Destination Unknown

The term honeymoon apparently originated because friends and family were supposed to supply the newlywed couple with enough mead to last their "sweetest period" - which was estimated to be about a month.

Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe it was the wine making them sweet, and that if the couple kept drinking, maybe they'd also keep up the good times? Could we impact the divorce rate by subscribing newlyweds to the wine of the month club?

It's not that I wouldn't mind being showered with wine by our kith and kin - lovely vintages selected by Sean's parents, "flavoured" wines found in the 'party' section with a sugar content higher than alcoholic content donated by my sisters, random bottles lovingly given to my non-wine-drinking mother as end of the school year gifts from students regifted and probably still with original wrapping (and gift tag!) attached, and of course the cheap boxes of whatever was on the aisle and grabbed hurriedly by my broke and disorganized friends (sound familiar, Kate?) - it's just that my work (if not my liver) would probably object to this stewed state lasting literally until the moon had done its cycle.

The post-wedding vacation that we're craving might turn out to be almost as long anyway. We want to "do" Europe, as they say, and to do it well, we're going to need more than just a few days. But we're also going to need sunnier skies and more clement weather than February usually provides. So we're postponing it until summer and sunshine, knowing full well that it will more crowded and more expensive and more aggravating. But more us.

However, never the types to pass up an excuse to vacation, we're planning a February honeymoon ANYWAY. The kind with sunburns and sand and salllllllllty margaritas.

And king size beds.

But where is this?

Not the Dominican Republic, this much we know.
(I was married there in another life)

Probably not Mexico, or the Bahamas either, since I travelled to both those countries in 2010 and though beautiful, I like to expose my passport to new and interesting stamps.

So where does that leave us?

Pitch us your honeymoon! Tell us where to go! Where have you been? What did you love? What do you hear good things about?

Pick our honeymoon, and we'll be sure to send a postcard.

Peace By Piece

This weekend really ended well for having started out with sobbing. Big, fat, uncontrollable sobbing.


Friday was the anniversary of Rory's death. This is not the kind of anniversary you celebrate, just...mark. And to mark it, because I had to, because it has certainly marked me, I wanted to visit her grave. In theory.


In reality, to visit her grave, I'd have to also drive by the place on the road where she died. Where her blood soaked into the ground and now fertilizes weeds. Where she spent her last conscious moments.


At home I have gotten to the good place where I remember the good times, and smile about them. I can look at photos without dissolving into tears. At the cemetery I can think of her "resting peacefully", or elegantly disintegrating back into the earth, dust to dust. That's nice.

But driving by that spot, THAT SPOT, with the underwhelming marker that doesn't convey one ounce of her preciousness, the corpses of flowers dead almost as long as she...I come undone. Rory's legal death happened almost 48 hours after her accident, in a hospital bed, surrounded by unbelieving relatives, and me. But her life ended on the pavement. And that spot makes me dwell on those last moments, whether the last thing she saw was the road as it rushed toward her, panic filling her lungs, and then terror, and then dark. Or did she lie there feeling the life rush out of her, regretting, already missing her daughter, feeling the pain of crushed bones and organs and dreams?

So I didn't go.

Instead, I was kind to myself. I took a rare night off work. I drank in sunshine and good conversation, and yes, daiquiris. Mango daiquiris! Banana-strawberry daiquiris! Between those and the gellato (lychee and cantaloupe), I've had enough servings of fruit for the week!

We walked for miles and miles, sweaty hand in sweaty hand, just to see what we could see. The flats I wore gave me 9 blisters (my feet were made for heels) and really earned the humongous steaks we ordered for dinner, along with a sharing platter that held the most beautiful black olive tapenade and smoked salmon that could turn a doubter into a believer.

We went to the drive-in, passing by the house that Rory last called her home, and I felt fine. Finer than fine. I was good.

We a saw a truly terrible movie (The Expendables), followed by a pretty forgettable one (The Switch). And we didn't mind because we sat together in the back seat and acted like obnoxious 10th graders. It was divine.


We slept sumptuously, our concave little bodies cradling each other, and woke up smiling. Maybe we knew that good news was on its way: my sister is engaged. Yes, another one. That's 3 out of 4 sisters, in case you're keeping tally. My mother wants to throw up (from happiness, I'm sure. I know I've thrown up from happiness many times before. Of course, as far as I'm concerned, "happiness" and "champagne" are interchangeable.)

And now I'm back at work, a 13 hour shift, the first of 12. It sounds a bit brutal, but I am recharged. And, in the likely event that my batteries don't last the entire stretch of work, I've also got my eye on the next great weekend:

I'm booking a weekend at a thrillingly expensive couples-only resort (and trying not to work out in my mind the number of hours I'll have to work to pay for it), treating myself and my honey to a private spa villa that has a fireside jacuzzi, a sauna, a calming 4-headed rain forest walk-in shower, a bed big enough for our imaginations, 5-star room service, a masseuse who will come to the room, and enough space to grow my heart and be at peace. Really, really at peace.

I'm Still Here.

Wow, it's been a while.
Here we are in the Bahamas, and yes, we did come back.
We came back engaged!
(That ring on my finger, though beloved, was replaced by a diamond that was waiting for me when we got back).
He got down on one knee on the beach, at midnight, on our 6 month anniversary.
It was perfect.


We have 2 pups: Herbie is amazing, as always, and Gertie is his constant companion. They love the dog park, the cottage, bacon, and each other.

I got divorced!
Sean, conveniently, is a lawyer, and infinitely patient.

So now we're planning a wedding (for February) but not before my little sister plans hers first!
Perhaps not surprisingly, it's her wedding that has me all emotional.
Suddenly, she is a woman, in love, beautiful, and ready to start a family.
I feel old.
But also blessed, and excited.

And tomorrow marks the 1 year anniversary of Rory's passing.
Grief has changed me. Life has changed me.


I will miss her always.
I remember her laugh, her fingernails, the way she pulled on a beer, the dizzying feeling of embarking on an adventure together.
I remember the day she got engaged and barely took the time to say yes before she called me up and demanded my services as maid of honour.
The wedding never happened, but now, planning mine, I feel her loss keenly.
I bought my wedding dress by myself because I knew that anyone else's presence would just highlight Rory's absence.
I know that she would be happy for me, and I know that I am absurdly happy for myself, and I know that happiness multiplies, and I feel that, every day.

Against Medical Advice

The doctor assures me that Monday's surgery will go very well and that recovery, though lengthy and painful, shouldn't have any complications as long as I take it easy, keep my stitches dry, stay away from the sun to prevent scarring and don't risk infection by exposing the incision to the germs in hot tubs or swimming pools.

I'm going to the Bahamas on Friday.

Clean up in aisle 69.

Standing in the express lane at the grocery store, I wonder if the cashier will realize that all my items are foods I intend to lick off of someone's penis.