It’s nine-thirty in the morning on a Football Sunday.

Crap. Snow is falling and the sidewalk looks slick, so we struggle into long underwear and hiking boots. It’s finally time to help my boyfriend’s brother move his stuff out of my boyfriend’s house and into his new place. We are not happy to be pressed into service on a slushy, cold, Football Sunday, but at least he’s leaving. We had told him in advance that we’d help until the noon kickoff.

By the time we get to E’s place, Brother has started piling random crap in the back of the U-Haul in no practical fashion. There is slush all over E’s floors, clothes on hangers are strewn around the living room, half-packed boxes lay open in the dining room, and Brother is flinging things haphazardly into a laundry basket.

“You said you were packed,” I say accusingly. “You didn’t use any of the good boxes I brought you.”

“I am packed. And I had these boxes,” he said, gesturing to a pile. “Those can go, by the way.”

I already want to curse him because seriously? He’s had months to pack. He’s had the key to his new place for over a week and hasn’t moved a damn thing. He waits for a snowy weekend when he knows everyone would rather be at the bar for the games. He ASKED for good boxes and I brought him some, the nice ones with handles and lids.

And now I am carrying a Crock-Pot box held together with duct tape, with a block of knives poking dangerously out the top.

I lug it out to the truck and hop into the back, pushing things around to make space for the couch, the chairs, the big television, and all the other stuff he’s been storing in the basement since he got kicked out of his old place and had to move in with E five months ago. It will be so good to have him gone, I tell myself as I shuffle and stack, just deal with this for one more day, one more day…

“Everything’s out of the upstairs,” Brother says when the truck is about three-quarters full. “Let’s go.”

“You still have a bunch of boxes in your room,” E points out.

“Yeah, well, I haven’t decided about those. I might give that stuff to the Salvation Army, I dunno. But why move them twice?”

“Because they are taking up space in MY HOUSE,” E says flatly.

“Whatever.”

“We’re not making a trip till this truck is full,” I announce, so we troop down to the basement. I start grabbing things and Brother stops me on every other item – not sure about this, might give that away. It’s classic Brother, never making decisions, waiting till the last minute for everything and still blithering, expecting everyone to sympathize with poor him.* Five months of tension finally snap, and out comes The Crazy.

“What do you mean you haven’t DECIDED?”

“I just need to think for a day or two if I should keep that – ”

“You have had MANY days. You had Saturday. And Friday. And all last week while you had your new place. And all the last five months while you kept talking about moving out, to pack properly and make these decisions. Do not call people to get up early on a Sunday and help you when you haven’t done your part! You are wasting our time, so get your shit together!”

I storm off with a box, not caring if it was meant to go or not. It was going.

I felt bad for a little bit. But good GOD, he was on my last nerve, after everything he’s done to E, his own little brother who took him in, and after everything he’s done to take advantage of both of us – up to and including opening MY Christmas presents and eating MY food while he gambled away his paychecks and borrowed money because he was broke  – E and I used to practically live at his place, and lately we haven’t even slept there because Brother has made it so miserable. It was that bad.

We finish loading the truck and drive to the new place. I carry an armload of his on-hanger shirts upstairs and lay them on his bed.

“You can hang those up,” he calls

“No, I’m making that your ‘deal with it’ pile,” I say, stomping out to the truck to get more. I could have brought them all in one load if they’d been in a box.

E and I schlepped back and forth angrily for another hour. We were late for kickoff, we were wet and hungry (who asks for moving help and doesn’t have pizza or beer?!), and when we left, Brother asked when we’d be back.

I told E later that I felt a bit bad for yelling. “Don’t,” he laughed. “He deserved it, and it was pretty funny. He kept looking at me like I could somehow shut you up, and I just smiled and said ’she’s right, dude.’”

I think I secretly hoped that he would change, that maybe if he heard from someone other than his dad or his little brother – who has fought with him all his life and told him this a thousand times – that he’s a rude and irresponsible bum, maybe it would make something click. You know, confirmation from a third party. But I realize now that I may as well have been yelling in Welsh, for all it was worth. E explained to me that his brother is like a dog: he hears loud noises and sees angry looks from humans, but he cannot associate them with his actions.

“How was moving?” E’s best friend asks when we get to the bar. Said friend is familiar with the horrible living situation, of course.

E tells my story.

And I get a slow clap.

———————-

* There were actually several other instances where he treated E and me like total crap that day, but they make the story too long. Trust me. He deserved this.

E’s job at The Very Nice Restaurant affords him a certain number of perks, including free nights and major discounts on food and services at several Very Nice Hotel chains, including the Ritz-Carlton, the Four Seasons, and some others all over the world.

On the advice of several of his coworkers, we went here:

Let’s get something out in the open right now. My family grew up going on camping trips for vacations. I’m totally good in a tent with a sleeping bag and eating food that’s been cooked over a fire or on a little camp stove. So, try and imagine my eyeballs when I saw that we got to stay here:

Here’s our hotel, smack in the middle of this beachside lineup.

Suffice to say, I felt a little country-come-to-town wandering around that place. I was constantly asking E who I was supposed to tip (anyone who arranges things for you or gives you something you asked for) and who I was not to worry about tipping (anyone who brings you something you didn’t ask for, or anyone who assists you while you are in a bathing suit and obviously do not have money).

I took advantage of the free steam room and the seven-headed shower in the spa, enjoyed the complimentary L’Occitane bath goodies every day, and got an amazing pedicure. We had one meal at the restaurant and one meal with room service just because we were feeling lazy. But beyond that, we really skipped out on all of the fuss and were just our normal, beer-and-burger kind of selves.

Except the Bud Light was $7 per bottle and the burger was made of grass-fed, free-range, pilates-doing, inner-peace-having cow, and cost $18. Plus tips.

Seriously? We actually stopped at the grocery store before we got to the hotel and loaded up on bread, cheese, lunchmeat, hot dogs, yogurt, fruit, beer, soda, and chips. We even brought the mini George Foreman grill down there with us so we could make hot sandwiches in the room. Even at the Four Seasons, and even with 50% off at their restaurant, we’re still cheap.

There were red flags on the beach much of the time, but we had some beautiful sunshine, enough for good walks and a 20-mile bike ride down the island.

This pier was about a ten-minute walk down the beach from our hotel, and it goes out to where the water is about 40 or 50 feet deep. We saw  a school flying fish being chased by barracudas – tricky to photograph, but so gorgeous. Here’s my attempted shot of the flying fish – look in the lower left of the picture.

The Four Seasons is on an island between the Atlantic Ocean and the Intercoastal Waterway. We had to go over a drawbridge to get pretty much anywhere, and for some sort of growing-up-landlocked reason, this totally thrilled me.

The ocean side was full of hotels, and the waterway side was lined with huge homes – some probably bigger than the hotel – where the supa-rich docked their supa-expensive boats.

It can be an expensive town. Even the taxis are Lincolns and Cadillacs. No, not just the Four Seasons club car. I mean the TAXI you wave down on the street. And even it has complimentary candies and bottled water.

We took a day to go deep-sea fishing, and although it started out kind of gray-ish, it ended up sunny and perfect (minus the first hour, in which I was uncomfortably – but not barfy – seasick). Here’s our little boat:

And here is E reeling in a freaking 7-foot sailfish.

Flickr Video

That was completely amazing. We ended up letting the fish go (as you can see) because we weren’t going to eat it, sell it, or mount it. That pinkish thing in its mouth is actually the fish’s stomach! Sailfish, I kid you not, will spit up their own stomachs to rid themselves of a hook if they can, and then gulp it back down once freed.

There’s your trivia for the day.

(And no, I didn’t catch anything.)

Aside from the bike ride and the fishing, we really spent most of the time just wandering the shore searching for coral and shells, laying around by the pool if it was nice or in our room if it was not. We only did one night out on the town and it was okay, but we chose to spend our last night in Palm Beach eating a delivery pizza  and watching movies instead of going back across the drawbridge.

It was just better that way.

Neither one of us could get more than two bars of cell service while we were on the island. I didn’t even get to read my guest bloggers’ posts until Saturday because we chose not to pay extra for wifi in the room. Although it was pretty frustrating to feel so disconnected at first, I have to admit that it was kind of sad to look down at my phone at the airport and see all the bars lit up again.

And, in keeping with the frugal nature of our swanky trip, I didn’t buy a single souvenir.

But I think I’ve got the best one right here anyway:

And that was our vacation.

Hey everyone! I’m Jenn, and you can find me over at my little piece of the web, you’ll grow to love me (seriously, you will. Don’t ask questions.)

When Rebekah asked me to guest post, I asked her what she would like me to write about. She answered “BOYS”. I suppose as the token single girl AND as the token college girl, I’m expected to have lots of stories about boys.

I thought about telling you all about the time that I got dry-humped, but that story has been told (complete with illustrations.)

So since Rebekah is in Florida with her boy, I decided to write about the time that I went to Florida with a boy.

My last relationship was about two years ago, and about this time in 2008 we decided we had had enough of the Boston winter and were going to jetset down to Florida and bask in the sun (where I proceeded to do a little too much basking and not enough sunscreen-applying.)

Neither one of us had ever traveled anywhere with a significant other, and we were both a little nervous. We ended up having a great time though, and I learned a few lessons along the way.

1. Make sure your partner is a “good traveler”. You don’t want to be THAT COUPLE that holds up the security line or throws a tantrum when United says your bags are going to cost $100 to check. You want to be with the man that calmly and patiently sorts out the problem with the rental car (and you want to be far far away while he does it, TRUST ME.)
2. Wear sunscreen. It doesn’t work so well when you’re burnt by the end of the first brunch. (Believe me when I say that hotel room activities are not as enjoyable when IT HURTS TO MOVE.)
3. Splurge. You’re on vacation! Go to the delicious Brazilian steakhouse for dinner and consume more wine than you ever thought possible, even if it means you skip breakfast the next morning.
4. Prepare yourself for the bathroom. All of the bathroom sharing you do while spending the night at each other’s places is nothing compared to when you discover that your man is “dropping the kids off at the pool” while also talking to his mom on the phone.
5. Take lots of pictures — just don’t put them on Facebook. I know you want to show off your tan to all your friends and make them jealous of the warmth you were in, but I guarantee that you’re going to want to burn every single one of those pictures when you break up and they only serve as a reminder of that time you went on a romantic getaway with that dbag that broke your heart.

Anyone else have any advice or lessons-learned when traveling with a significant other?

E and I are headed to Palm Beach, Florida on an early flight on Monday. Vacation!!! And we get to stay FOR FREE in one of the Very Nice Hotels, courtesy of his job at the Very Nice Restaurant. How freaking sweet is that?! It means we have extra money to blow on deep-sea fishing, and golf and the spa… mmm, spa. Spa with a hefty discount.

*happy*

Oh, and say what you will about the cold snap in the South right now… It hasn’t been above freezing in St. Louis for over a week, so THIS is looking pretty good to me.

As long as I don’t have to wear long underwear on vacation, it’s all good.

And while I’m gone, you’ll have a wonderful series of guest bloggers to entertain you! Three lovely ladies will be posting here in my absence, and you simply must come by and see what they have to say.

Have a happy week!

All the lunch-table chatter about 20SB reminded me last night – I graduated from high school in 1999. I should have had a reunion by now.

WTF?! Who didn’t invite me to my own freaking  high school reunion?

I scrounged around Facebook this morning and realized that plans had never materialized for the reunion, so the class president is going to make us oh-so-cutting-edge and have an 11 year reunion for us sometime in 2010. We are SO the wave of the future.

Then, inevitably, I got back to thinking about lunch tables.

Ten and a half years ago, I was going to a pretty good-sized high school. There were about 450 people in my graduating class, and seriously – you never ate alone unless you chose to. Everyone had a lunch table. There were groups in that school, TONS of groups because there were so many of us. Everyone couldn’t be everywhere and do everything, so our natural alignments were driven by our priorities.

I was kind of middle-of-the-road, socially. I was in band and theater and so that’s where I had most of my friends. The “popular” girls were nice to me in class but we didn’t hang out or anything. They were the ones on homecoming court, student council, cheerleading, dance team, all that. But you know – those things were their priorities. I wanted to play piano. They wanted to flip about and scream really loudly at sporting events. I wanted to write a play. They wanted to play on the state-champion softball team.

A lot of those girls were truly nice people, and they didn’t dislike me – we just had our sights set on different things. I had my friends and they had theirs. Theirs ended up on homecoming court because their priority was to get them there. My friends were elected theater club and band officers and made choices on plays and performances.

I used to really want to be the tiger mascot that hopped around with the cheerleaders. I could have done it. I was energetic and you didn’t have to do a backflip in the silly costume. I was afraid that trying out would mean I wanted to be like them – and I didn’t, I really just thought it would be fun. I was at all the games with the band anyway, so why not? But I didn’t get it – not because I lost in tryouts, but because I didn’t try out at all. I didn’t make it enough of a priority to get over my fear of rejection.

I said as much to one of the nice cheerleaders who had honors English with me senior year and she said “Oh, you should have done it! You’d have been great! The girl they picked wasn’t that good, you should have at least tried out.”

Um. Oops. *mwaah mwaah mwaaaaaaah….*

It didn’t break my heart to think I had missed out on being friends with the popular girls, but it was a lesson in getting off my ass and at least trying a little harder for things I say I want.

I never sat at their lunch table. I sat with my music and theater friends. And together with a number of the cheerleaders, the dancers, and the sports stars, I got into National Honor Society, scooped up scholarships, graduated in the top 10% of my class, and went on with life somewhere else.

With 9,000 people in a community like 20SB, we can’t all be friends with everybody. We just don’t have the time. But the ones who are most visible in the community, our dancers and cheerleaders and sports stars, may shine the brightest because their priorities are those of the 20SB community. Online presence. Great communication. Reaching out and building bonds. Striving to be better writers, vloggers, techies.

When these things become your priorities in life, you can make your way to the top in a community like this.

Me? I’m not at the top. If I realigned my priorities I probably could be. I used to put more time into my blog, I used to be more visible and active in the blogging community both online and off. But as I’ve evaluated my life, I have determined that maybe I needed to step away from the glowing screen a little more. It works for me this way. This is my balance. I have blog friends who I adore, blogs by writers I don’t know but I still read, and a little bitty stake in a 20SB and Guidespot. I could do more. And I will, if I can make it fit in the balance I need in my life.

One of the popular cheerleaders quit the squad her senior year. She could have gotten a cheer scholarship. “It wasn’t for me,” she shrugged, and went on to run track instead.

Evaluate yourself. Think about why you write what you write, and where blogging fits in the priorities in your life. Are you committed to becoming a better writer? Are you committed to spending a lot of time developing communities and planning activities with people you may have never met? If you’re not – IT’S OKAY. For some people, that kind of life works and works awesomely. For you it may not. And if that means you don’t get an award, just realize – THAT’S OKAY TOO.

Are you committed to these things, committed to getting to the top and yet still feeling overlooked? This can take awhile. You don’t learn backflips and roundoffs with a full twist overnight. You must keep on.

You still have your lunch table. People still like you for who you are. And if they vote in someone else for homecoming queen, that doesn’t mean they like you any less. It’s just that they thought that in terms of real-time committment to excellence in the blogging world, they thought that someone else deserved it more.

My class homecoming queen was smart, pretty, fun, sweet, an athlete, a class council member, and active in her church. She was a busy girl who was committed to being awesome and to my knowledge never said a mean -spirited thing to anyone who hadn’t tried to grab her boobs or ass in the hall. Because she was involved in everything, everyone knew her and everyone was aware of all of her good qualities.

When you are visible, you are nominated. When you are visible and you demonstrate awesome, you win. Period. Everyone voted for Kristen, she won, and she deserved it.

Pour yourself a glass of flat champagne, put on your bent party hat, and think about this before you get mad or defensive about an award, a nomination or a lack thereof.