Trials, Tribulations and Golf Balls: A Thanksgiving Tribute to Family

55 years of Krimski family photos.

A week ago Thursday I lost my Dad, Jeff, to cancer. Dad grew up in Baltimore from sturdy polish stock (Pilahowski and Krimski). He was an amazing, complicated person formed by early personal trials which ignited a desire to transcend his mother’s plans for him to work at the local washing machine factory. He left home at 17, joined the air force and was stationed in Nouasseur, Morocco where he met Mom. He was 19 and she was 26. He went on to raise four children, giving us everything we’d need to become successful adults and raise our own families. His career is one of legends; a DJ at two of the countries top AM  radio stations, WBZ, Boston MA and WKBW, Buffalo, NY, he constantly challenged the status quo, changing the face of radio forever and paving the way for the FM revolution. He went on to enjoy a multiple Emmy award winning career as narrator for NFL Films until throat cancer forced him into retirement. After that he enjoyed years of boating and international travel with Mom. I was privileged to go on trips to France, Egypt and cruising in the BVIs with Mom and Dad.  

I recently read a story about a philosophy professor who showed his class a jar filled with golf balls. He asked the class “Is the jar full?” The class said "Yes". He then proceeded to pour pebbles, sand and water into the jar, asking each time, “Is the jar full?” Finally he explained to the class that the jar is a metaphor for our lives. The golf balls are the important stuff; family, health, passions and friends. If everything else—home, job, car— was gone and only the golf balls remained, life would still be full. 

As I sat by my Dad in his last hours holding his hand and washing his brow; as I watched my Mom hold it together while she watched her husband of 55 years dieing; as everyone laughed when I felt moved to perform dopey “Gangham Style” dance moves by Dad’s bedside; and as I thought about all the months my sister Anne has devoted to the care of Mom and Dad, performing all the skills of a hospice nurse without even realizing it AND never asking for credit, all the pebbles and sand and water diminished in importance. The golf balls became larger and larger until they filled my heart with joy. 

I don’t know a family who doesn’t have a jar filled with golf balls. Some are brand new—bright white and shiny. Others are stained, nicked, gouged and aged beyond use. Despite their condition they all belong in that jar. We may begin life as a beautiful bright white golf ball but we all end up less than perfect. My parents always said, “When you don’t have anyone else, you always have your family.”  I’ve pondered that saying many times over the years. Watching my Dad die brought it’s meaning—forgiveness— back to me. With family, forgiveness in the face of the unforgivable takes an open heart and remembrance that the forgiver will most certainly be the forgivee at some point. We may take a golf ball out of the jar but it’s never too late too put it back. 

Dad’s passing has been a life changing experience for me, rearranging my cells to reveal and renew the beauty of family and life. When I eventually get back to the day-to-day stuff will the feeling last? One can only hope. One thing’s for certain. Dad’s golf ball, with all it’s nicks and gouges, will forever remain in my jar. For Mom and siblings Anne, Peter, and Sarah your ball may come out for a few minutes but be assured, I know which drawer I put it in so it will certainly go back in the jar. 

Happy Thanksgiving to all my family of golf balls who where there for me during this difficult time. I love you all. Mommy, son Emmitt & hubby Dave, Shirley, Anne & Richard, Amy, David & Tory, Maya, Peter & Amy, Max, Spencer, Sarah & Broeck, Sam, Noah, Paul, Andrew, Peter, Lisa. 

Oh and don’t forget the puppies; Vera, Sailor, Dinghy, Scruffy, Mr. Bennett, Charlie, Scrappy and Silvie. WOOF!

I have always loved Christmas and I love to draw pictures of Santa. Even more, pictures of Santa with penguins.

Why penguins? 
Because elves are so boring? 
Reindeer take up too much room on the page? 

Actually, I just like 'em. 
Their cute and compact and always dressed in formal attire. Who wouldn't get enthusiastic about that? What could be better than a cute and cuddly penguin paired with Santa—the cutest guy ever!

In my illustrative world, beloved Santa is a multi-talented lover of life. He skates, he sleds, he flies in a balloon, and of course,  he sails.  His constant companions—penguins of course!

When I first illustrated Santa and his penguins naysayers clamored, "Outrageous!" 
So called rational people emphatically declared, "Penguins don't live at the North Pole!"

It's time to put all this conjecture to rest. The only solution is to pick up the red phone and call the big man himself. Yes—MR. C—Santa.  

"Yo MR. C! What's kickin?"
"Heh Tammi. Glad you called. Super busy up here." 
"Everything OK?"
"It's those darn iPhone 5s. Pre-christmas letters to Santa are flooding in already and I smell a few rats in the attic."

Dear Santa, 
Our three year old Jimmy has been so good this year. He's now potty trained, except for that one accident on the subway when he was sitting in the elderly woman's lap. He got upset at the stench of a nearby homeless "person" and did a very runny poop all over her nicely pressed polyesters. So embarrassing! But his temper tantrums are down to no more than three-a-day.  He really wants that new iPhone 5.  If you'd be so kind as to include a signature gold Gucci iPhone case Jimmy would be ever so happy. I've enclosed pictures!

Toodles!
Cami & Barnstable Pemberton 

I chuckle. "I hate when that happens."
"Totally. Anyway I've taken care of it."
"How'd you do that?"
"Tweeted."

 @santaclaus #christmas letters #North Pole license with #apple expired NO #iphone 5s for you!

"Glad to hear it. I'm sure you've heard the iPhone is the tool of the devil."
Santa laughs. "Well, that's stretching it a bit but Suri is pretty annoying. She beats the MRS. by a mile in that department." 
"Tell me about it."

"Sorry to cut this short. Those darn elves are in the middle of a work stoppage and I need to go check on the replacement elves. You'd think three meals-a-day, 401 k's and $15.00 co-pays would satisfy 'em but "NOOO!" They want to keep their $10.00 co-pays and get matching contributions too." Santa sighs. "Next thing you know and they'll be wanting peanut free. It's more than one chubby man in a red suit can handle!"

I emit a few clucking noises in agreement. When in doubt imitate a chicken. Soothes 'em every time.

"But I don't need to bother you with my trials and tribulations." admits Santa. "At least the replacement elves aren't as bad as the NFL replacement refs." Santa mumbles something about his fantasy team going to pot."They SUCK!"

It's time to cut to the chase. "I'm calling about the penguins."
That old chestnut again?" asks Santa. "I thought we put that one to rest along with the existence of the Abominable Snowman and the Island of Misfit Toys. I don't have time to fight this battle again!" Santa declares. "It's almost Christmas for peppermint's sake!" 
"Yes but people need to know." I say. "It's only fair."

"OK. Go for it. Don't forget to make prominent mention of the killer whale pod and keep any references to Russia at a minimum. I have licensing agreements to fulfill and I don't need an international incident." Santa declares. "Especially when I'm smack in the middle of a labor dispute. Anyway, I'm still on Putin's shit list for that unauthorized fly-over last Christmas."
I decide more clucking noises were in order. "I heard about that."
"Yah. Four hundred years of doing this stuff." Santa testily declares. "You'd think they'd be used to it by now."

Santa and I wrap up our chat. "Give the MRS. a big hug for me." I say.
"Stay classy San Diego." Santa laughs. He loves to quote Ron Burgundy.

As I hang up the phone I think of all the situations Santa has to handle. At least I can help put the penguin issue to rest.

But that's a post for another day......

Want to see more of my Santa illustrations? 
Go to Judith Krimski Illustration

A Heroic Woman and a Wonderful Organization

Lilly's book with a cover illustration done by her son.

I had a life changing conversation recently with a woman who is now my official hero. Her name is Lillian Alvarez and she's a beautiful 65 (but looks 50). Lily lives at Hearth’s newest senior living apartment building (more about Hearth later) but her story originates in Cuba where she grew up and started her family. In the 80's Lily, her husband and baby son escaped by boat from the island. It was a terrifying trip to the coast of Florida but once there they were able to make a happy life. Lily went on to have two more children. Four years ago her husband passed away and Lily decided to move to Boston to be near her elder son, an artist, and her daughter.

Why am I talking about Lilly? Because up until a month ago she was one of the many homeless elders struggling to survive on the streets of Boston. At first glance Lily doesn't resemble the stereotypical homeless person; ragged face, missing teeth, showing the ravages of drug or alcohol addiction. In fact, most homeless elders don't fit that description. Lily is a striking lady with short silver hair and stylish glasses. Her attire when we met—all white with strappy black sandals, was impeccable.

Last winter Lily moved in with a relative and her daughter until the landlord found out and told the friend that only two could live there. Fearful that she'd be kicked out of her place, the friend told Lily she'd have to go. Just like that she became homeless, in the middle of winter, in a city she barely knew. While the rest of us were snug in our homes, chuckling about what a mild winter it was, Lily struggled everyday to stay safe, eat and get a bed for the night at the Pine Street Inn. Some nights the bed wasn't there and Lily would scramble for a place to stay, or end up in the lobby at Boston Medical for hours on end, hoping no one would notice her and kick her out. Just imagine for a moment the terror this lovely petite lady must have felt. Is anyone prepared for a situation so horrible? Are you? 

Despite her dire circumstances Lily’s spirit never wavered. Yes, she was terrified and definitely depressed. She confessed she cried a lot. Who wouldn't? But Lily didn't give up. Fortunately, thanks to the people at Hearth who helped Lily navigate the "system" and ultimately provided housing for her, this story has a happy ending. 

Hearth is one of my most favorite non-profits, one I've worked with for many years. Even so I'd never really interacted with Hearth's "clients;" homeless elders in need of support services and permanent housing. Organizations like Hearth are peopled by angels. Those who go to work everyday because they care so deeply about helping homeless elders. They don't make the big bucks but they work hard for their pay. The satisfaction they get is the ability to sleep at night knowing that one more elder like Lily, is off the street and safe in a comfortable home of her own. 

A poem Lily wrote about her new life.

This eye opening experience was a forceful reminder of what we all want—to be cared about and respected, to have dignity, to feel safe—and what we can lose. No one plans or expects to become homeless. It kind of just happens. In the blink of an eye; a fall, illness, or sudden financial problems, could cause anyone to fall into homelessness. People with jobs, lives, homes, people who have families nearby, become homeless. Lily has family, so does Robert and Moe, two other formerly homeless men I met at Hearth. 

When it was time to say goodbye, Lily picked up a pair of small white jewelry boxes from her kitchen table. "I made these for you." she declared. Inside were handmade beaded bracelets and earrings. Lily shows that the human spirit can overcome and indeed blossom, despite seemingly horrible circumstances. Like Lilly, I hope I have the courage to face an overwhelmingly difficult moment in my life. 

What has this experience taught me? The measure of a person of means is how they treat the person without means. If you encounter a "Lily" on the street be kind, because the human spirit burns inside all of us, no matter our situation. That small moment in time that you reach out may be a turning point for the person you help. Or it may just be a moment where you can say to yourself, "I did the right thing." Sometimes that's all there is and it's good enough.

About Hearth

Hearth is a Boston-based organization dedicated to the elimination of homelessness among the elderly through housing, outreach, and advocacy. Hearth was founded by a group of seven professional women who realized that elders were a growing percentage of the homeless population and that no one was expressly addressing the issue. Now in its twentieth year, Hearth is an expert on the challenges and solutions of ending elder homelessness.

For more information about Hearth go to:

Hearth, Ending Elder Homelessness

Lillian's book can be purchased on Amazon.com

88 Llaves Que Abran Los Puertas a la Esperanza, 88 Keys, That Open the Doors of Hope

Who took the donut out of the donut hole?

Today I woke up at 7:00 a.m. to take Dinghy, our new puppy, out for “Pees and Poops!” One must exude a certain amount of enthusiasm (I like to channel Dan Aykroyd’s impression of Julia Child - “Save the livah!”) when urging puppies to do their morning “Pees and Poops!” As I attempted to persuade Dinghy to finish her business she zoomed around the yard in her “Let’s play chicken!” mode—a game where she darts about in circles like a crazed foul while I give chase. 

Finally, pees and poops accomplished amidst no small amount of chicken chasing, we proceeded to perform our morning yard check. Suddenly  I noticed a commotion across the street in front of the Josiah Quincy House (a historic Quincy home built by one Josiah Quincy, a mayor of Boston and China trader). Cops and men in some kind of catering uniform all peered through the Jo Qui house fence. The intermittent spit of police radios punctuated morning cricket calls. There was a white truck parked on the street with it's back open and I could just make out racks of what looked like baked goods. I thought, “Must be having a catered affair at Jo Qui today.” But why all the cops?

Just then my neighbor Pete appeared.

“What’s all the commotion?” I asked. Pete has lived in the neighborhood forever. He’s a Quincy guy of first rank. Any Quincy-worthy news, Pete  knows it before anyone else.

“Dunkin Donut truck got jacked.” Pete informed me.

“Jacked?”

“Yah." Throwing me a less than patient look. "As in stolen. Get with the program Tammi. You gotta know the lingo of a crime scene.”

“OOOPS. Sorry.” I didn’t actually feel too bad not knowing “The lingo of a crime scene.” Crime scenes aren’t really my thing. I’m more a food truck scene gal. Crime scenes or fresh made burritos from the Baja Burrito truck? I’ll take the burrito anytime.

I peered across the street. “So are those donuts in the truck?”

Yep. Ten stores worth.”

Wow. What will they do with all those donuts?"

Pete sneered. “Probably take the truck back to the Police Station and keep it as evidence.”

Ten stores worth of deelish Dunkin Donuts. Some poor little old lady just coming from church to get her baker’s dozen (Do they still do that?) is going to have to forgo her Chocolate Chunky Cruller and Boston Cremes. 

Can anyone say crisis in Quincy?

This is a total donut debacle of desperate dimensions. 

I can see the headline now. "Collective Cry Hits Quincy. No Donuts for YOU!"
For those of you who aren't aware, Dunkin Donuts was founded in Quincy so we are very serious about our donuts.

I imagine Quincy citizens raging about the Sunday donut deficit. 

Ritual Sunday sugar highs? NOT! 

Children plead with their mommies, "Mommy, why can't I have my Nutty Butter Peanutty donut hole?" 

Mom sighs, "A really mean man took your donut hole and now the police have it and they won't give it back." 

Meanwhile, Quincy cops are “examining” the “evidence” and “logging” it for the prosecution. Something tells me crumbs will be flying when the DA finds his evidence was “lost.”

As I peer at the truck trying to figure out a way to snag some donuts—someone might as well get a good sugar high and why not me? I asked Pete. "What do you think all the donut eaters will do today without their donuts?"

Pete looked thoughtful. "Let them eat cake?"

Cake. Hmmmm. Sounds good to me.

Adventures in Shameless Self-Promotion

I have decided it’s time to do some shameless self-promotion for my children’s book, Vanilla Gorilla: Animal Art and Poems. Heh, if I don’t do it who will. 

There are myriad reasons why everyone should buy this book. Here’s three.

1. You like me.

2. You don’t like me but you want to read a riveting piece of literature.

3. Your ambivalent about me saying, “ECHH, I could take her or leave her.” but you want to learn some new words and impress all your friends.

In order to really maximize my shameless self-promotion I decided I need a tagline. Who better to consult than my friend Jonathan, a so-called advertising guru who has worked for EVERY major corporation on the planet. If he can’t come up with a really neat tagline no one can.

I call him. 

‘I need a shameless self-promotional tagline for my book.’

‘What book?’

‘Vanilla Gorilla: Animal Art & Poems - DUHHH.’

'There’s no such thing as a Vanilla Gorilla.’ He states emphatically. ‘Gorillas are black and maybe a little brown too. But they have pink tummies.’

‘Since when did you become an authority on gorillas?’

‘I’ve worked with my share of gorillas. There was that coke commercial with the dancing gorillas.’

‘But those were cartoon gorillas.'

‘Cartoon - schmartoon! They’re all the same. And, we were almost nominated for an Emmy.’

‘Almost’ doesn’t quite qualify as 'actual' but whatever. I perceive a bit of ego stroking might be appropriate at this point.

‘You must be so proud. My gorilla is only named Vanilla Gorilla, and he’s not black he’s blue.'

‘OK.... A gorilla named Vanilla Gorilla who’s not even Vanilla but blue. How am I supposed to work with that!?’

'You’re supposed to be an advertising genius. Isn’t that what your shameless self-promotional literature says?’

'Well yes but.... OOOPS? Client calling! Gotta Go!’

So much for advertising gurus. So I called my sister Anne the opera singing diva sister who also writes ad jingles on the side. 

'I need a shameless self-promotional tagline for my gorilla book.’

‘What have you got so far.’

‘Well, I’ve got Vanilla is great. Everyone loves Vanilla.’

‘Everyone loves chocolate more.’ she muses, 'Why not change it to Chocolate Gorilla?’

'Because Vanilla Gorilla rhymes. There’s no rhyme in Chocolate Gorilla, AND the book is already printed.'

‘Already printed?’

‘Already printed.’ 

‘OOOPS!’ Did you screw that one up.’

'It is what it is. There’s no going back. Now what about help with the tagline?’

'Let me work on it but I’m pretty busy. Got three performances of La Boheme this week, I’m playing Mimi. I have consumption and I die in a rat infested Paris garrett. It’s very romantic.’

‘How do you sing if you have consumption?’ I ask. 

'Pure talent honey. Pure talent.' 

I hear the phone ringing in the background. 'That’s my Rodolfo calling!' she declares excitedly. ‘Gotta go!’

Rodolpho? Before this all gets a bit weird I call the X. Since he wrote the poems that appear in the book maybe he can come up with a shameless self-promotional tagline.

'I’m super busy right now.’ he says suspiciously. 'Are you calling for money? I don’t have any money.’

‘I’m not calling for money. I need a tagline for the book.’

‘Did you call your crazy advertising friend who did the coke commercial with the gorillas?’

'Yes, he’s busy and he doesn’t believe in Vanilla Gorillas, only the regular kind of gorillas.’

‘That’s odd. Did you call your sister? The jingle one that is.’

Yes. She has consumption so wasn’t much help.’

‘Consumption?’ That’s doesn’t sound too good.'

'She’s alright - it’s the fake kind of consumption not the real kind.’

'I didn’t know there was a fake kind.'

'There is! Enough about the consumption!' I raised my voice a bit. ‘I need a tagline NOW!’

Raised voices and the X don’t go well. He’s never liked confrontation.

‘How am I supposed to be creative when you’re yelling at me?’ He whines.

‘Anyway I’ve got to go. Call ya back in 20?’

Click.

I know he’ll never call me back. 

All my attempts at finding the perfect shameless self-promotional tagline have failed. I sit despondent in my comfy chair staring at VG on the book’s cover. Suddenly a voice in my head whispers lovingly, ‘You worry too much.’ says Vanilla Gorilla. ‘Let’s go eat some ice cream and watch the original Madagascar movie.’  VG loves that part with Robin Williams as the king lemur. “Physically fit. Physically fit...’

As we snuggle together, eating our ice cream (vanilla of course), VG whispers, ‘You could have asked me for a tagline.’

‘Do you have one?’

‘Of course.’ I should have known. Go to the source right? 

‘What is it?’

I’m Vanilla Gorilla and I’m on the covah.”

So don’t be afraid, I’m a lovey Dovah.’

Yah. What he said. 

Teenagese:

Recently I was hanging out enjoying the company of my son and his friend Dennis. Dennis is a great kid but most of the time I can’t understand a word he says.  Dennis’s unintelligible blather and my frequent requests for translation reminded me of a piece I wrote several years ago when my son and his friends were just entering their teenage years. 

   

My son, 'Little Bean,' has finally turned into a teenager and become 'Big Bean.' There are so many changes I felt I had to document a few of the more interesting ones. 

Of course he has grown taller than his father. This is a source of endless entertainment for Big Bean. He now enjoys activities like resting his chin on his father’s head, declaring, 'Oh my! Your so little daddy!' Now—Daddy is 'Little Bean'.

There is one disturbing trend. My son has started mumbling a lot more lately even though we've always stressed good communication habits and proper pronunciation. When he was in pre-school he started dropping his r’s. Granted we live in the Boston area so he is exposed to the 'Bahston' accent on a daily basis. 'Park' became 'pahhk' and car became 'cahh.' Having grown up with a father who was a radio personality I was determined that no child of mine would decimate the English language but explanations like, ‘You’re hurting poor R’s feelings when you don’t pronounce it,’ had no effect. Not until I told him ‘You won’t be able to run as fast if you don’t pronounce your R’s,’ did he take heed. Lovely letter R came back with a vengeance.

All of the sudden, these carefully scripted lessons have sailed out the window and I am left with someone speaking a new and unintelligible language. I’ve coined it 'Teenagese.' Apparently (I’ve done my research), it’s an ancient language, passed on from generation-to-generation of teenagers, mostly while standing at urinals in the school bathroom. My research shows there are even cave paintings illustrating Teenagese early beginnings. Back then they didn’t have urinals, a rock sufficed. 

Only teenagers are fluent in Teenagese and they are perfectly capable of understanding each other. 

‘Can adults understand it?’ you ask. 

‘NO WAY JOSÉ!’ 

As teenagers, adults used to speak it but through some secret process it’s been erased from our memories (it has nothing to do with multiple bong-hits) and been replaced with snoring. We have no recollection of our Teenagese years— and it’s probably better that way. 

I walked into my kitchen the other day to see my son sitting at the computer with a couple of his friends. My first thought: 'Not again! Their speaking Teenagese!'

Big Bean is looking intently at the computer screen and emphatically declares, 'Blah bler mam patt buh suh!' Since the NFL website was up I imagine the conversation had something to do with football. But, who knows? 

What’s a clueless mother to do? While I’m busy trying to extract some sense from this conversation—teenagers know I’ve forgotten my Teenagese so they aren’t worried in the least—they’re going on their merry way chatting about God knows what, and most likely it isn’t good. 

The irony of all this is that when they are compelled to swear (which comprises roughly 50% of the conversation)—guess what?— It comes out CLEAR AS DAY. 

‘Mush mush bacha pa somthn fo FUCKING a mofo!’ 

It’s kinda crazy when you think about it. Parents are forever reprimanding their children for swearing, saying things like, ‘Johnnie! That language is inappropriate.’

You’d think that if teenagers can come up with a secret language, they could incorporate some swears in there too. I’m sure it has something to do with passive aggressive tendencies, teenage rebellion, and other things that cause adults to cringe and wring their hands in despair. Looking on the bright side—and I’m a glass half-full gal—at least there’s one word in there that we adults can understand. We may not want to hear it but that’s beside the point.

Parent's take heart! 

Teenagese, like acne and other artifacts of your child's teenage years, shall pass. Most likely by the time your child goes off to college. They'll be back to speaking good 'ole english, asking you for money, the car, a new laptop and stuff like that. So just be patient and enjoy every mumbly moment with your child.

My last word on this subject: “A gome is mush mush ist badd SHIT!”

The Xs Take a Vacation

Yesterday morning as I arrived for my yearly Maine Lake vacation, I saw a sight I hoped I would never have to see again. But it’s entirely my fault. I mean who goes ON VACATION with her X husband and all her X-sis-n-lows, bro-n-lows and assorted near-do-well cousins etc. Anyone who does that has to be somewhat crazed - right?

I have a very good excuse for this unusual excursion. This may well be the last Maine vacation I spend with my almost 18 year old child. I love Maine in the summer. The lake, crystal clear and dotted with wooded islands. Wild blueberries, ripe for picking and right outside my door. Day after day of sailing, water skiing and tubing. Children’s happy screams of delight echoing off the water. The perfect getaway. 

Never a dull moment in Maine.

Yes - I have gone on vacation with my X and we are even staying in the same house. According to my in-laws, 'It’s the new face of divorce.'  It’s been one year since we split up and each of us has gone through changes. X has taken up lots of ‘hobbies,' but his mid-life crisis has manifest itself in some peculiar ways.

He bought a scooter! Not just any scooter. One colored white and sky blue with a Hawaiian pattern of flowers all over the paintwork. ‘It’s totally badass!’ he submitted as he parked it proudly in my front yard. 

‘Why was he in your front yard?’ Some ask.

Because he pops in.

‘He pops? He shouldn’t be popping.’

True but as long as he behaves I’ll allow him to pop.

But I digress.

Eventually the Hawaiian scooter wore out it’s welcome and was traded up for a more manly fire engine red scooter.

‘It's way more badass. So badass it should be illegal.’ 

Uh huh. 

There was a time when we attended couples therapy, even after we were divorced. The last one was right after our court date. 

‘I stopped taking my Lexapro!’ he enthusiastically declared.

I interpret this pronouncement as ‘You aren’t driving me crazy anymore so I don’t have to take mind altering drugs!’

“I’m flying to Bermuda in April!’ He's so excited at this point he’s jiggling all over. ‘To go diving (Did I mention he took up diving?)’! 

More jiggling. ‘And ride a scooter!’ 

And if that’s not bad enough he’s acting like ‘Life’s dream realized.’ 
Fly to Bermuda. Go diving. Ride a scooter. AWESOME!!!! Best trip ever. 
Bucket list complete.

Wow.

In 20 years of marriage he wouldn’t fly anywhere because he had a ‘flying phobia’ which conveniently manifest itself right after we got married. Trips to France, to the BVI’s, to Florida and beyond and no hubby. 

You get the point. I might sound like a bitter X but I’m really not. 

My motto: You gotta get mad before you get glad.

Everyday that goes by I am happier, more independent and I think a bit more self-aware. I get to eat stuff I like (meat!), watch Housewives of the OC tear each other’s fake diamond earrings off whenever I want. Most importantly, because I am so much happier than when I was married, I spend lots more fun quality time with my son.

Let's go kayaking!

It’s all good, even with the 'popping.' 

But I digress - again. 

So I arrive at my sis-n-low’s rented house (there’s four families and everyone gets separate houses so there won’t be any familial vacation ending drama). Everyone’s down by the water. Kids are happily swimming, splashing about, having noodle battles (the colorful floaty foam ones) and jumping off the dock. Screams of delight abound. As I approach my X relations and experience heartfelt greetings from all around X-hubby saunters up from the dock in what appears to be an apron. It's actually his shirt tied around his waist. As he walks by, ‘Heh Tammi-ing,’ me I realize much to my chagrin that he is naked. Now I’ve probably seen him naked more than 6000 times in 19+ years but this time is different. 

Seeing the X’s buttocks flagrantly displayed just reminds me of all his quirks that I definitely don’t miss. Upon reflection, the moment actually reaffirmed that my life right now is all good. Still I couldn’t help declaring out loud. “‘Now that’s something I hoped to NEVER see again in my life!’ 

A perfect way to start your vacation with the X’s. Insult X-hubby in a slightly witty, sarcastic manner, ex-relations all laugh. The ice is be broken, allowing everyone to get onto a fun time. 

On to the tubing, sailing and badass red scooter riding. YAAY! 
I love Maine.