Thursday, August 13, 2009
Christmas in Cabo - not so merry!
I have no title or intro, and if anybody is so thrilled by this that you want to become a faithful reader (or check out my blog to see if you want to become a faithful reader), you can leave me your e-mail address in the comments or e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send you an invite.
It was Christmas 2003, and my parents had generously offered to take me, my younger sister and David, my boyfriend of three years (now husband) to Cabo San Lucas for Christmas. Who could - or would - turn down an offer like that?
The fact that my sister, who for reasons unknown even to her was upset with me for having broken up with an ex for David, and thus hated him, should have been the first clue that it may have been wise to decline the generous offer.
My father yelling "Amy, don't start with me!" at the airport gate after I misplaced my boarding pass should have been the second clue that we maybe should have taken a cab back home.
But instead we boarded the plane, where we took the stewardess up on her offer to sit in the exit row, which in hindsight was most likely the smartest move we made the entire trip.
Our arrival at Cabo was relatively uneventful. I had already prepped David for the fact that, despite the fact we'd been dating for three years, and living together for two, my parents would NOT be allowing us to share a bed. So all 6'4" of him, along with his bad back, had to spend a week sleeping on the pullout sofa, while my sister and I shared a bed. David wasn't very receptive to this idea, but I told him he had no choice but to shut up and live with it.
The only excursion we'd had planned was a semi-expensive deep sea fishing trip, that everybody except my mom would be going on. My sister, David and I weren't expecting it to be smooth sailing. But we also weren't expecting to spend an hour on extremely choppy waters just trying to get to the destination where we would cast our lines. Oh no, wait, there was no actual destination. We just trolled in the choppy waters at what seemed to be breakneck speeds, after that long ride out.
My sister was the first to spew her guts over the side, about 1/4 of the way in. I managed to hold out longer, but a short nap - which I'd taken in the hopes of quelling the ever growing nausea - did me in. As the Mexican guides laughed at us (and offered us Vicks to either ease the nausea or erase the barf taste from our mouths, I'm still not sure), David lost whatever resolve he'd had left and leaned over the side of the boat.
Unfortunately, David is the ever-typical "Oh my I am SO sick, somebody help me as all I can do is lie on the couch and moan in pain!" man, only times 1000. And that is apparently increased by 1000 when somebody else is puking. So after 30 seconds of actual puking, and 10 minutes of forced dry heaves, he asked my dad to have the boat turned around, when we still had 1/2 of the trip (and not a single fish on the line) left. Needless to say, my father was severely unamused, and David was pissed at me the rest of the day for not backing him up in his request to turn around. And from that day was born his new motto, "I'm not doing anything I don't f***ing want to do."
Later that afternoon, we thought my sister's hatred for David had passed, as we bonded over lunch about the fact that we had no idea that deep sea fishing involved no leisurely cruising on the ocean, enjoying the clear blue skies and the dolphins leaping aside our boat.
But the nausea apparently coddled my sister's brain for only a bit. Later that night, exhausted, David wanted to turn in to bed early. My sister, however, was sitting on the couch, i.e., his bed, watching television. He yawned a lot. He said he was tired. He did his bedroom routine and put on his pajamas. And still my sister sat on the couch. Finally, my mother intervened.
"Jennifer," she said, "I think you need to turn off the tv and let David go to bed."
"Why do I have to stop watching tv just because HE wants to go to bed!" she screamed, slamming down the remote and stomping off to our bedroom.
Where she climbed in to bed and watched the television that was in our room.
The damage was basically done after that. David wasn't speaking to me, my dad wasn't really speaking to David, my sister wasn't speaking to me or David. The only person that everybody spoke to was my mom, who you could hear saying, over and over, "I can't talk about it now" or "I'll call you when we get home" to her sister (who she spoke with every day), wanting to tell her the horrid details, but not wanting to discuss it in front of anybody. Because the funny thing was, as horrible as it was, nobody wanted to admit it was horrible.
Until my parents dropped us off at the airport for our flight home to Alaska. As I hugged my mom goodbye and thanked her for the fun trip, she laughed.
"It wasn't fun," she said. "You don't have to lie."