Travel

You complete me ⁸

Last night, I attempted to book flights for a trip to Seattle in December. I had looked at tickets during the day, pleased to see round trip airfare was around $250 per person–in my experience, anything under $300 for a direct flight from MSP is a pretty good deal. I called Scott at work, and he agreed we would finalize our itinerary once he was home for the evening.

Because the airline gods hate us, by the time Scott made it home ticket prices had increased by over $100 per person. Naturally, this meant I started swearing and throwing things while Scott attempted to talk me down. The conversation went something like this.

ME: Okay…I think we’re just gonna have to bite the bullet and pay a little bit more. According to Bing, there’s an 80 percent chance prices will go up even more if we wait.

SCOTT: How much more will they go up?

ME: I don’t know, Scott. There’s no way to tell exactly.

SCOTT: Well, can’t Travelocity tell you?

ME: No, Travelocity can not tell me how much the price will increase.

SCOTT: Oh, okay…well see if it would be any cheaper to fly in on Wednesday instead of Thursday.

I do as he asks.

SCOTT: There! Look! They still have the flight you wanted. See? It’s right there!

KATRINA: Do you see that number next to it? That’s the price. It’s $127 more than it was a few hours ago.

SCOTT: Oh, okay. Well, if we fly home to Minnesota on a different day, will that make the price for the day we fly to Seattle go down?

ME: No. It doesn’t work that way.

SCOTT: Hmm. Well, why don’t you see if we pick that flight what return flight goes with it.

ME: It doesn’t work that way either. The departing and returning flights aren’t paired with each other. You can pick which ones you want out of all that are available.

SCOTT: Well, if we booked the late night one on Monday, would that open up new flights that are available for us to fly home on Sunday?

ME: NOOOOOO. The options are always the same.

SCOTT: Can we use frequent flier miles?

ME: I looked into that…I have enough, but you don’t.

SCOTT: Can’t we just combine miles from all our different airline accounts into one big account?

ME: Nope.

SCOTT: Well how many miles do we have?

ME: You only have 18,000. I have 36,000. It costs 25,000 to fly to Seattle.

SCOTT: What?! Seattle isn’t 25,000 miles away!

ME: No…that’s how many miles it costs to get a free ticket from Minnesota to Seattle.

SCOTT: Oh…I thought they just charged you the distance of miles it was to the location you wanted to travel to.

ME: I’m gonna check prices on Southwest.

I open up the Southwest website and enter our travel dates and locations.

SCOTT: Hey, that’s a great price! Only 185 bucks…let’s book!

ME: Scott…that’s the price for a one way ticket.

SCOTT: Oh. Can’t you just buy two one way tickets?

ME: Yes, but 185 plus 185 = 370 for round trip. $370 is not a good price. .

SCOTT: Oh. Right. Um…do you want to just drive to Seattle?

ME: No. I do not want to drive from Minnesota to Seattle and back in the middle of winter.

SCOTT: Yeah…good point. Do you think we could find like, a coupon code somewhere? For the plane tickets?

ME: Scott…have you ever booked a flight before?

SCOTT: Umm…no. No I have not.

Scott ended up leaving the room while I booked the tickets myself. I started to grow concerned that I had married someone who doesn’t know how to arrange travel. Then I remembered that up until six months ago, I had no idea how to set the metal tab on the gas pump to fill the tank automatically until Scott demonstrated it step by step. To this day I’ve never mowed a lawn. I’ve only learned how to properly fold clothes and use our remote control because Scott has had the patience to sit me down and show me. As much as it pains me to admit this humiliating fact…I don’t think I even clipped my own fingernails until I was at least 13. Booking airfare is one of my few marketable skills.

So, while we’re each incompetent in our own ways, together we somehow manage to cover all the bases.

Still, I think it’s going to be a long time before I relinquish the reigns of control and let Scott run loose on Travelocity. Much like how he still won’t let me cut my own fingernails.

Kidding.

(Kind of.)

****

Main photo by epSos.de

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Trouble in the nude ⁰

Last Wednesday, Scott and I found ourselves taking a sunset walk with a purpose.

Our mission? To find the nude resort that was rumored to be just ten minutes from the hotel we were staying at in Mexico. Hand in hand, we walked barefoot through the sand until we saw it — a large sign advertising a clothing-optional beach, complete with a warning that cameras were strictly prohibited.

“Look, Scott!” I chirped with excitement, “This is it!”

As you may or may not know, I don’t care about being naked. At the age of seven, I even composed a song with my sister entitled “Everyone is naked beneath their clothes.” Scott likes to give me crap for this until I promptly remind him that he used to make up songs about feces– this instantly eliminates all of his credibility, and I’m free to continue bragging about my songwriting skills.

Scott had never visited a nude beach, but was certainly intrigued when he learned we were just a hop skip and a jump away from dozens of birthday-suited strangers. Naturally, we both decided to crash the resort and take a skinny dip in the Gulf of Mexico, just to say we did.

When we informed his family of our plans, we were met with mixed responses. “It’s just a body,” I explained, “If you think about it, a butt is just like a nose — everybody has one!”

They swiftly explained it wasn’t the butts they were worried about. This was probably for the best as despite being very comfortable in my own skin, a nude romp with the in-laws could end up being more than a little awkward.

*****

As Scott and I crossed the perimeter into clothing optional territory, we noticed the beach was jam-packed with cabanas full of naked people–none of whom were swimming in the ocean. There was quite a bit of seaweed that day, and I can only guess that battling Mexican kelp without a swimsuit could get a little bit…um…sticky.

“I don’t think we should use a cabana, Scott. You probably have to reserve those.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “But look up there at the pool — everybody’s naked in there, too. Want to just go over there?”

Everybody was naked. And there was no seaweed!

“Sure!” I responded a little too excitedly as we climbed the steps up to the private pool area.

Apparently, this was a bad idea.

A very bad idea.

Ten feet away from the entrance to the pool, a man in what looked like a police uniform approached us.

“Excuse me, you two. Are you guests at this resort?”

“Yes.” I lied.

“Well then, where are your bracelets?” he inquired sternly.

Somehow, the plethora of body parts had distracted me from the fact that every single person wasn’t totally naked. Looking around, I began to realize they all had a small black and silver band wrapped loosely around their right wrists.

“I’m sorry sir,” I said in my very best I-didn’t-do-it voice, “I think we…um…left them in our room?”

Scott rolled his eyes. Apparently, I wasn’t very convincing.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t visit the pool unless you are a guest at the resort and have a bracelet. You can walk past on the beach, but this area is private, so you aren’t allowed to stay.”

Our heads hanging in defeat, we retreated. It was looking like we were going to be all talk and no walk in regards to our clothing-optional adventure. And then, just as I was about to give up all hope, Scott had a breakthrough.

“Hey…we could probably go skinny dipping on this part of the beach. Technically, we’re off their property.”

“Pfft.” I chuckled. “Only by, like, three yards.”

“Still,” he continued, “I don’t think there’s anything they can do to stop us once we’re off the premises.”

I realized he was right. I had come all the way to Mexico, and so help me God, I was going to skinny dip in the ocean. Seaweed and all.

And then I realized Scott was wrong.

So very wrong.

Unfortunately, half of my swimsuit had already been untied by the time I made this discovery. (On the bright side, nothing had yet been exposed.)

The guard from earlier, flanked by two of his colleagues, began running towards us and blowing whistles. ”PUBLIC BEACH! No nudity on a PUBLIC BEACH!” was their battle cry.

“Quick!” Scott screeched, “Get your suit tied up! I don’t want to go to Mexican prison!!!”

I did has he told. Judging by what I’ve seen on Locked Up Abroad, I’m sure we would have no problem skinny dipping in Mexican prison. Still, I didn’t want to chance it. I’m smart enough to realized that neither Scott or I would do well in jail. Honestly, I don’t think we could even handle juvey.

Thankfully, security let us off the hook after they saw us walking back to our resort, our swimwear fastened securely in place.

I think there’s a moral to this pathetic and humiliating story: You actually have to pay large sums of money for the right to be naked in Mexico. Who would have thought?

*****

Main photo courtesy of epSos.de

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The long drive home

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Guess where I am right now… ¹

I’ll give you a hint: It starts with an “M” and ends with an “exico”.

Yeah…I never was very subtle.

We’re with Scott’s family in Riviera Maya celebrating two birthdays — Scott’s 30th and his Mom’s 60th!

I’m sure I’ll have a slew of stories to share with you as soon as I’m back –but in the mean time, I wanted to set some vacation goals.

And yes, I absolutely set goals for my vacation.

Because I’m ambitious.

(But mostly because I didn’t really know what else to write about.)

I thought it would be fun to spell my goals out — one for each letter of M-E-X-I-C-O. Creative, right? Okay…maybe it’s not creative. But at 8:00 pm on a Monday evening, it’s all I’ve got.

Aside from a glass of Shiraz that is seriously inhibiting my typing skills.

fjkld;ajfkd;afjd

Told you.

M is for Margaritas

And mojitos. And Merlot. Basically, I’m really thirsty, and plan to capitalize on the all-inclusive aspect of our trip.

E is for Exercise

The goal is to work out every morning. It sets the tone for the day and makes me feel less guilty about escaping the heat of the afternoon sun by pounding cheesecake inside the 24-hour, air-conditioned buffet.

X is for Xylocarp

Bet you didn’t think I’d come up with one for X, did you?

A Xylocarp is a defined as “a fruit, such as a coconut, having a hard woody pericarp”. And a pericarp is defined as “the walls of a ripened ovary or fruit”. Funny, I never knew coconuts even had ovaries. Do you think they also have fallopian tubes?

Anyway, I think if I drink an artificially flavored pina colada, I should be covered in the xylocarp department. Naturally, I’ll ask the bartender to hold the ovaries.

(Side note: If you already knew what xylocarp meant, you’re probably way too smart to be reading this blog. Just saying.)

I is for “I can’t believe she’s actually wearing that”

Take my word for it. The Katrina fashion is going to be ridiculous. Like, I-may-or-may-not-have-bought-a-Carrie-Bradshaw-inspired-turban-at-Nordstrom ridiculous.

I assure you, there will be photos.

C is for confidence

So…I kind of got fat.

Actually, I take that back. One of my pet peeves is when people who are not fat say they are fat. I realize that I am not overweight in the slightest. But I have put on twenty pounds since moving to the land of cheese curds and supper clubs, and my lower half kind of looks like it’s made of tapioca pudding that really likes to dance when I walk.

Sorry for the visual, but I assure you, it’s extremely accurate.

Anyway, I’ve decided I don’t really care. What’s the point of spending all that money on a vacation if you feel self-conscious the whole time, right?

The group exercise studio I teach at has printed out motivational phrases posted all over the walls. One of them is “I’d rather be covered in sweat at the gym than clothes at the beach.” I actually really like that saying, but for this vacation, I’m changing it to the following:

“I’d rather be covered in tapioca at the beach than eating a salad at the snack shack while everyone else orders quesadillas and oh my gosh they smell delicious can I please have just a tiny bite?!?”

Translation? I’m going to rock my love handles.

O is for Octopus

We’re going snorkeling and I desperately want to see one.

As soon as I typed this, I realized that there might not actually be any octopi in Mexico. So, I went ahead Googled it.

I probably shouldn’t have done that as now, I’m positively terrified that I’m going to be eaten Steve Irwin-style bit a giant Mexican squid. Thanks a lot, Google.

On the bright side, I don’t think squid or octopi have a taste for tapioca, so at least there’s that.

*****

As soon as I’m back, I’ll update you on how I did with each of these aspirations.

As long as I’m not eaten by a family of octopi, that is.

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A dramatic reunion ⁹

Last night I returned home to Minnesota after a week at my office in Seattle. I was actually really excited to get back to ‘Sota. Not because I desperately missed Scott or Jolie (I did), not because I dislike my office (I actually love it), and not because I’ve outgrown Seattle–Seattle will always feel like home.

I was excited because Scott and I had been secretly planning something since he dropped me off at the airport shuttle a week prior.

SCOTT: So when do you get home again?

ME: Next Wednesday night.

SCOTT: What time?

ME: Nine o’clock. I was hoping you and Jolie could drive down to the cities after work and then pick me up.

SCOTT: Yeah, that should be fine. Hey…when I pick you up, we should stage a dramatic reunion.

ME: Huh?

SCOTT: You know, like, pretend you’ve been gone a really long time. We could run to meet each other and then there would be lots of hugging and swinging and crying.

ME: Crying?

SCOTT: You could do that part.

This is why I appreciate my husband. He knows how much I love to cause a good scene.

He also loves to pretend. Sometimes we’ll be walking through the supermarket when he suggests we pose as foreigners and start speaking in a different language. The only problem is that we don’t actually speak a different language. This results in Scott rattling off beautifully constructed gibberish sentences in his best Scandinavian accent while I speak the lyrics to the Norwegian folk songs I learned as a child. It’s actually quite amusing until someone who actually speaks Norwegian fluently overhears your fake dialogue and calls your bluff.

Still, it’s a good way to pass time in the cereal aisle.

I was delighted when my plane finally touched down in the Twin Cities. I quickly deboarded, briskly jogged over to baggage claim to pick up my luggage, and stood outside waiting patiently for my long-lost husband whom I hadn’t seen in ~~six days~~ three years. After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, I finally spotted the Toyota we share. While I was away, he had finally switched our old Washington license plates for Minnesota ones, which meant I didn’t realize it was actually our car until I saw Jolie’s nose pressed desperately against the passenger side window.

Scott stopped the car, giving me a look through the windshield that said “Are we really going to go through with this?” I gave a discreet but firm nod. He emerged from the vehicle as I abandoned my bags and broke out into a full on sprint.

Scott played along, sweeping me up into his arms and spinning me around so fast, my iPhone flew from my purse, slamming onto the cold pavement below us. I could use this.

“Leave it!” I cried, “iPhone’s don’t matter right now! I can’t believe it’s really you!” The theater girl in me made sure to use my very best stage voice so everyone within a fifty foot radius could hear the commotion.

After a few more minutes of hugging, kissing, and fake crying, Scott released Jolie from the confines of the vehicle. If someone leaves for more than five minutes, Jolie naturally acts like they’ve been gone for years, so no coaching was required on her part.

I may have taken advantage of this.

And it may have gotten slightly ridiculous

The snuggle pooch firmly in my grasp, I laid myself out flat on the pavement, allowing her to freely kiss my face and bounce happily across my torso while I repeatedly shouted, “I never thought I’d see you again!!!” I also may have attempted to melodramatically whip my hair around until I realized that cement on the back of one’s scalp isn’t all that pleasant, and is probably is a leading cause of split ends.

Over the top? Perhaps. But if I’m going to the trouble of causing a scene, I’m going to really cause a scene.

Eventually, Scott dragged me back up on my feet. I looked around, ready to bask in the glowing reactions of the crowd that had surely gathered to witness our brief little spectacle.

Much to our dismay, we had been performing for an audience of one. A well-dressed elderly woman who appeared to be rolling her eyes.

Still, it was totally worth it. We hopped in the car, picked up a Jimmy John’s sandwich to share, and giggled all the way home. I think its one of those silly little moments we’ll remember forever.