Remodeling Our Marriage

So Matt and I recently bought another investment house to rent/sell. All part of Matt's plan to not have us broke and surrounded by flip flops - as is my current plan. We bought this big foreclosure a few weeks ago and Matt has been working hard remodeling it. Keep in mind, this is in addition to his normal financial advisor job. It's funny because he'll put on a suit and talk earnestly about retirement and such and then come home, scarf down some food and change into work clothes and spend late hours into the night pulling carpet, painting, fixing things, laying tile, whatever.

We're currently in the tile portion of the house remodel and let me tell you something - there are fewer things less fun than laying tile.

A week or two ago we were talking to Matt's parents about working on the house and Matt's dad made a joke about it bonding the two of us together.

I looked around at our 4 kids, half of whom were screaming/fighting and dryly stated that if we weren't bonded after almost 14 years of marriage and 4 kids then there's really no hope for us.

Anyway, our marital bonding is well under way, with the carpet removal, painting, and much of the cleaning done. Along the way were such marriage-boosting moments, such as:

"Hey, did you have a seizure today?"
"Um, no. Why?"
"Oh, no reason. I was just looking at the bathroom you painted earlier..."

I have to say, I have been a surprisingly big help to Matt throughout this process. Sure, there have been a few mishaps. One evening, I was vacuuming up the baseboard before he painted and he gestured to me in a vague direction so I vacuumed the nearest baseboard. Sure, I wondered why the brush on the end of the shopvac hose was turning white but I've never been one to need answers to life's mysteries. Plus, the look on Matt's face after he realized I was vacuuming a baseboard that he just finished painting was pretty funny.

And then there was the time I scrubbed (SCRUBBED) years-old caked dirt and urine on a toilet, only to realize after 20 minutes of hard scrubbing that there was a plastic wrapper on the pumice stick I was using.

Yes indeed.

Let's face it, I'm not a perfect person. I have no idea how to wear lipstick without looking like a hooker and I judge people by their grammar and books by their covers all the time.

So the past week we've been tiling. Which has got to be the worst job so far, which is saying something coming from a person who broke a sweat scrubbing a toilet through the wrapper of a pumice stick.

The worst part is that when we tell people we have a night of laying tile planned, it's not a euphemism for something more fun. We're literally just laying tile.

Tiling requires, like, 200 steps. It's all very specific. For instance, a couple days ago I go with Matt to the house to wipe off the grout haze (a phrase I am, unfortunately, not making up). I squeeze out my sponge and am just about ready to start wiping it off when Matt tells me, "Ok, so you basically want to divide your sponge into quadrants. Use each quadrant only once, being careful not to get any water on the grout, and make sure you rinse the sponge after each quadrant is used. You really need to wring the sponge out so it's almost bone dry."

*At the start of this speech on technically sponging, my eyes begin to glaze over like ceramic tiles.*

After a little while, Matt checks in on me.

"Are you using the quadrants?"

"No. I actually found a very efficient method of sponging which entails dividing the sponge into parallelograms. I've also multiplied my sponge field by the square root of pi. I think you'll find the results geometrically pleasing..."

Our exercise in good marriage practices has been further hampered by our smart phones. Instead of insulting each other with good ol' fashioned talking, like in the days of yore, we're using our phones.

"Ok, Google Now, please inform my wife that our 9 year old is more skilled in tilework."

"Siri, kindly inform my husband to get a life."

"Ok, Google Now, send a text to my wife and tell her to go jump in the retention pond."

"Siri, please tell my husband exactly what he can do with that putty knife..."


We are, of course, expecting a book deal for our marriage ideas any day now.

Grief and Bikini Waxes

Recently, a terrible thing happened to a loved one. What makes it even harder is that she lives far away so I had nothing to give her but kind words and flowers. Some people are naturally thoughtful. They instinctively seem to know exactly what to say and do to make bad situations better.

Me? Not so much. I do realize that it's better to make a phone call, even if you have nothing helpful to say, than to say nothing at all. So I called this person and told her how sorry I was and how I wished I was there to help. It eventually turned into her telling me that I could help by telling her funny stories. Which is far easier for me than staring at a sympathy card, brows furrowed in thought, pen poised to write.

I told her that sometime I would tell her this particular story to cheer her up, one that Matt has reminded me time and time again not to put on my blog, no matter what. 

The keyword there is my blog.

Now if Matt wants to write a blog about - oh, I don't know - drumming or car maintenance or home remodeling or investment funds with random numbers for names, he's free to do so.

The way I see it, the joy people get from laughing at my stupidity is something that should be shared. I may not be able to write an emotional poem or craft you something personal with my hands, but I sure can tell you a story about something unbelievably dumb that I did.

Bikini Wax at Home: It Sounded Good in my Head

A couple years ago I was turning 30. It wasn't a big deal to me at all, in fact I quite looked forward to the start of a new decade. The problem with hitting a significant age, it sometimes clouds your judgement. We've all seen the effects of a mid-life crisis, whether it's dating someone who could realistically be your kid or buying a sports car that you have no business driving or injecting chemicals into your face that give the effect of continuously looking like you've been just stung by a bee.

As I was nearing by birthday, the thought popped into my head that I should do something super adulty and womanish. So I grabbed an at-home bikini wax kit.

I made a bad decision worse by deciding to do it actually on my birthday - a symbolic gesture to usher in my 30's.

The icing on the cake of this whole debacle is that Noah was with me. Matt had taken the older kids someone, possibly to give me some time at home or to run an errand. Time has erased many of the details. So I had Noah with me and, as it turns out, we share the same birthday so his first birthday was probably somewhat of a disappointment for him, what with how I was celebrating.

I went into the bathroom and began the process, so full of anticipation. I carefully heated up the wax and applied it ever so gently, while Noah quietly played with toys on the bathroom floor.

This is the part in the story where foreboding music would be playing if I were acting this out (and you can thank your lucky stars that I'm not).

As I was sitting on the edge of the tub, waiting for the timer to go off, I leaned down. Possibly to check my toenail polish. I'm not sure why I did it.

Then I tried to sit back up and realized I was stuck. The wax had melded to my stomach fat when I was folded over.

At the same time panic was beginning to set in, Noah begins to fuss. Then scream.

I start to sweat with stress, still hunched over in the bathtub, my lower tummy inexorably connected to my lady bits.

So I did the only thing I could do.

I shuffled to the kitchen. Naked. Hunched over. Past all the glass windows and doors in the front of our house.

I shuffled back to the bathroom and began stuffing Ritz crackers into Noah's mouth like a parrot. Once he was quiet, I began to think of a solution to my problem. I tried to scrub it off using the only things I had close by, which were the kids soap and shampoo. Which only succeeded in adding a thick layer of foam over the huge waxen blog. At this point, Noah is trying to climb up on my lap to be held so I fend him off by singing.

There I am, rubbing various liquids on myself while singing "Five Little Speckled Frogs."

I can't get this stuff off - darn you and your high quality waxing products, Sally Hansen!

So I had to shuffle to the computer to Google the solution. All the way on the other side of the house. Naked, hunched over, dripping soap, past all the glass.

The solution was baby oil - which was the only silver lining to trying an at-home wax kit with a one year old. I just happened to have some on hand.

Otherwise, I would've had to call Matt.

Me: "Hey, can you stop and get me some baby oil on your way home?"

Matt: "Baby oil? Why?"

Me: "Oh, no reason. Sometimes the heart just wants what it wants. Haha."

Matt: "Now I'm suspicious."

Me: "Fine! Ok! I tried to wax my bikini line and bent over in the bathtub and now my stomach is stuck to my privates and I've fed Noah like 200 crackers to keep him quiet and there's soap all over the floor and I'm afraid the wax has been on so long that my skin has burned off."

Matt: "I'm sorry, what?"


So that was my 30th birthday and Noah's 1st. It is a memorable birthday because it's not often one has adhesive material on one's private areas and hardly ever on one's birthday as well. This year I'll probably just paint my toenails in celebration of my birthday. Fully clothed, that is.

The Days All End in Tears

Matt and I took the kids to Stone Mountain Park in GA last week and had a great time.

After we did the activities in the park, we took the cable car up to the main attraction at Stone Mountain Park, which is - wait for it - a mountain made of stone.

The kids were running around and Matt and I were talking when I spotted this guy not far from us. He had on athletic shorts (with a hand towel tucked into the waistband) and no shirt on. And he was holding a jump rope. He paced for awhile, holding the jump rope. I could tell he was fighting an internal battle whether to jump rope or not. Because who, on God's green Earth, exercises in such a spectacular location without someone else to record it to post on social media? What's the use of jumping rope on top of a mountain if Instagram will never see it?

So I was half listening to Matt while keeping an eye on this guy, ready to snap a picture when he did start jumping because it was just so funny to me.

*interrupts Matt's talking about financial stuff*

"Oh, wait! It's happening!"

Ok, you can't really see him. He only jumped for about 10 seconds, disheartened, I'm sure, by the fact that he was doing this really cool thing for no other reason than that it was good for him and enjoyable to do.

Had I thought of it, I would've offered to take a picture of him with his cell phone. Then he could post and add a bunch of hashtags: #jumprope #onamountain #sunshine #exercisepostoritdoesn'tcount

Because everyone knows that you have to post your workout for likes and comments or it's wasted. Poor guy.

On the way home with 2 3-year-olds who had missed naps, Matt and I again expressed our desire to one day buy a limo with a soundproof barrier behind the front seats as our family car.

Oh the crying and arguing.

Noah is especially potent when he's tired. He's so illogical it's hard not to laugh. I feel like I'm on a police jumper squad, trying to soothe a dangerous person.

(As I put him into his bed for a nap):

Noah, screaming, crying: "This is not my room! This is Katie's room! (Here he holds up his stuffed salmon). This is not my salmon!"

Me: "Of course not. You don't even like salmon."

Noah bursts into fresh tears, frustrated by the fact that I'm agreeing with him when he wants to argue.

Noah, screaming: "I'm going to turn into a giant and carry you out of the house!"

Me: "That's nice of you."

Noah: "It's not nice, it's mean!"

He turns away from me and cries for a minute.

Then he pulls the blanket over him and says softly "Mama, I want you to hold me."

Another crisis averted.

Jello Shots and Blogging Etiquette

It's been almost a month since my last post.

Bad blogger.

The first couple weeks after Hawaii I just didn't feel like writing anything. Perhaps it was the joy of being reunited with my children after our vacation...or not. Then I ran a 15k and wanted to write about that but it involved a Jello shot and so it didn't feel right to blog about that close to Easter.

Believe me, I've tried to write deep, soulful posts but it just doesn't seem to be my thing. Which is completely surprising for such a deep, soulful person such as myself.

But Easter is over so now I can freely write about Jello shots.

One recent Saturday I ran a local 15k race (which is 9.something miles for you uneducated Americans). It was absolutely beautiful weather. I saw some funny race signs along the way, including "Chuck Norris never ran a 15k" and "You think this is hard, you should try growing out bangs" and my new favorite, which is: Kanye thinks that Beyonce deserves your medal. 

                               

Lots of people cheering us on and handing out treats, including a guy making scrambled eggs and sausages and passing them out in little cups and on toothpicks. Then I saw a guy handing out little plastic condiment containers of Jello.

I love Jello. It's cool and delicious and fun. As I was running closer and contemplating whether or not I should grab one, the woman next to me exclaimed "Hell yeah!" and grabbed a container.

Finally, another adult who appreciates Jello as much as I do.

With that encouragement, I picked a blue one and slurped it as I ran.

It had that bitter, vodka-ish taste. Holy cow, was this a Jello shot? Soon after, I fervently hoped that my legs would continue to run for me because I cannot handle my alcohol. And especially vodka, which tastes the way rubbing alcohol smells.

So I had my first Jello shot was when I was 32 years old, at 9 am, while running. Despite the opportunity, I did not have any Jello shots during college. In fact, I was the designated driver when my friends and I would go to parties.

"What?" you say, "but you're so cool and hip."

Which is true but not in a frat party kind of way. Getting drunk wasn't my idea of a good time and neither was smoking pot, both of which seemed to turn perfectly fine people into morons.  I also didn't want my friends to be faced with drunk driving at the end of the night. I had seen those after-school public service commercials and they were chilling. Cars colliding, tires screeching, side ponytails all askew.

I remember one party in particular. I had climbed into a car with my roommate and another friend or two and we drove to a frat party.

Spoiler alert: Frat parties aren't nearly as fun as movies make them out to be. Since I wasn't having the supposedly wonderful activity of getting hammered inside, I sipped a cup of water out on the deck and watched a spider spin a web. After a while, a guy came up to me and we started talking about spiders and their webs.

With hindsight, I realize that he was flirting with me but I didn't know it then. Finally, I thought, another person who appreciates the majestic art of nature. You'll notice that me assuming people appreciate the same things as I do is a trait I've always had, whether it be spider webs or Jello or Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Anyway, after my friends were sufficiently tipsy, we drove home.

Along with assuming things, I am also not very observant. I had failed to notice that the car we drove there was a stick shift and now I was expected to drive home.

I had never driven a stick shift before. Or even had ever really thought about them.

It was a tiny car, a hatchback Geo Metro. The size of the postage stamp. We had also somehow acquired a few more people so there were like 5 people in the back and 3 in front, including me and some guy who was pretty much sitting on the stick shift.

There I sat, completely sober, in a clown car crammed with intoxicated teenagers, trying to figure out what to do. Nobody was of much help to me, what with them not really remembering who they were at the moment. It was also a very hilly college town, which made for some rather reckless shifting on my part.

I don't really know how we got home without stalling or getting into an accident or being pulled over. Me sober trying to drive a stick shift was really not much better than a trashed teen who has the knowledge base.

Long story, well, long, that was the story of my first Jello shot.

.

Maui: The Last of It

Well, this is the end. Of the Hawaii recap, that is. We really enjoyed our trip and when people ask us what the best part was, we answer "Not having the kids." And the feeling was mutual. Of the four kids, only Katie missed us. Her tender-hearted little self would burst into tears if anyone even mentioned the words "Mommy and Daddy." Jack could barely pull himself away from the pantry of sugary treats to speak on the phone to us and right after we came home, Noah asked when we were going back to Hawaii so he could go back to Grandma and Grandpa's.

Hawaii was stunning but we're not sure we'd go back. Maybe if the kids want to when they're teenagers or something. The wild parts of Maui were so much fun to drive through and explore but driving through the towns looked about like many Florida beach towns. There's just so many other places in the world I want to go: Rome, Greece, Madagascar, Indonesia, the parts of Mexico in which I won't get shot, etc.

But it is beautiful and I'm so very glad Matt and I got to spend a week there together. On the last day, we walked around the resort for the last time and checked out of our room. That was noon and our flight wasn't until about 5 so we settled in some lobby chairs for a little reading time. Soon after, we got a text update from the travel company to say that our flight was delayed until 8pm. An hour later, it was 9:45 pm. Soon, midnight.

To say that we were panicking would be an understatement. We had no hotel room, our rental car was due back later that day and we were already tired, looking forward to 11 hours of flying. Plus, we knew that if we were much later, the grandparents would be dropping the kids off at our house whether we were back or not. When that flight was then pushed even further, until 1 pm the next day, we called the airline.

"No, no, " they said, "we moved you to a different airline and you're confirmed on the 9:20 pm flight tonight."

That was a relief but I strongly suspected that Matt's dad had called the airline upon hearing the delay - "You get those two on a flight today or so help me..."

We drove around Maui, had fish tacos at a famous local restaurant, and went to the newly opened Target. It's the first one there and people were going crazy. It was like black Friday. (The big kids laughed when I told them how crowded Target was. They can't imagine a world without Target. And really, neither can I).

I was chatting with an employee and she apologized for the weather (which was rainy that morning) and for us not being able to spend a lot of time on the beach. I told her it was ok, we were from Florida so there's lots of sun there and we have a pool to swim in. She said "You have a pool at your house?" with her mouth gaping open. Come to think of it, I didn't see any personal pools in Maui. Perhaps it's uber expensive what with land being at a premium. It's all sinkholes where we come from, lady.

A curious thing about Hawaii: Lots of tattoos of their state. I saw them on men and women - on necks, on wrists, and, unfortunately, on the chests of some women. Because nothing's classier than a chest tattoo on a lady.

Can you imagine getting a tattoo of, say, Wyoming?

"Did you bring a picture of what you want?"

"Nah, just draw a square."

Also, lots of anchor tattoos. Some with the odd saying "I refuse to sink" in flowery script. 

Isn't that the point of anchors? To sink?

Why not a drawing of arm floaties instead, artfully tatted on your ankle or bicep? That would really make much more sense.

I refuse to sink

Anyway, we got on our flight later that night and Matt and I popped a couple motion sickness pills before the flight so we would sleep. Here's the thing about sleeping on planes - I'm terrible at it. So I have to take something. Here's the thing about me taking sedating medication - I'm terrible at it. It affects me within minutes and I'm slurring my words. It's a crapshoot either way.

The entire flight, Matt sat in his chair, arms resting lightly at his sides, eyes closed in peaceful slumber. I'm sprawled out on my chair and the (thankfully) empty chair next to me. On my side with my hair in the aisle and my legs curled up on Matt's lap, on my back with one leg bent over Matt's chest and the other draped over his knees. I forgot to put on my seatbelt and the attendant tapped me awake and I came to violently, crying "What? What is it?" 

We had a layover in San Francisco and I sprawled out on the bench, facedown to sleep. I can really only sleep well one way: on my stomach with my arms and legs bent like a swastika. It sounds like the beginnings of a sacrificial burning, I know. Even after about 7 hours, the meds were still affecting me during our last leg. Matt and I were in different rows due to the switch and I was in the middle of my three seat row. Not long after taking off, I apparently dozed off a bit. 

You know when you start to sleep and your muscles sometimes jerk? There was that going on, plus the sedative meds, plus my restless leg syndrome. 

My left leg jerked violently and kicked the guy next to me.

"Oops, sorry about that. I'm heavily medicated with one motion sickness pill. Legs do that sometimes. Well, you know what I mean, you have two."

Also on that flight were two young guys behind me. Conversing loudly in that slightly arrogant way that young 20-something guys are prone to do. Here is a smattering of topics covered in a roughly 20 minute time:

*The Theory of Relativity

*Women They've Slept With 

*Best Bread for Reuben Sandwiches

It was like a strange game of Jeopardy - "What is busty blondes?" "What is pumpernickel?'

I would've jumped in at the Theory of Relativity but I had only read one chapter of that book.

Fine. Half a chapter.

We finally got home and it was so good to see the kids and our parents and our home again. We brought cheap souvenirs for the kids (including the Matt's free lei from the hotel for Jack and the rest of my travel applesauce for the toddlers). I was going to get them Hawaiian shirts but they wouldn't appreciate the $40 each they would cost. I did seriously consider buying a couple from Ebay to be at our house when we got back. Maybe Gymboree is Hawaiian for something. They wouldn't know.

Thanks for the Hawaii souvenirs, Mom! You're the best!

We are VERY fortunate to have both sets of grandparents nearby. I didn't have that growing up and envied those who did so I'm happy my kids get to experience that. They took good care of our kids. Maybe too good.  Matt's parents and my mom came over the night we got back and here's how the conversation went concerning the week at their houses:

Matt's Dad: "They got to leave the table and come back again for their food."

Matt's Mom: "They had dessert without finishing their dinners."
 My Mom: "We had ice cream for dinner."

Oh, c'mon! Needless to say, the next day was a bit of detox. Withdrawal, even. Back to math and oatmeal and joyless children.

So that, in a very big nutshell, is our first Edward Jones trip. Aloha! Now, I've got to get back to washing my own towels and nagging my kids. They're so happy we're back.

Maui: Rugs, Car Sickness, and Snorkels

Next is a picture-heavy, not-very-funny post about our week in Hawaii.

First of all, this hotel.

Both of these are taken from the lobby. It's open air and huge. There are all sorts of reading nooks and plants. There are a few pools and a hammock, which is where I spent some enjoyable afternoons, reading Mary Roach's Gulp.

Notice, if you will, that I am wearing shorts. It was in the 70's the week we were in Hawaii, maybe a couple days in the low 80's. Pretty much the exact weather in Florida. Many of the people in our group asked why we were even in Hawaii. Certainly not to escape a dismal winter - more to see the area. It was cloudy and rainy about half the time we were there. We felt bad for the people in our group who planned to sunbathe all day every day. Matt and I donned our swimsuits once, to go snorkeling in chilly waters. It was almost painful for us, watching people on the beach and around the pool, stripped down to swimsuits in 75 degree sun. Desperate Minnesotans and New Yorkers, trying to soak up as much warmth as they could.

There was a funny thing about the hotel elevators. Every single one of them had these rugs in it:

Three times a day, they were changed to say "Good Morning, Good Afternoon, or Good Evening." That's right. Three times a day, the rugs were changed. It is actually someone's job to change out the rugs. And really, Carpet Relocation Specialist sounds pretty good on a resume.


On our second morning there, we got up at 3 am to watch the sunrise over the Haleakala Volcano. It was stunning.

Yup, a 2 hour drive for that. Good times. Later that day we drove to another town and took a selfie along the coast. Because we're cool like that.

That night we had a luau for the company. The picture of the dancers is mostly the backs of audience members, but you get the general idea.

During the trip, we took a day and drove the famous "Road to Hana." It's a road with hairpin turns, often narrowing down over bridges to one-way roads. It rained all morning we drove and there were several trees down in the road which backed up traffic. We didn't stop at any of the places I had written down to stop (banana bread, coconut candy, smoothies - it was all food, really).  It was a joke among those who had been to Maui to tell the newcomers that it's a great idea to throw your kids in the back of the car and take the drive. As we drove it, I could see why that would be difficult. We would've been cleaning that morning's breakfast out of the rental car.

Around the town of Hana, the sun came out and we decided to travel the rest of the road around the volcano, a road sometimes not recommended for being unpaved and difficult.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. Easily the best drive we've ever taken (and Matt having driven across the country a few times). We stopped at a state park and hiked half way through the drive. The funny thing is, I had spur of the moment decided to put on makeup that morning. I had planned to wear makeup every day of the vacation just to jazz things up. I had, of course, forgotten all about my new plan until Friday, 5 days into our 7 day trip. Anyway, I got really sweaty hiking in the rainforest and absentmindedly wiped sweat out of my eye with my shirt and got mascara all over my shirt. This is why I don't wear makeup!

I told Matt in indignation "Look, the graffiti isn't even correct!" And then as we got closer, I saw that someone had corrected it. A person after my own heart. "That makes me feel so much better," I said to Matt in relief. "It shouldn't," he replied, with a look of concern.

We keep on going and there were fewer and fewer cars. We were told that Jurassic Park was filmed on that side of Maui and it's easy to see why that location was chosen. It's a virtually untouched rainforest.  It's probably a sad sign of my generation but my first thought, when I saw the sun shining ribbons of yellow on the ocean and land, was, "This looks like a movie."

This is how crazy close the cliffs were to the road. See that curve? You have to honk your horn and slow way down in case there's a car coming the other way on the narrow road.

Really, State of Hawaii? Where, oh where, has the proper use of adverbs gone?

We stopped at this funky little general store. I got a cheap silver bangle that says "Aloha" and we ate a snack and drank pop on the porch while chatting with other patrons.

This was a local winery. It goes without saying that we popped in for some samples.

Really amazing sculptures of hula dancers. It has a great history, as evidenced by a sign, but all I could think was a chorus of a song: "If you've ever loved somebody, put your hands up..."

Finally, as an end to this long, long post of pictures, our last day in Hawaii we went snorkeling. As I said before, it was hella cold for these Floridians but we still enjoyed it. Matt suggested we hold hands while we snorkeled so we didn't get separated. We were like the Romeo and Juliet of the sea. We saw turtles and angelfish and starfish. It was like being on the set of Finding Nemo. We had some Mai Tais and food on board the ship too and met some lovely people and talked about cardiology, adoption, parenthood, sea mammals. The usual conversation topics of completely normal people. We also saw a pod (a herd? a gaggle?) of dolphins, swim-sleeping (so we were told).

Later that evening, we had the farewell dinner. It's always a little tough, trying to make small talk with a bunch of other people we don't know. You can't ask the usual name and where they live and what they do, because we're all wearing nametags with that information. But by the end of the week we'd made some friends in the group and passed an enjoyable evening. One more post in this vacation series chronicling the way home. I know you're all dying to know what it will be about but I can give you a couple teasers, including the Theory of Relativity and being heavily medicated.

If that doesn't whet your appetite, I don't know what will.

Maui: Getting There is Half the Fun...or Something

Matt and I got home from our week in Maui yesterday. I started collecting books to read on the trip a couple months ahead of time. One of them, a book on physics by Brian Greene, was actually given to Jack but he wants me to read it aloud to him so I figured I'd better get a head start so I don't stumble over the words like an idiot.

The Elegant Universe: Superstrings, Hidden Dimensions, and the Quest for the Ultimate Theory is such an impressive looking book that I thought that perhaps the flight attendants would notice what a cultured and educated person I was and bump us up to first class, assuming that I did not belong in economy. Like a princess in a pigsty.

I gave it my best shot but what I ended up reading was Tina Fey's Bossypants.

Needless to say, we stayed in Economy. Where we belong.

I was out of place anyway because I was not wearing one of the following: leggings and riding boots, socks with flip flops, or stilettos.

At what point in the decision-making process does one think that stilettos are a good choice for travel? Perhaps the 5" heels are for clubbing while the 3" are made for easy wearing? There I was, in my sneakers and yoga pants and I was out of place.

Something has gone terribly wrong when you wear stilettos to a place with moving sidewalks and TSA body scans. Most likely these are the same people who refill their ice cube trays with Evian and insist on hyphenating their children's last names.

During our final flight to Maui, I sat behind a girl of perhaps 14 or 15.

She, of course, took copious amounts of pictures on her cell phone. Often of the clouds from her window. I imagine she posted them to Facebook or Instagram with an absurd amount of hashtags: #Maui #Airplane #Clouds #Heaven #ComplimentarySodas #WearingMyStilettos #YouWishYouWereMe #ThatCloudLooksLikeAnAmaradillo #RunningOutofThingstoSay #StillHashtaggingThough #TinyBathrooms

With four kids at home, even the flight to Maui was enjoyable. I got to drink my pop without someone saying "This is for me?" while drinking it. Matt and I watched a movie on the flight, even though there was considerable white noise from the headphone jack. No matter - we were watching an entire movie! An adult movie!  Matt and I got to talk to each other without interruption. Sure it was uncomfortable at first (So...how's it going? Do you have enough armrest? Say, what does that cloud look like to you?), but we got the hang of it quickly. I imagined the conversations that Jack was having with my Grandma:

J: "What are these medication bottles for?"
G: "High blood pressure."
J: "High blood pressure can kill you. Want me to tell you all the diseases you might get as an old person?"

And then the ones Matt's mom was having with the other three kids:

Marcia: "Do you want graham crackers?
Everyone: "Yes!"

She distributes them and suddenly, a blood-curdling scream.

Marcia: "What?! What happened?
Noah: "Tali took mine!"
Tali: (inaudible high pitched screams in Chingrish)

Kate begins to sob - "My graham cracker broke in half but not on the line!"

I didn't envy them.

Our final flight was delayed four hours so we missed the welcome dinner at the hotel. We were hungry, as airlines have now cut out food service on most flights. Our 8.5 hr flight from Dallas to Maui had not even peanuts although the bathrooms are still as lovely as ever. So there's still that.

Imagine our surprise when there was a note for us at the counter of the hotel from Edward Jones, welcoming us and telling us to order room service that night on them.

Apparently they did this for all of the people from Matt's company on that delayed flight.

Giddy, we called up room service and placed an order.

We never order room service. Ever. And we especially wouldn't at a place that charges $600 for a room.

We were out on the balcony, overlooking the ocean, when our food arrived.

I was wearing a nightie so I told Matt to run and get the food. Nothing crazy, but short and strappy and lacy across the top.

The guy asked if he can set up the food for us and Matt says "Sure, on the balcony."

My eyes bugging out, I push my chair to a darkened corner and cross my arms over my chest.

The guy comes out and flips on the light, exposing my Target slip in harsh florescent colors. He does a small double take at the sight of me but I assume he's seen much worse. People in towels, people in no clothes, people in stilettos settling in for a night of relaxation.

He puts a tablecloth and a little floating Hawaiian flower on the table and sets out our plates. He only brought a butter knife for my filet mignon (filet mignon!) so we had to make sure it would still cut with that. That's right. I had to uncross my arms and cut my steak in front of him.

He got tipped with more than just money that night, I'll tell you that.

The setting of food on the balcony was so lovely I had to take a picture.

I almost took another picture of the food at a better angle but I knew it was a slippery slope from there. It starts with pictures of food and ends with hashtags. Every time.