May
8
May 8, 2006
JB is threatening to rescind his good-sportedness if I don’t get that goddamn photo off the front of my website, so without further ado, yay to Kirsten who left the very first comment – you got yourself a new pair of jeans, missy. Most of you had some pretty damn funny captions, but I had to go with the Goonies quote.
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A few months ago JB and I booked a weekend trip to Las Vegas, scheduled for this coming weekend. Each year we try and do a vacation for our anniversary; we’ve done a cruise, visited Phuket, and last year, a trip to Hawaii. We knew we couldn’t spend as much money or time on this year’s getaway, but three nights in Las Vegas sounded pretty good.
It might sound like a weird destination since we don’t drink or gamble, but it’ll be hot and sunny and of course there’s all kinds of entertainment: shows, restaurants, shopping, and just watching the world walk by. I talked JB into making reservations at Mandalay, since I wanted to loll at their poolside and play in that crazy wave-beach. I wanted to check out the shark exhibit again, eat at the House of Blues, motor up to Caesar’s for the goofy Race to Atlantis “ride” I love beyond all reason, go to Hamada for sushi, take pictures of the Bellagio conservatory, and maybe even rent a car to drive through Red Rock Canyon.
I have had this vacation on my mind for weeks and weeks, and even made sure I had a swimsuit that actually fit.
If you would have told me back in January that five days before our flights were to depart Seattle – five days before I had the chance to sleep in, to eat fancy dinners in nice clothing, to hang out with JB without interruption – we would collectively decide to cancel all of it because we didn’t want to be away from Riley? I would have laughed until I peed right down into my shoe.
So…yeah. That’s exactly what we did: cancelled everything.
Part of me thinks we’re being stupid as all hell. This was a chance to set aside our parental responsibilities for a few schedule-free days of pure selfishness, and hang out as husband and wife and not just charter members of Team Riley. There were going to be sunburns, and virgin daiquiris, and playing Spot the Guy Here For a Tradeshow Who Just Bought His First Hooker. There was going to be staying up past 10 PM.
I swear I would have leaped at the chance a few months ago – I would have clicked my heels, thrust our precious child in the arms of whoever happened to be standing nearby, and made a fucking beeline for that plane. It’s not that I loved him any differently than I do now, it’s not even that he was more difficult or challenging. It’s that he is so incredibly plugged in right now; he’s so curious and aware and fascinated. He’s wonderful to watch, but he’s also watching us. He’s so much more aware of everything, and leaving him for three days just seemed…ah, I don’t know. It seemed fucked up. We felt fucked up about it.
Instead of the Vegas trip, we’re going to drive to Port Angeles, get Riley settled with my family, and take a ferry to Victoria. We’re going to stay one night at the foofy Empress hotel in a harborview room, order room service, swim in the hotel’s pool, cruise around Victoria, and then come back.
It seems like a good compromise.
It’s funny, though. So many of the changes we’ve had to adjust to since Riley’s birth are sort of forced upon us: waking up at 6 AM, say, or never going out to movies, or taking two weeks to read a 200-page novel. I’m a little sad that the timing isn’t right for us to take the original vacation, but I’m also weirdly reassured that even when we’re given the option to put all the tiresome parenting stuff aside for a little while, we’re on the same page, we choose the same thing.
And hey, Vegas isn’t going anywhere. Next time, baby.
May
8
Well, the thing about promising that you will post some kind of contest (see prior entry) in order to give away a pair of jeans is this: you have to actually think of a contest. Plus, you get people all up in your grill about how they could use a free pair of jeans, HELLO, what are they, chopped liver? And you have to be all, girl you be the finest chopped liver I know, you’re some a that creamy foie gras shit, but I still got to post this contest.
I asked JB to help me come up with a contest idea that didn’t involve trivia, google searching, or being online at precisely whatever-the-hell-thirty, and he said “Well, why don’t you do like Maxim and ask people to caption a photo.” I said that sounded fine to me, but what kind of photo?
He shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
So I thought of this one:
Heh.
Okay then! If you want to be in the running for a pair of Cruel Girl Bailey jeans, size 13, then post your best caption idea in the comments section. Contest is over when I say so. Winner is picked by me, using whatever the hell criteria I want. Don’t forget to include your email info.
I would close this entry with a baby picture as usual, but just for right now I think we should, ahhhh, avoid considering any visible family resemblance.
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