While Katie is off gallivanting around the Caribbean (am not jealous, am not jealous), she asked a few fellow bloggers to watch over things at Le Petit Chic and to, you know, not let anyone get ridiculously out of hand.
I was far too flattered by her request that I be one such guest blogger to mention to her that when I was 16 my mom trusted me enough to leave me home alone one weekend. And my mother? NEVER MADE THAT MISTAKE AGAIN. I threw my first and last party that weekend, and it was the last not only because the sheer guilt and anxiety associated with pulling off a house party was suffocating but because after we moved the empty bottles (of Boone's, as I was quite the classy rebellious teen) a few houses down, to my neighbor's recycling bin, the neighbor moved them all back, right around the time my mom rolled into our driveway. My mom stayed home for the next three years.
I'm much older and wiser now, so if you're hoping for something of the sort to happen while Katie's away, well, let's just put everything back the way we found it, OK? And keep out of the good stuff.
Honestly, Katie is one of my favorite bloggers and I would have been a fool to turn her down, but guest posting brings with it a bit of unexpected pressure. Over at my site, I can post picture upon picture of my dog or throw out a few dozen diatribes about Veronica Mars' premature cancellation and I don't linger too long over the publish button, sweating over who may take offense. But I have been thinking about this post for days.
After all that thinking, I decided it might be nice to keep with the theme of Katie's tropical vacation and share a story from my semi-recent honeymoon.
(And, what's nice, the theme basically insists on you drinking pina coladas while reading this so if the writing goes awry, you may not suspect a thing.)
My husband and I tied the knot about eight months ago and we honeymooned the following month in the U.S. Virgin Islands—St. John to be exact. While there, I had a few goals: to tan, to drink obscene amounts of Caribbean rum and to take a record-breaking number of naps. My chronically antsy husband had goals of his own; goals that included mapping out every inch of the 28-square-mile island and not leaving ANYTHING undone.
There was water to snorkel:
And sandcastles to build:
And trails to hike:
We compromised quite nicely in that I did all he wanted and he bought me things. (Unfortunately the honeymoon mentality was left on the honeymoon.)
One such sight Mike was adamant about seeing was the Annaberg Ruins, remnants of an 18th century sugar mill in Virgin Islands National Park. Mike promised me gallons of raspberry coladas and the sundress I had been lusting after at one of our favorite local shops, if I tagged along and snapped a few pictures with minimal bitching. I have to say it was quite nice, as far as ruins go. And, hell, it had quite the view:
Mike insisted on reading to me from each displayed sign found around the ruins—"This was the kitchen! The hottest room in the mill! And over here! The basement!" And you'd think that sweet redheaded husband of mine was the History major of the relationship but, sadly and quite pathetically, that would be me. (My college didn't offer napping as a major of study, if you can believe that.) Finally after a good hour of ruins fun, we made our way back to the car.
On the way, we were just delighted to see an iguana moseying across the road. We're from Texas! Wildlife is far less exciting and usually far less alive than this!
I began clapping enthusiastically and Mike began taking pictures, but, and you can't quite tell in the above picture, the iguana wasn't exactly alone on the road.
With him/her was one of the island's more common critters, a mongoose. Here, have a closer look:
At first I was even more excited. DOUBLE THE WILDLIFE FUN! But don't let that little devil's size fool you; he was looking to make the iguana less a friend and more a snack.
Mike is a good and decent man, and he insisted on doing what he could for that poor iguana. He stamped and stomped around, scaring the mongoose off and, as far as he knew (as he couldn't SEE INTO THE FUTURE), saving the iguana's life.
I was so proud of my husband. But, I was proud of him FROM A DISTANCE. This picture is cropped and zoomed, as I was literally running down the hill in the opposite direction of the wildlife encounter, yelling over my shoulder, "SAVE THE IGUANA, BABY! I'LL BE DOWN HERE!" My crisis-coping skills include a few specific behaviors (none of which I'm altogether proud of). One response includes FLEEING LIKE HELL.
As Mike caught up to me, we both marveled at stumbling upon something so intense. I said to him, "I wouldn't have believed a soul if they had told me mere days ago that 'mongoose attack' would make sense to me soon enough." We were even laughing about the whole thing until I turned over my shoulder and bore witness to this sad scene:
The mongoose, bastard that he was, had returned, to drag the poor iguana into the forest.
After a few stunned moments I broke the silence to suggest partaking in another activity that helps me cope:
And after such an afternoon, Mike was quick to agree. And, later on, he may have even napped with me for an hour or two.
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Katie, thank you for having me. I hope your vacation was perfect parts adventure and relaxation. To Katie's friends and readers, thank you, as well. Especially if you've gotten this far.
If you're feeling up to it, come visit whenever you'd like.
A friend of Katie's is a friend of mine.
