Planes, Trains & VW's

Gracious me! It's been awhile since I've checked in with my blog. MDH and I have been traipsing all over North America for the last 3 weeks. A veritable whirlwind of romantic and exciting locales.

OK. So it wasn't exactly all over North America.

Or romantic.

Or exciting.

It was mostly locations within a short driving distance or train ride from our home, like Columbus and Toronto. But - there was lots of hotel sex (OK, we did it once) which counts as both whirlwind, because it was over pretty quick, and romantic, because we brushed our teeth first.

Also we did fly to Philly using up the very last drop of the frequent flier miles I accrued from 5 long years of life on the road. I thought something on my boarding pass looked amiss and soon realized that there was a big giant empty space where it used to say "Silver Elite".

That's right.

I'm no longer Elite and am now one of the teeming masses. It's nothing but coach class for me from here on out. Before you know it I'll be standing around looking clueless, joking with TSA agents about having bombs in my luggage and generally annoying the crap out of savvy business travelers at an airport near you. Watch out.

And OK, we weren't exactly gone the entire 3 weeks. We were just away on the weekends. But they were long weekends, like 4 day weekends and I worked every day that we weren't gone off somewhere.

Anyhoo... I'm home now and lucky you I'm going to post some of my vacation photos, starting with our trip to Philadelphia where we met up with my best friend Amy and her lovely husband Ted*.

Philadelphia is known for it's murals - here's a jazzy one (har-har).

And now up close.

Amy got trapped on the wrong side of the turn styles in the subway... it's a long story. Why doesn't she just squeeze her bony, size 2 ass thru or climb over, you may ask? Surprise! She has a hernia and is only weeks away from surgery. I told you it was a long story (I will tell you more about it in an upcoming post. Hurray! Hernia stories. I know you are thrilled. Try to contain yourself. Seriously. Pipe down.)

A groovy newel post at Independence Hall.

A statue of some guy. Fen Branklin or something.

Ted enjoys a steak sandwich.

Amy & Ted at the Phillies game.

*There are no photos of me from this trip posted here as there is not one in the entire bunch that I approve for public viewing. In fact in every photo taken of me on this trip for some reason I look like a goddamn dairy cow, albeit a dairy cow with very expensive blond highlights. I posted the picture at the top, taken the day before we left for Philadelphia, in which I look somewhat normal just to prove to myself that I don't really look like livestock.

True Romance Really Stinks

Long ago when MDH and I first met and fell in love, we agreed that we would treat each other with love and kindness every day of the year and that we would never, under any circumstances celebrate Valentine's Day.

As a veteran single gal I spent many a Valentine's Day alone and dateless watching other women gushing over roses sent to the office while they twittered excitedly about engagement rings and candlelit dinners.

Of course I wasn't single for that long without recieving my fair share of cheap teddy bears, heart shaped Whitman's samplers, awkward greeting cards addressed to "My Special Friend" and single red roses wrapped in plastic tubes purchased as an afterthought from a stooped over old lady selling them from a bucket in a bar (a single wed wose, how womantic). These empty gestures almost always seem to be followed by the inevitable break up.

Valentine's Day = bitter disappointment

MDH shared my feelings about this trumped up Hallmark holiday and I was enchanted.

I knew that MDH was the man for me after we had been dating about 8 weeks. Not because of all of the mushy stuff that people normally wax romantic about. In fact, it's probably kind of gross. We had been to the movies and were walking quietly, snuggled close, hand in hand in a misty rain through the parking lot back to the car, discussing our feelings about romance in general and ours in particular. When the rain started to come down harder I quickened my pace. He let loose of my hand to let me run ahead and when it seemed I was just out of earshot, he farted.

I was astounded.

MDH always looks as if he has just stepped out of the dress shirt section of the Eddie Bauer catalog. Starched button down shirts with pressed khaki pants and polished dress shoes is his standard uniform. He is very put together and corporate looking, always freshly shaved and not a hair out of place. He dressed this way for our dates, even when we went drinking at dive bars or out for pizza slices and it was a welcome change to the sorts of bewhiskered slacker clowns I had become accustomed to dating. He was a well groomed breath of fresh smelling Irish Spring air.

Honestly? He seemed a little too perfect. It was intimidating.

We were at the stage in our courtship where we had become intimate, confessed a true and deep emotional connection to one another and had spoken out loud that we each saw this relationship as "really going somewhere". But our love was still quite new and although we had been open minded in the boudoir, we were still getting to know each other and had not yet reached that place where either one of us had admitted to the other or to ourselves that we were human.

The man gave every indication that he believed I was a goddess and I planned to keep it that way for as long as possible, which meant a closed bathroom door and gaseousness in all forms supressed. That fart, and the fact that he waited to release it until he thought I wouldn't hear it, spoke volumes about his high opinion of me and I was honored.

But at the same time I realized I could finally relax and then I couldn't resist...

Me: Did you just fart and then pretend like you didn't?

Him: I had to clear an obstruction.

His authoritative and official sounding response still makes me laugh out loud to this very day, and it opened the floodgates, so to speak and set the tone and unspoken rules about openness and bathroom humor we follow to this very day.

Romance isn't flowers and candle light. Real romance is being kissed with morning breath and finding someone sexy while they run the sweeper or mow the lawn.

It's knowing that you are free to be yourself and share opinions.

It's looking at that person in a new way every single day, seeing them change and grow, but knowing they are exactly the same as they always were.

It's knowing that that person will be there every single goddamn day for the rest of your life, in your face, behind your back, in and out, back to front, upside down and not only not minding, but looking forward to it.

Finding sweat pants, messy hair and stinky feet adorable is true love.

I say Fuck Valentine's Day, but if you do choose to celebrate this bullshit holiday - DON'T BE LAME. At this point you've got 2 whole weeks to plan something meaningful so don't wait until the last minute - book a reservation at the romantic restaurant now so you don't end up at the fucking Sizzler.

Seriously, it's better to not give anything at all than to end up resorting to one of those goddamn bucket roses or a teddy bear purchased from a gas station.