Halloweenola

This year, Halloween killed me. I flew to New Orleans for Leiah's bachelorette party and I died. So did the other gals on the trip.

Leiah, Magnolia, Joanna, Alison, Me, and Chala. A handful of well adjusted, employed, inspiring, normal chicks

AND THEN THEY ALL DIED. AND GOT SLACK JAW.

Leiah had a rockin' zombie bride costume made from her old wedding dress, and it felt wonderfully appropriate to give it new life at her bachelorette party. I mean, we're all made up from bits and pieces of all the experiences we've had, the good and the bad parts, and if those bits and pieces get us to make happier and better decisions, might as well embrace 'em.

Like these hangover bags wouldn't have been possible if we hadn't all had thooooosseee mornings.

Hangover bags featuring sunglasses, ear plugs, sleep masks, hair ties, eye drops, Advil, lip balm, a little V8 can and a tiny bottle of vodka, as modeled by two people formerly known as Whiskey and Vodka.

We played a bunch of fun games, like Who's Most Likely To... and Leiah/David trivia. We may have added in a drinking component and ended up playing on a car parked in the yard of our AirBNB. EXPERIENCES. THEY GIVE YOU WISDOM.

Although, they also give you kitchen club dancing and make you sing Ahhhh skeet, skeet, skeet skeet! and dance underneath Amazon-sized women. Which are Leiah's type when it comes to friends.

Thanks to Uber, we managed to get out and see the city. We went to Frenchmen Street and ate pita pizzas. And we ran into a League of Their Own, but it was all guys dressed as ladies. We bought art at an art market. We walked down streets around Frenchmen, all decorated for Halloween and illuminated by centuries-old gas lamps. New Orleans is awesome. Covered in a thin layer of booze and/or vomit (depending on how sober you are), but undeniably interesting in a good way.

Can't do Nola without Cafe DuMonde's beignets. Even if the server was an assholes.

If you look close enough, you can probably see 3 illegal things going on here. 

Apparently Leiah and Allie know how to make goblets from gum wrappers. Which were perfect for getting those disgusting Hurricanes down in small enough portions that puking wasn't worth it.

Leiah got a psychic. In true Leiah fashion, she's pretty sure the universe is telling her to quit her job. We got another take away ;)

Crawfish! Sucking heads! At Channing Tatum's restaurant! Spicy!

The big night out was Saturday, which was actually Halloween night. With its reputation for voodoo and hauntings, New Orleans is like a living Halloween backdrop. So we all summoned our inner dead, slashed up some perfectly good thrift store dresses, shellacked some makeup on our faces, doused ourselves in blood, and got zombied.

Just as we were about to head out, Joanna went to check on her truck and IT WAS GONE. Towed. From the corner. We hopped an Uber and tried to act normal at the tow company. 

Just another zombie getting her car from the impound. So normal.

We dragged our asses up and down Bourbon Street, fumbling into a bars whose names had something to do with a cat because UK, and ended up in a karaoke bar. In case you don't know her, Magnolia is a karaoke goddess. We got her on the list, rolled her little scooter through a crowd of people to get to the stage, and her and Leiah busted out a rendition of Me & Bobby McGee that made all us cowards die of jealousy.

It rained a lot, but somehow we managed to bar hop between downpours. And when it was just drizzly, it made our costumes even better. Then we used Leiah's veil to relive the trauma Shannon and I caused her as a child when we'd bring out THE GUARDS when she wouldn't do what we said. My god, we were assholes. Clever, brilliantly manipulative assholes.

One guy was dressed as Maruchan Ramen and giving out Ramen noodles as part of his costume, so after our big night out, we made some impromptu ramen with fried eggs and fried garlic on top. Exotic drunk California-inspired New Orleans-granted ramen. 

I still don't know how we managed a 3-day weekend with drinking every single day, but we did. Each morning I woke up thinking, I don't know if I can do this again, but a couple Yeungling later and my inner 22-year-old came out. Then we all went out. And we found this... a very handsome outer 22 year old.

I love that Leiah is wearing her FEYONCE shirt.

That weekend in New Orleans, celebrating Leiah and enjoying the extraordinary women she keeps close to her, was one of the best Halloween weekends I've ever had. Perhaps not the best for my organ function, but definitely good for my soul.

Sail away, sail away, sail away

This weekend I left the bay. I doped myself with drugs, climbed aboard Gypsy, told my boat mates "I'm on drugs so I'm not responsible from here on out," and sailed with Mack and Scott to Catalina.

It was awesome.

I was so unsick that I actually went in the cabin to go pee and didn't surface the color of a lime. In fact, I felt great. Sure, I had to take a 5 minute nap every hour, but then I'd be conscious and chatty the rest of the time. I even managed to snap some shots of these showoffs.

The only time things got wishy washy was just as we were coming into Two Harbors, but  Capt. Mack went below and grabbed me another half of Phenergan and the horizon settled down. I think it might have been more related to too much sun that too much sea.

A rare shot of Capt. Mack without his life vest on. That man is WILD AND CRAZY!

Scott radioed in to get us a mooring, saying "This is Gypsy" and "Foxtrot Bravo Something" and it was so cool. I had my first experience coming up on a mooring ball and pulling it up to tie off. While I went below to change into my bathing suit, Scott and Mack threw up some shade and inflated the dinghy, which has a leak. It was all very hard work. For them. I was still on drugs and on activity restriction.

I was so hot that I had no choice but to dive into the turquoise blue water. Scott ended up dropping a pole into the water, which gave me the chance to remember all those days at Plantation Pool going to the bottom of the 20' section. I also got reacquainted with equalizing ear pressure... still works like a charm... and found Scott some Captain Morgan sunglasses at the bottom of the sea.

That night, when we went to bed, I looked out the companion way and saw the boat swaying about 45 degrees. One boat to our right would come into view and then we'd swing and look at one to our left. I laid there, looking at the stars, whipping between these boats, floored that I wasn't barfing my brains out.

The next day was a lazy day of swimming and drinking beer and eating food. I did some snorkeling and found these guys.

Since my sick had been avoided, my crew mates developed some expectations. I threw up some Halloween decorations to create a party atmosphere and won the favor of our neighbors with my festive battery-power lights. Then I found myself being Galley Wench.  An evil Galley Wench who made Mack eat those sardines he'd bought and then abandoned in the pantry but refused to throw out.

Party's here!!

Even Scott is grossed out by those sardines. Look, he's almost barfing. That is a total barf face.

Actually pretty good rum, and not just because it's all ocean inspired and totally designed for sailing.

We enjoyed many Red Stripes and decided to head to town to grab a drink. We inflated the dinghy and rowed about 50 feet to the dock, walked about 100 yards to the bar, and drank about 5 Golfers each. It was all Scott's fault, which is why when we rowed our drunk asses back to the boat, he dangled off the side between the dinghy and Gypsy like a broken puppet while Mack and I pointed and laughed. We treated our neighbors to some ukulele karaoke, devoured some guacamole, and then hit the hay.

The thing about our boat is that the head is really only for pee, and you're really not supposed to pee in it but we're lazy and break the law. When you're 37 and you've been drinking all night and you wake up, your guts go "NOW, GODDAMIT!" And when they are screaming like that, you cannot climb down into a half deflated dinghy, pump it up, and row yourself to the bathroom or you are going to poop your pants. I don't have too many goals in life, but not pooping my pants is one of them. I knew I couldn't ask Mack for help because we cannot talk to him before he says "coffee" so I had to turn to Scott. While I sat in the cockpit giving my quivering sphincter some positive self talk, Scott handled the logistics. Then he rowed me to the dock. He basically saved my life.

We actually had a conversation about what color shirt Scott should wear as part of our daily activities.

The sail home was more painful for the people who don't get to take anti-emetics and speed, but I was fine. I curled up on the top of the cabin, wrapped myself around a tin of Pringles, and watched the waves. We motor-sailed back, because we had the gas and we were too hungover to only go 3 knots, and made it home in about four hours. Next time, I want to go forever.

Thar she goes!

It finally happened. My husband ran away with a Gypsy. 

Mack and Scott sailed the old girl into the will blue yonder on another maiden voyage to Catalina Island. I was invited, but I was chicken/didn't want to barf the whole time and ruin everyone's good time/was trying to avoid getting yelled at if it was rough seas/wanted to let them get one run under their belt before integrating myself into the boat mix.

I woke up really early when they left for the overnight voyage there and back so I could see them off. Also, they are forgetful and left all their cooler goods in the fridge so I brought them to the dock. The seas were glassy, the sky was pink, and as they motored off into the distance, I walked along the beach feeling jealous and excited and scared all at the same time. 

They are that itty bitty speck on the far right. Sailing without sails. 

They had a great, perfectly uneventful trip full of dolphins and beers and blue skies. Scott was kind enough to share this highlight with me. Boys are such show offs.

Mack talked to some colleagues who sail and found a magical puke solution that involves the coma-barf-preventer known as phenergan and the sleep-preventer known as Adderall, which means next time, I'll have no excuses. It's time I sailed off into the sunrise and peed off the edge too!

Cua Lee

I got a new sister! Bubba managed to snag the cutest, tiniest, sweetest Filipina ever made and the two just said I do.

To be a part of the festivities, the Griswolds went international. To the Phillipines this time. Where we rode tiny horses led by tiny guides to the top of a volcano. It was not at all awkward.

The Thomases. Have you ever seen a group who loves getting their photo taken more than this crew?

I know. That poor horse. I'm sorry.

Luckily, Lee had arranged everything for us at a gorgeous hotel so we didn't have to expose too much of ourselves to these delightful tiny people. The wedding, the food, the hair and makeup, the transportation... it was all arranged and accessible through a beautiful resort. We helped Shahin practice swimming and sat on the patio drinking cold beers and chatting with Bubba's army buddies. It was actually a vacation disguised as a wedding. My favorite kind of wedding.

One the big day, we all got gussied up and tried not to let the humidity melt us. The boys wore suits with pink ties and were adorable. Laila wore a long pink bridesmaid dress and was regal. Tom even brought out some dapper, finishing off his look that ageless arm jewelry named Shahin.

The wedding was a little strange. Lovely, but strange. Lee was stunning in her gown, but she was entirely covered by a veil, which made me keep thinking she was being caught in a net. I think it was a Catholic-ish service, but there wasn't kneeling or communion or anything. There was a part where Scott had to put a rope around Lee's and Bubba's necks, which was supposed to be a metaphor for being united but which had strangling undertones. Even with the quirks, it was tender and special and Bubba and Lee got married. And I got a new sister, a cua, if you will.

Look at that proud momma and her distinguished son in uniform.

The reception was just on the other side of the hill overlooking a pond. Bubba's army buddies danced until their shirts were soaked, and because there was music, Shahin, of course, jumped right in with them. Laila and I stood around feeling not at all awkward. Luckily, I'm old enough to drink whiskey, so I got to look busy doing that. 

Lee and Bubba treated us to a video montage of engagement photos and getting ready for the wedding clips. It was hilarious. They did a lot of the same stuff they do in American wedding receptions, but they had an emcee in addition to a DJ. When it came time to toss the bouquet, the emcee said, in an almost robot voice, "Perhaps you have heard of the running of the bulls. Watch out, as now the single ladies will try to catch the bouquet." I don't know why, but that cracked me up. I also cracked up about these giant king and queen chairs for Lee and Bubba to sit in. We also ended up sitting at some head table but we couldn't find our names. I ended up being Lanie and Mack was Bibelots. Bibelots. Hilarious, right?

It has been such a treat to watch Bubba evolve from a teenager into a man. When Mack and I were about a year or two into dating, Bubba came and stayed with us for a few weeks and worked at the cable company with Mack. They both had buzzed heads and worked long, hot days. Bubba was frenetic, hilarious, amped, never stopping. That frequency propelled him to flight school, to Texas for a career as a private pilot, to the Army, to helicopter training, to a fixed wing program, to being stationed in the South Korea and the Philippines. Now that he has Lee, he seems more settled, more at ease, and it is so wonderful to see him so happy. I can't wait to watch him as he evolves into a husband, a dad, a grandpa, and I am so excited to have a new sister to love and laugh with. 

Today.

These things are medicine. Headaches and fear too, but mostly medicine. I love these rotten babies.

Gypsy got a facelift.

You know that sailboat Mack bought while I was out of town? Well, we are broke and Gypsy is gorgeous.

The first thing I decided to do was sew new cushion covers because I had no idea how to sew new cushion covers. I guess the horror of mustard yellow was enough to make me believe I could do it. Let me tell you, these were no ordinary covers. They had to have piping and zippers. And they had to have a pattern that aligned. And there was vinyl. And vinyl piping. And it's a miracle I am alive.

Since I discovered grossness that shouldn't be talked about when pulling out the cushions, I also decided to clean Gypsy's guts from top to bottom and all around in every nook and cranny with a magic eraser and disinfectant. Which is why I now have a lung disease and a new appreciation for flexibility.

Some cushions were just too ewww to cover, like the ones in the V-berth. Those smelled like 20-year-old piss, drunk sweats, and old oysters. I became a coupon hoarder for JoAnn's fabrics and bought new reticulate fancy foam for 40% off and made a new mattress. Then I bought some sheets from target and pinned, sewed, repinned, trimmed, and resewed them, which is a long way of saying "customized." There may or may not be duct tape holding the mattress position, but shut up because look how pretty the top is. And comfy. And smells so nice.

I really wanted to personalize the place with some artwork, so I bought the vinyl octopus legs for the slats (which is sailor talk for door wood). I also found an awesome sailor, an old-timey couple in a sailboat, and a photograph of a half naked Gypsy on Etsy that were perfect for giving the old girl some moxie and sex appeal. And lastly, I framed the letter that the previous owner wrote Mack when he left the boat because it was sweet and dreamy and on a brown paper grocery bag.

All these little touches (along with the cast iron mermaid bottle opener we inherited with the boat) has made Gypsy one of the happiest places on earth. I'm terrified to sail her, but luckily Mack is brave and I can be medicated.

Who doesn't love celebrating baby girls?

I started my nursing orientation with a gal named June a little more than a year ago, and our first real conversation was about her period being late. I casually said, "Are you pregnant?" and her eyes bugged halfway out of her head as though I'd made a sexual joke about Jesus in his presence. Public service announcement: if you're having sex, you can get pregnant. I thought nurses knew that.

Fast forward a year later, and June pulls me into the med room, which is where nurses have all their private conversations, and tells me she is pregnant. June is awesome and sassy and snarky, and even though it wasn't planned, there's no way it wasn't kind of expected. See the PSA above. Then and there, I called dibs on her baby shower.

Well, this weekend was the big event, and because I love big events, I did a mood board for this shower, which was inspired by an otter family and the woods of the Pacific Northwest, which is where June is now living. 

We got a bit of a downpour during the day, but everyone had a good time and can you really bitch about the rain when your state is desperate for water? The games were fun, the food was delicious, the mimosas were bottomless, and the baby was healthy in the belly of a lady who is sure to be an awesome momma.

The girls went inside to hide from the rain. Because we are smart.

And the boys huddled under a patio umbrella. Because they are boys.

Not Exactly Smooth Sailing

I went to Louisiana to visit Amy and Liz over Valentine's Day weekend and when I got home, Mack was in a committed relationship with a 42-year-old lady named Gypsy.

Yep, he bought a boat. A 27' sailboat. Because he loves himself and what better way to spend Valentine's Day than doing some hardcore self love.

I went on the boat the day I got home, and I totally get why he fell for Gypsy – the map table. Sure, the big windows and spacious entry to the cabin and all the nooks and crannies that are like surprise treasures when you find them are cool, but that map table... it just makes you feel like having a peg leg and gravel in your throat would be pretty awesome.

A guy was living on the boat when we took ownership of her, but he got out on Friday and we spent every day this past weekend loving that boat. Mack replaced the bilge while I scrubbed every inch of her.

When we weren't on the boat, there was an undercurrent of "boat, boat, boat, boat" running through our heads. I went to Target for Magic Erasers and $200 later Gypsy got new dishes and towels. Then I went to Joann's Fabrics armed with 50% off coupons and $350 later Gypsy's cushions are getting a much needed facelift. I'm even learning how to sew piping for this girl, thanks to help from my mom, who has also met and approves of Gypsy.

I was perfectly content just to play house, but Mack was all, "We need to get this baby out, see how she handles." We were so anxious and excited about taking her out to sea we didn't really think things through. We barely knew how to get the motor in the water, we sort of knew the sails worked, and we kind of remembered how to get out of the slip. Even with these knowledge gaps, we managed to get out of the marina and into the open water with the sail up. Where we took deep breaths and remembered how awesome sailing is.

About 2 minutes in, someone came over the radio saying, "Clear the area. Gunnery testing. Latitudes 'RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE.' Expect to be annihilated and arrested if you don't turn back now." Okay, I'm not sure if those were the exact words, but the gist was they were shooting things and we weren't sure if they were talking to us. Mack was like, "It's a great day and there's no other boats out, so maybe they are talking to us." And I was like, "No way. They'd never be testing guns this close to the marina and the beach." And then he was like, "Let's get the hell out of here. Drop the sails. I'm motoring in!" And I was like, "Shit! I don't know if I know how. Oh god, I'm going to puke if I don't only look at the sea. We're going to die!" And he was like, "Don't take that tone with me!" And it was terrible and scary and then we were back in the marina, laughing at how stupid we'd been and learning our lesson that we need to freshen up our skills and our radio knowledge.

Just as our heart rates were returning to normal, we turned port to head toward our slip. The wind was at our back, and as we approached our slip, we were going faster than either of us had ever practiced. I told Mack to throw it in reverse to slow us down, but it didn't slow us down. He yelled for me to come steer, I held the tiller and tried to remember that you point it in the opposite direction you want to go and he fiddled with the motor. Then he took the tiller and I revved the reverse and the motor popped OUT OF THE WATER! Luckily, there were some Filipino fishermen on the dock who saw us losing our shit and Mack yelled at them, "Can you help? I've lost control! I'm going to hit the rocks!!" I ran to the front of the boat, swung myself off the railing and onto the dock, and held the boat there. The saviors attached a line to Gypsy, and we dock hopped her back to her slip, coming within inches of hitting other boats but somehow managing to miss them.

When we got her tied up, I laid on the dock and died for a couple minutes.

It turns out that docking the boat with the wind at your back is pretty much the hardest thing you can do in the world. Mack spent last night watching videos and reading other people's horror stories, and we felt some relief that we are not retarded and it happens to everyone at some point. After you experience it, you learn to worry less about your speed and more about getting the nose of the boat in the slip.

I have a feeling this is just the start of the things we're going to learn from this relationship with Gypsy. That woman is a handful.