I Think COVID Fatigue Stole My Cinco de Mayo Mojo

Cinco de Mayo always gave us an excuse to act like college kids. Imagine a bunch of forty-year-olds running around in bathing suits and giant sombreros, posing for pictures with inflatable, human-size Corona bottles, licking salt and sucking lime wedges to soothe the tequila sting right before jumping into the pool. My girlfriends and I would spend the few weeks prior scouring Amazon, Target, Walmart, and Etsy for THE Perfect Cinco De Mayo Adorable Tank Top. My husband and his friends would spend the same weeks growing out ridiculously unattractive mustaches. You'd never guess based on these descriptions that we are mostly all incredibly respectable, often quite Type A, never-late-on-a-mortgage-payment, sometimes even a little boring grown ups. Which is probably why we love throwing these parties: they let all of us loosen up and have a good time with each other. (The tacos are a bonus.)

I spent Cinco De Mayo of 2020 moping. I longed for my backyard to be filled with tipsy friends and loud music and itchy, stick-on, dollar store mustaches that would always inevitably get gross and sweaty and fall off. 

"When this is all over, I'm going to throw The Biggest Damn Cinco De Mayo party EVER!" I declared. "I'm going to throw a July 4th party too! And St. Patrick's Day! What about Easter?!? Can I throw a loud Easter party? And I was thinking of a luau...!"

I swear, I am not exaggerating. That might have even been a direct quote.

That's how I got through COVID Cinco: planning all the parties I was going to throw in 2021.

Yet here we are. There are no stacks of tacky sombreros or liters of tequila sitting in the pantry waiting for the party guests. There are no five-pound bags of shredded cheese in my fridge. There are no plans being brainstormed to convince the local grocery store manager that we must have the Corona store decorations with the face cut outs for a cultural project for our schools (yes, those stories have worked every single time).  And I realized recently that there is also no desire for this party. 

I can't figure out why. COVID is definitely not "all over," but things--and life--are definitely more normal. We have found a way to live within this new (hopefully still temporary) normal. I don't have a reason other than: I just don't feel like it. 

I am realizing that I just don't feel like doing a lot of things lately. Some of it is life, its hectic-ness, the end of the school year. Some of it (I admit this begrudgingly) are these new hormones that seem to be insisting on warning me that my 50s are approaching. But I think that some of it is the mental and emotional fatigue of this past year...the sensation that I am still getting my bearings after these last 14 months.

I just don't always feel the lightness and frivolity of my pre-Covid self.

And I think that I'm going to give myself permission to be okay with that for now.

So this year, I'm going to dig out my perfectly adorable Cinco de Mayo tank top circa 2019, have a margarita (or a few) with some friends, and possibly plan The Biggest Damn Cinco De Mayo Party EVER for another year. Maybe it will even be next year. Don't worry. I'll give y'all enough notice to order your shirts and grow out your mustaches. 

Forty seven and happy (AF)

I am 47 today.

Forty-seven!

Definitely an age I used to think of as "old." Didn't we all? I mean, my parents were 47. My aunts and uncles...my teachers (gasp)...they were in their forties. Forties were old.

When I turned 40, I didn't really have an issue with it. I was distracted with fabulous birthday plans and stilettos and cocktails. Besides, Gwen Stefani and Sarah Jessica Parker were already 40, and they were awesomely cool and soooo not-old.

Then 41 and 42 and 43 got a little weird. I was like, "Waaaaait a minute...40-SOMETHING is not quite as fun as 40 was...I'm not going to Vegas and it's really not quite a novelty anymore and holy shit...I just realized I'm closer to mid-forties than 39...WTF?!?"

It was at about the 45 mark that I started to notice that there wasn't much of a difference in how I looked in pictures between, say, 32 and 41, but there seemed to be a sudden (and sometimes shocking) difference in the pictures between 41 and 45. It was as if all those years of sleepless nights due to early parenting had suddenly caught up with me. (Yes, I am sure that my obsession with the sun and booze has absolutely nothing to do with it.)

So let's just say there was a bit of an adjustment period somewhere in there. For the first time in my life, I started trying expensive skin creams. I looked into those crazy expensive laser treatments at the dermatologist. I upped the SPF. When I'd enter a nightclub I never, ever got carded anymore. (The worst was when we'd go with our still-in-their-30s-friends and they'd get carded ahead of us and as Hubby and I started looking for our IDs, the bouncer would just wave us in.)

Fast forward to now.

I don't know what happened. I'm not exactly sure when it happened. It just did, and I've realized it pretty recently.

I'm happy. Like, really, really, really, contentedly, unapologetically happy.

Let me clarify: Technically, I've been happy for a very long time. I've been married to my absolute favorite person for 17 years. I have two ridiculously awesome boys. I love where I live. I (usually) really like what I do for a living. I am surrounded by amazing friends. My family is healthy and nearby.

But I mean I am happy with myself...having nothing to do with all these amazingly lucky blessings. I feel like I woke up one day, looked around, and realized I am completely happy with Me. Don't get me wrong: I am still (and always will be) working on self-improvement in some area. But overall, I feel like for the first time--ever--I am no longer pining to be skinnier/cooler/better dressed/richer/ calmer/fitter/prettier/fill-in-the-blank-with-pretty-much-any-word. I know what I like now. I won't apologize for my music or drink of choice. I know I have waaaay too many ripped jean shorts that would never pass the "What Not To Wear" test, and I use the words "dude" and "fuck" way too often.

I'd love to tell you how I got here. I am well aware that I sound like one of those essays you'd find in a "Forties" book or in the Oprah magazine: "Oh, now that I'm in my forties I have arrived!" Puhleeze. I would be totally eye-rolling too. Truth is, I'm not sure. I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that my kids are a little older and more independent, so I can spend more time on myself without feeling guilty. Maybe some of it is that I have put so much effort into my eating and exercise choices over the last few years, that I finally feel like I'm good with what my body's doing. Maybe the two knee surgeries I had to have over the last couple of years taught me how truly disciplined and bad-ass I can be when I need to.  Maybe it's the meditating. Maybe it's the big life move we made a few years ago that freed up so much of our money and time so we could go to the beach any damn time we please.

I am sure it's some of that and some of this. The point is I'm here now, and it's an incredibly peaceful feeling.

It took me nearly 47 years. It's a good thing I didn't know that going in, because that's a long ass time. So, today I'll celebrate, because...dude, I'm happy as fuck.

This summer was...

Summer is good.

But in this house, summer is glorious. 

For two school teacher parents and two school-age boys, summer around here means nine weeks of "What do you wanna do today?" 

And because we did not go on any possibly life-altering trips this summer, we had a lot of time to sleep in, stay up late, and just play.

This summer was...

...camping and surfing

...first-time-ever Zoo Camp

...motel sneak-aways

...boat days with friends

...spontaneous baby turtle sightings

...finally getting the big projects done

...family water park days

...brother bonding over penguins

...never too old for matching birthday drinking shirts

...summer bucket list ice skating

...growing up on the beach 

 ...surprise manatee visitations while SUPing

 ...finally shooting hoops in the front yard

We are ridiculously lucky.

We know this.

But we also know that life's too short to just play for one season. 

So, in an attempt to celebrate what's coming instead of mourning what's ending...

This Fall will be...

...back to healthy(-er) eating and gym mornings

...the blessed type-A sense of calm that comes with routine

..."This Is Us" new episodes

...using Thursdays as an excuse for wine

...using Fridays as an excuse for Happy Hour

...regular paychecks

...Epcot Food and Wine trips

...one more go at Disney in the RV

...the holidays (Halloween is right around the corner and before you know it, hello!...it's Christmas!)

...falling asleep on the sofa by 8:45

...looking forward to the weekends to go out and play!

Why They Should Sell Booze at The Magic Kingdom - Throwback Thursday

If you live in Florida, there exists a sort of Golden Ticket, if you will, known as The Disney Annual Pass. We get little perks and privileges for living so close and The Powers That Be over at Disney know that if they promise a little discount here and a little payment plan there, we will be suckers enough to think it's such a bargain that we must repeatedly count our lucky stars, load up the car, and drive a few hours over to this magical place as often as humanly possible. Really, we get ourselves to the point where it almost feels like we are "just running over to Disney for a few incredibly discounted hours of fun!"

And over at our house, I fully admit, we are suckers. Big time.

And it's not just for the kids, either. My husband and I love it just as much. It's quite amusing, in fact, to hear my testosterone-laden, scruffy and tattooed-up, long-haired man talk about how excited he is when counting down the days to the next long weekend.

So after a few years off, we are finally, once again, the proud Golden Ticket Holders of an Annual Pass. Which means we will be going to Disney. A lot. Which reminded me of...

Why They Should Sell Booze at the Magic Kingdom

originally posted here on October 29, 2013 

I was startled (we all were, really) by a woman's shrill reprimand: "You put your mouth on it! Don't tell me you didn't put your mouth on it! You did!" I turned (as did everyone else, really) to see a mother disdainfully holding a red frozen fruit bar and looking accusingly at a pre-teen-ish age girl. I didn't really understand why she was so mad, so I kept watching in hopes I'd figure it out: was the kid sick and therefore banned from sharing any of the rest of the family's popsicle snacks? Was this mother one of those germaphobes who did not like sharing food with her own children? I must not have been the only bystander trying to figure out what had caused the woman's reaction, because she looked up suddenly and noticed that everyone (and I do mean everyone) around her was staring, and she apologized (almost as loudly) a half-ass apology: "Sorry. Sorry, everyone. Sorry." As she and her apparently sneaky, popsicle-licking daughter resumed walking passed us, another woman who I assumed was the aunt came over and put her arm around the kid. The mother (now no longer shrilly shrieking, at least) silently lifted the arm off her daughter's shoulders, and spat out: "Why don't you go up there and walk with your Uncle Timmy?" To this, a man one could only assume was Uncle Timmy, turned around and came over to his niece, throwing an arm around the kid's neck and loudly proclaiming: "C'mon, kid, this is the happiest place on earth! Let's go be happy!" and he skipped away with her, chuckling.

The next morning, I was ripping sugar packets open and dumping way too many into my coffee, when I noticed (how could I not?) a toddler wearing "Jake and the Neverland Pirates" pajamas having a complete and total meltdown while his mother was trying to pull him up to standing. The kid was doing that thing toddlers do: letting his bones go all Jell-O, his face scrunched up, his eyes shut tight, wailing (even louder than the mom in paragraph one, above) incoherently. I stirred my coffee and watched as the mom attempted to shut him up and pull him up to standing. When neither of these two were accomplished, she let him go (I suspect if she could have bounced him painfully onto the ground like a basketball, she would have), tossed her arms up in the air, and stepped back over to the register a couple feet away where she had been trying to pay for her $10 Mickey-shaped waffle. The kid remained writhing and wriggling and wailing on the food court's shiny tile floor, while other guests walked around him with their coffee cups and breakfast trays. I didn't stick around long enough to see how the mother managed to drag him and her breakfast tray back over to wherever, but I did silently hope that she was washing that cute little pajama in hot water before putting it back on the kid for bed.

Then there was the dad who, in the middle of a crowded area, grabbed his son's face as if his fingers were tweezers and the kid's face was a nasty embedded splinter. He nearly put his forehead right up to his kid's, and shouted in one of those gruff, manly, camo-wearing type voices: "Get. Outta. My. Face. I've. Had. E. Nuff."

Those are some of the scenes I witnessed this weekend at Walt Disney World.

And, as a parent, I totally get it. 

I'm not saying that I approve of any of these parental reactions.
I'm not saying that I would have done or said the same things with the same level of ferocity and impatience.
All I'm saying is that I might have.

There really, truly is something magical about Disney. I've said it before. As someone who has grown up four hours away, I'm one of those people who has been so many times, she's lost count. I realize that to some, this is cause for great envy, while for others, this is cause for great, wrinkly-nosed disdain. But I love Disney. I love everything about it (except the summertime and the long lines). I love the way they pay attention to every detail, how even the soaps in the hotel and the signs in the public restrooms have Mickey shapes. I love how they are constantly trying to outdo themselves. I love how everyone who works there is required to smile and be cheerful and somehow, they never seem to be faking it. I love the looks on my kids' faces when the fireworks display begins and Tinkerbell "flies" along the night sky out of Cinderella's castle window and off into wherever that nearly invisible zipline ends. I love the Caribbean pirates chanting their "Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate's life for me." I love the giggles a photo op with Winnie the Pooh and Goofy elicit from my little boys. And I love, love, love the fully-grown adults who happily and casually walk around wearing Mouse ears and coordinated t-shirts. Disney, you see, is full of whimsy.

And I love me some whimsy.

But those of us who have been there with small (and even not-so-small) children know that just like Disney World can bring out the best in parents, it can inevitably bring out the worst.

We were lucky on this trip: the boys behaved--for the most part--beautifully. But there was no way we were going to walk around passing any kind of judgment on the parents described above. Cause God knows (or, in this case, should I say 'Walt knows'?) that we are always just one tantrum away from being the crazy parents screaming shrilly about a popsicle while crushing our kid's face for dramatic emphasis.

I think I might be a mermaid

"I don't know why I'm so happy today."
"Because you spent the last two days on the water." 

My husband had, as usual, pointed out the obvious. I hadn't even made the connection.

We spent the whole weekend on or near water. Saturday, we participated in (get this) a local cardboard boat race. We spent the morning at a marina, along with several other local families, building and decorating boats made out of nothing more than cardboard, duct tape, and lots of imagination. When it was our turn, I thought surely the boat we had constructed, The S.S. Ohana, would either buckle, tip over, or immediately sink.

But, nope...much to our surprise (and admittedly, glee), the Ohana stayed afloat as we paddled not one, but four laps, and won 1st place for Overall Design and 2nd place for People's Choice (I'm sure it didn't hurt that we had a small mob of friends and family cheering for us).

The boys lifted those trophies in the air with such pride, you would have thought they were Superbowl tropies. By the time we left, we were all sunburned, salty, and soaked.

Sunday we woke up early and spent the day on our friends' boat. I couldn't believe that in spite of being major beach bums and living near the water our whole lives, we had never spent the day on the water like that. Our friends must have thought we were pretty ridiculous: I took pictures as if I were a tourist on vacation, we oooohed and aaaaaahed at every sight, and the four of us couldn't stop grinning all day. At one point, we were speeding along the intracoastal ("Go fast! Go fast!" the boys would chant) and I was sitting up front. The wind was so strong, if I turned my head, my sunglasses would fly off. The boys were up on the bow, their long surfer dos blowing like lions' manes. Hubby was back by our friend, who was driving. One of my favorite Kenny Chesney songs was blaring. I looked back at Hubby, who flashed me a very satisfied grin, and the look on his face reflected exactly what I was feeling: pure, absolute joy.

It didn't matter that the skies were a little overcast or that the water at the sandbar where we docked to swim was a little chilly. All that mattered was that feeling: I wasn't worried about bills or cleaning the house or what I was going to cook for dinner that week. There was no room in my head for the silly and not-so-silly anxious thoughts that so often plague me (or should I say with which I plague myself?). They were all pushed out by the wind and the music and the feeling of being on the water.

I have always loved the ocean...the beach is where my soul is happiest. It's funny how I had this feeling of contentment last night and didn't initially realize it was because of how I had spent my weekend. Life is, even during the best of times, busy and hectic. It's easy to fill your weekends with errands, must-do's, home projects, and hours on the couch with mindless TV because you're too tired to do anything else. The days are long but life is short. And if you're not careful, you spend too much of it getting things done rather than really living. We measure the quality of our lives within the constraints of our achievements: promotions, raises, bigger houses, better cars, nicer landscaping, those last 5 pounds... But I'm pretty sure the greatest achievement is a life filled with as many moments like the ones I lived this weekend: playing, laughing, feeling free. I refilled my soul this weekend...
...with a little salt water.

Stop 1: Savannah & Tybee Island, GA

How appropriate that we find this while window shopping in Savannah, our first stop; this quote can definitely sum up our overall philosophy of life and even this trip.

Found this at a Savannah antiques shop. It was too expensive and way too big to bring home,
but will definitely be going on Etsy for our version once we're home!

We drove all day Sunday from South Florida to Savannah, GA. Fortunately, this time, we actually made it there. (Savannah was supposed to be our first stop on our 2013 Summer RV Trip, but thanks to a very old RV and some bad luck, we never made it.) Although I must add that--as any RV-traveler knows--there are bound to be glitches. So far, we have had one beach cruiser bike fall off the back without us realizing it, the gas tank censor act up enough that it took 30 minutes to fill up, and overfilled transmission fluid leak out and smoke. However, a guy was nice enough to pick up the bike and walk it over to us as we stopped at the gas station. It had relatively little damage and did not cause an accident. The gas tank is now filling up just fine. And our mechanic called us and assured us everything was mechanically fine after we explained the situation. So, I'm going to go ahead and count all three of those incidents as non-incidents and/or good luck so far.

We arrived early enough to go into the historic district of Savannah, walk around a little and have some dinner. The kids were pretty fascinated by the steep, historic, riverside stairs that warned to "use at your own risk." 

                                                

They were even more fascinated by The Savannah Candy Kitchen, complete with giant taffy-pulling machine and overhead working toy train.

 I started my second day in Savannah in pure sin: a Bloody Mary and deep fried southern beignets.

We walked around town, did a little shopping, and showed the boys the famous Savannah squares and areas like Forsyth Park:

We then drove 20 minutes east to Tybee Island, where we spent the rest of the day on the beach, jumping waves, boogie boarding, and walking. Definitely way different than the beach at home (especially South Beach), but we loved it.

Looks desolate, but that's just an illusion of the photo angle.
The beach was amazingly packed for a Monday afternoon, even for a vacation town.

To quote one of my favorite Frankie Ballard songs:
"Sitting on the beach with my sweet Georgia peach...not a care in the world,
just trying to beat the heat."
That's a real Georgia peach, y'all! Stopped on the way at a local fruit stand.
And yes, they really are that much better.

One of my fave pics so far, and proof to all my locals back home that Miami
is NOT the only place in the U.S. with gorgeous beaches.

We ended our day with dinner at one of the coolest little places I've ever been: AJ's Dockside, where I had a "Margarona" that nearly put me to sleep on the drive back to the campground. Luckily, I had to stop at the fruit stand on the way back for more peaches, so that woke me right back up.

Last time, in our old beloved first RV, we added a sticker for each place we stopped. It was bittersweet, because we knew we'd have to sell it once we got back. This time, the sticker tradition is way more fun. 

Savannah and Tybee Island, check!

Packed up and ready to head out at 3:30 am to make it to the ferry that will take us to Outer Banks, North Carolina.

Who You Callin' Cute? Me! Me! Me! Please?

I spent most of my life resisting the term "cute."

"You are so cute!"

"She has such a cute face!"

"How cute are you?!"

"That is a cute outfit."

I grew up alongside a sister who posed for pictures on top of the hood of her Camaro and wore Farrah Fawcett-like white bikinis.

I, on the other hand, was never the Camaro type and the only thing slightly Farrah-ish about me was a feathered blow-out I got once when I was 12.

I hated cute--especially in my 20s. I wanted to be called anything but.

Pretty. Attractive. Beautiful. Or, the most coveted: Sexy.

Oooooh.

Gasp.

Breathy sigh.

If only...

So that was sorta my thing: don't call me cute! Women in their 20s should not be called cute. Especially when  they're all dressed up and wearing stilettos that hurt their feet. Can't you see I'm trying here, people?!?

When I tried to explain my disgruntlement with this particular adjective to the guy who ended up marrying me in spite of my general craziness, he used to tell me that I was all those things: pretty, attractive, beautiful, and yes, even sexy (I knoooow!)...but that within all of that I was still cute.

He said I couldn't help it. I was.

Dammit.

But then...

Fast forward 14 years.

The cute girl in her 20s who was resisting cute-ness is now 41 (and three quarters).

It is Halloween.

She is a teacher.

She, along with several of her teacher colleagues, thought it would be an adorable (read: cute!) and easy idea to be Minnie Mouse for work: pink sequined Minnie ears, black nose paint, bright pink lipstick, black leggings, black t-shirt, black pumps, and the pièce de résistance: a pink tutu.

Think of it as an abstract interpretive Minnie.

When I walked out of my bedroom wearing the outfit (minus the ears and nose paint), my husband started laughing. I did not, in fact, look adorable at all. I looked like a 40-something-year-old in leggings and a too-short, hot pink tutu.

"Wait!" I proclaimed.

I ran to put on the ears and painted the tip of my nose with my Smolder Black MAC eyeliner.

Then I looked in the mirror...

...and realized: Now I just looked stupid-er.

I had a sudden flashback of the movie Fantasia...remember the dancing hippo? No? Look it up. 

Yeah.

That one.

To add insult to injury, my husband said I looked (and I quote) "a little hoochie."

"Hoochie?!? How could I look hoochie? I'm wearing ears, for god's sake!"

"Baaaabe," he chuckled. "The leggings and the tutu and the heels? They're a little inappropriate for work."

This from the man who wears t-shirts and ripped jeans to work and never, ever, ever thinks my jeans are ever too tight for teaching 9-year-olds.

I went back to my room and started rummaging through all my Halloween stuff: maybe it's the too-puffy tutu...do I have a better set of leggings?...what about with the lipstick?....skinny black jeans instead? Why does this look so...wrong?

And then it hit me: Perhaps...just perhaps...a forty-one-and-three-quarters-year-old has no business trying to look cute in a costume that was originally the idea of a 13-year-old who wears a size zero.

Dammit.

What do you mean I ain't cute?!?

My BFF and Teaching Partner AFTER I swapped the Fantasia-like tutu for another one
and swapped the pumps for these less offensive flats...pretty cute, right? Right?!?

The wishes and resolutions of others

On New Year's Eve, we hosted a party in our house. Because we love ourselves a party gimmick, we covered a bare wall with white butcher paper and asked all of our guests--ranging in ages from 1 to 74--to write their wishes and/or resolutions for 2014. At first, I wasn't completely sure if our idea would be a hit, probably because I'm one of those insecure party-throwers who still worries that "no one is coming to my party" and "what if people don't have fun?". (Never mind the fact that we throw tons of parties in our why-did-we-think-we-needed-such-a-big-house-House, but I am sure that is just one more issue I should bring up with my therapist.) With the exception of the 1-year-old, who was way too busy either crying or losing her pretty tiny silver Mary Jane,  it seemed everyone had a lot to "say."

Some of the graffiti was serious and important:

My sister's wish: her health...because after this year, she's learned--and so did we--that the rest is just crap.

Some of the wishes were very indicative of the ages of the wishers...

Like Angie, a straight A high school student,who has perhaps decided a
slight dip in her average will not  indicate the end of the world...

And little Andrew, whose grape eating habits have, apparently, been a problem his entire 5-year-life:

"I will eat grapes with the skin on."

There were the usual, expected types of resolutions and wishes...like go to the gym and work hard, but then there were also those wishes that, hopefully, would not come to fruition...

Can you spot..."Kill my boss slowly"?

It was especially interesting to see the difference between my two boys' wishes. Those who know my kids really, really well, got a kick out of this:

From Ben, the older one, who obviously felt it was important that he write something important on the wall for all to see:
"I hope all the poor get money and home's. And happy holidays!"

From Aidan Kai, my younger one, who has a much simpler, less world-changing wish:'
"Everybody have fun"

Then there was Hubby, whose wishes and resolutions said a lot about his daily habits: too much drinking and too little texting...?

Personally, I was quite relieved to read the "Yeah right!" which he added immediately afterwards...

Perhaps it was a sign that his marker faded as he wrote his "real" resolution:
"Respond & text/call the people I love!!!!"

Bottom line: when we woke up on the first day of 2014, it was a lot of fun to take some time with our coffee and read the remnants of the night's leftover thoughts, hopes, and plans (especially since neither of us were hungover this year). It was such a mix of authentic resolutions, mixed in with some of the drunken commentary that probably should never have made it onto a wall where an 8-year-old lives...

Oh, and here was mine:

I have been just about as successful with my meditation resolution as Hubby has with his returning calls one. I guess that's a good thing, since neither of us have been very quick to judge or critique the other. As for my phone one, I'm trying... And the writing? Well, I'm here, ain't I?