I go into my speil about all the preparation I've done and all the heavy lifting at the bulk warehouse I'm about to do: loading into the cart, pushing cart to car, loading into car, and then unloading when I get home. He stops me before I waste another breath, wishes me well and kisses me on the cheek. Then he smacks my butt and says something like, "Go get 'em girl." I should probably be offended, but he's finally recognizing my mad grocery shopping skillz for what they are: a competitive sport.

Sometimes at bulk warehouses, you find a pretty cool deal. Like, a case of green beans manager's special. Or one time a guy ordered 1,000 dozen roses to propose to his girlfriend, but somewhere between the order and the proposal, she dumped him. Poor guy. I bet the girl found out he bought her roses at Sam's club. Hey lady, it's not HIS fault that's the longest lasting roses. My gain, they sold his roses 2 dozen at a time for $7 y'all. I had a beautiful rose smelling house for weeks.

So, I'm perusing all the deals. And some how I stumble on sports bras. Now before you get all high and mighty on me, let me remind you that uh, well, I don't need a whole lot of support or complexity when it comes to sports bras. Basically all I need is any tank looking disguise so that I'm not running at the gym and people see something's not quite right: my saggy A's are jiggling only slightly more than my badonka donk. The last time I bought sports bras was a 3 pack at Walmart. So, right now, in this very moment, I'm one step up as sports bra fashion goes. These sports bras are like the shelf bras in your tank tops - they have the adjustable straps. And they are $6.81 for three! WHAT!? That's almost too good to be true. So I run through all of the pros and cons and what could go wrong with this purchase. For $6 I could be getting some bunk. But then, I am the perfect shape to make this purchase. I select my size, sifting through XLs and Larges which, really, should never wear these type bras. You busty people should pay extra for good support. Us pear shaped victims can get away with this. I take note that there's very few Smalls - someone else brilliantly like me has passed by here. Leaving the XLs and Larges to roll their eyes in rejection of said cute bras in bulk. Three bras - for $6. Even Ricardo will appreciate this one.

I roll into the check out line with my fruit, cheese and bras in bulk all nesting in my cart under the still good buy of roses. It's a great day. I've selected a female checker since I have the bras. I try to spare the men from girl purchases. But now I'm just down to purchasing bras, none of that other girl stuff. You're welcome man-checkers. Once the line moves to me, I hand her my card, she asks if I found everything okay, I reply with my ever-witty remark that perhaps I found things too easily, chuckle, chuckle, and then the bras won't scan. I make my other witty remark, "I guess it must be free today!" I chuckle because I'm spot on with my grocery shopping comedy today, she picks up a walkie talkie and asks for a price check. Suddenly a young guy comes over and grabs my bras. Ew. They need to do a price check. He takes off with my bras.

I'm concerned he's going to come back with the wrong size or a different pack - there was another that was $20. But he doesn't come back. The check out lady gets on her walkie talkie to confirm that someone is doing a price check on the sports bras. ANOTHER man comes back on the line with a scanner number and "THAT'S SMALL BALLY'S SPORTS BRAS - A PACK OF THREE FOR SIX DOLLARS EIGHTY ONE CENTS."

And that's when I realize this has been one price check below the overhead speaker - the walkie talkies are all on loud volume, at every register. Every person checking out and every worker with a walkie talkie at Sam's Club knows that that wide-hipped lady over there needs size small sports bras. And that I buy my sports bras (I buy my workout pants there too. Hey they're yoga pants, and they're great) at Sam's Club. I'm only slightly humiliated until she rings them up and indeed, they ARE $6.81. Then some other cute guy walks my sports bras back to me and places them in my cart, making sure to make no eye contact with me. After all, he's just literally man-handled my bras. I'm redeemed. And I check out and go.

It turns out, they are delightful sports bras - effectively supporting my saggy A's. A good bra to me, has little to do with support, and a lot to do with not knowing it's there on your body, creasing into your ribs, or your shoulders.

Yeah, that's right - I just bought my sports bras at Sam's Club. $6.81. If I'd had any pride, I suppose I'd have been humiliated. But I don't, so I blogged about it.

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Illusions of Bliss by Sarah McLachlan

Happy Anniversary to the Momontherocks power couple of the decade: Ricardo and Me. It's been ten delightful years. The ten year traditional gift is tin or aluminum. The ten year modern gift is diamond. Interesting upgrade. We went to Jamaica instead.

Happy Anniversary to the man whom I married because I love him and he makes me laugh. But each year, each, month, each day, he proves to be so much more than the man I married.

Ten years ago today, I thought I was marrying my best friend. I had no idea the intensity of greatness and joy that would ensue each day exponentially.

Song of the Day: Make You Feel My Love by Adele

*Photos by Karen Granger

The dog was on pick up duty 24/7 - no breaks. I used to think of it as annoying. Now, I see, it's necessary and a service.

I should probably explain that I just vacuumed the kitchen floor.

It's an off white marbleyish color. I'm trying to remember why we chose WHITE. Or why this is the first time I've questioned the color of kitchen tile.

It seems that our Farley the Wonderdog was a service dog of sorts. He cleaned up everything and anything on the floor. Sometimes catching it in his mouth before it hit the floor. He would assess the extent of my cooking project, and man his station, right next to the cutting board.

It's been 2 months since we lost our service dog. And I still wait to hear the scurry of his feet when I know something's about to drop while I'm cooking. Just for a millisecond, I think "Farley will get that." And then I pick it up.

Right now, I'm being conditioned to wipe up a spill or two. Sometimes, I guess, there's a spill I miss happening. I don't know what it is. I'll be walking by and and grab a damp cloth and go to wipe it up and it's apparently cemented into the tile. How does lettuce do that? I need a steel brush to get it off. I've never had this on the floor before. I think to blame the kids or Ricardo. I mean, how did it get there? Certainly not by my doing. IT's not even a color, shade or texture I remember having in the last week. What the hell is it? And how did it get there? And why hasn't this been here before?

And then I think "Farley had my back with this floor." He must have had so much fun cleaning our floor. And we never really knew the extent to which he did it. I bet he'd been covering for the kids' spills for years. What a guy.

A dog will clean your kitchen floor. Maybe he'll eat your couch, or your pot roast or your 5 lbs of hamburger meat thawing on the counter. Perhaps he'll destroy a wall and shed 5 pounds of hair a week. We can now vacuum our entire house without emptying the vacuum thingy. With Farley, we had to empty out the thingy every room due to the apparent Rogaine experiment dog.

I think I've assessed the trade off and I'd rather empty the vacuum every room than be aware of what sticks to my kitchen floor. That dog was a service dog of many sorts.

So thank your dog right now. Go do it. For cleaning up all the nasty you don't even know exists in your home. You have no idea. You don't know, because the dog's got you covered. Go. Thank. Your. Dog.

This has been a Public Service Announcement for the Dogs Across the World Who Clean Up Your Nasty Floor campaign.

That's how I roll.
Song of the Day: D.O.G. by Hyim and the Fat Foakland Orchestra

The key to being good parents is to leave your kids for a get away vacation to Jamaica.

Sometime after the kids were born - probably while I tried to carry on a visit with Ricardo's parents with a formula spit up soiled shirt (You gotta designate between formula and breast milk, because there's a big diff) and one eye-shut from lack of sleep, while bouncing a poohey diapered baby on my knee - somewhere in all of that, my awesome in-laws -Gramma and Bean -announced that they would watch the kids while Ricardo and I would be going on a vacation just the two of us at least once a year. That is was important to our marriage. I think it's a gift they wanted to give us, a luxury that wasn't provided for them. And we've taken full advantage of it I'd say maybe averaging out to probably more than once a year.

This year however was tricky, because Ricardo has school. And work. And me too. And the kids. So, we calculated this one week in the entire year where we could get away, and Gramma and Bean could come watch the kids while they were in school. It's best to get away while the kids are in school so that Gramma and Bean could get a little break and recuperate during the day. It was the perfect storm. We checked with the in-laws casually, researched trips and get aways, floundering on whether we should go so far, or stay in the states. Blah blah blah. All-Inclusive or off the map? Once we got it all figured out, we booked a trip to Jamaica. And then we called Gramma and Bean and announced the good news. After all we were doing what his parents told us to for goodness sake. Isn't this great!? And then we realized Gramma was about to have knee replacement surgery.

So, while Gramma stayed home, doing physical therapy and working hard to recuperate, Bean got suckered into Mr. Mom role for a week. I must say, I'm a wee bit of a control freak, but I think its mild compared to some of y'all out there. You know who you are. I made a list of activities and minivan deliveries, a list of doctors and neighbors, and a list of their daily routine. And then I bolted. Quite frankly, I was a little nervous the ease of my job was about to be revealed. It's tricky at times, but now that we're out of diapers, potty training. The kids can tie their own shoes now. Good gravy, they can write in cursive. So, we left. And we left in full faith that the kids would take good care of Bean. Woops, I mean Bean would take good care of the kids.

So, Ricardo and I celebrated our 10 year wedding anniversary a few weeks early with a trip to Jamaica mon. We enjoyed rum, Red Stripe, warmth, and having full conversations and completing our own sentences without being interrupted with a life lesson for a child like: "Don't interrupt." "Chew your food, baby." "Please wash your hands before you...ack, too late." Very important like that. We also weren't interrupted with "Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad! Dad!" I think you get the point.

What with all that talk in the last post about discipline and focus and lack there of. The BEST thing to do would be go to Jamaica. I mean, really. It took me a month to prepare for the trip. A week to enjoy the trip. And another week to get back into the groove of things like "Working" or "Exerting any energy" or "Doing dishes" .

Still, we made it and it was everything we'd hyped it up to be and more.

We each did our own research of Jamaica. Ricardo discovered a jerk chicken hut, and whatever other kind of smoked meats they had going at the time. The Jerk Hut was open for lunch every day.

By the way, we picked All-Inclusive. I might have insisted on it. This ensures options, binging, and no doing dishes. It also ensures some sweet Jamaican tells me how pretty I am while he pours me a drink.

This is so way better than Corona. How do you like the foodtography?

Ricardo lugged 25 academic articles to read and take notes on for some gigantic paper for his MBA class. So, he was not too pleased at my sudden and yet incessant kackling and delight in reading of my book on my ipod touch. Then ofcourse, I had to explain. Which I know is annoying, but seriously, you can't read chapter title like "Sold! To the Woman Holding Her Teeth!" and just keep that to yourself. Right? It's Wade Rouse's fault. I'm maritally obligated to share the funny. His book, It's All Relative, is a book about life with family over the holidays. It does not disappoint. Unless you're reading academic articles under a tree in the Carribean while your wife kackles.

Can you pick out which one is on stilts here?

That's an Sandals island over there. I know where they went with that. "Exclusive Sandals Island." But you have to take a boat to get there. I could have swam there. I'm just saying. I found out later, it's where the Europeans go to be topless. Wish I'd brought Ricardo's binoculars. Or maybe not. We did not stay at the Sandals, we just had a view of their "island". We stayed at the RIU. They are absolutely pristine and beautiful resorts. I hope to visit many more RIU's!

I took this picture for my moms. Just looked pretty. Never mind that I'm balancing while hiking up a waterfall at Dunn's River Falls...

This is the tree we lounged under. Every day. All day.

We asked a lady to take this picture for us. This is me laughing at her. She had a really hard time figuring out how to operate a camera for such tall people. It probably took her 10 minutes to take 5 pictures. 4 of which, Ricardo's head is cut off. The stilts guy would have really thrown her off. Sometimes I think that song Short People Got No Reason To Live is kinda mean. And then mostly I feel it's validated...

I made Ricardo take a picture next to this sign at the Bar. He has no idea why because Ricardo is not the music fan I am. I did all kinds of music research for this trip. There's Bob Marley and his most famous album Exodus. But I appreciate more, the stories of the artists. Like Bob Marley died at age 36 and fathered 13 kids...but two of those are debatable. What?

We'd had a few Pina Colada's and got caught in the rain. I can't even make that up. Seriously. It happened. It really happened. Right after I took this picture, trying to be all interpretive photographer with my waterproof camera and all, the water waved up and took my drink out to sea. Aw, poor me. I walked over and got another. Hooray for interpretive landscaping photography and all-inclusive resorts!

We've been to several places in Mexico, Belize, Ricardo has been to Ireland, and now we've been to Jamaica. I can wholly say, Jamaica will be seeing us again. As soon as our fiscal year is up with Gramma and Bean!

That's how I roll.
Song of the day: Love is My Religion by Damian Marley