My honeymoon was… fine.

After six months of planning and one epic and well-deserved tantrum aimed Jake’s way, we had a beautiful wedding. What I had assumed would be a day of stress, which I could barely remember, was wonderful. I cherish every moment and if I could live the day before and the day of my wedding over and over again, I would. If you follow my blog at all, you know that I am not a romantic and it was just that perfect. So naturally, to restore balance in the universe, my honeymoon had to be kind of… meh.


I’ve put off writing this post, because I keep coming back to the same question: what kind of entitled white girl calls a 10 day Alaskan cruise “meh?” I mean, travel is the ultimate goal for millenials. Facebook has told me 15 times this week that I should abandon all my responsibilities and see the world. Why save for retirement, when I might die in a car crash next year? I should spend that money now and see Uzbekistan. What do you mean “Why Uzbekistian?” Why not Uzbekistan?!?!?!

I’ll tell you why not Uzbekistan. Uzbekistan doesn’t have my cat or my little-old-man beagle. I can’t get good service to call my Gramma or download library books from Uzbekistan. If I’m in Uzbekistan, I can’t make an impromptu girls night or swing by the local dairy store for a cup of my favorite frozen yogurt. My own bed is not in Uzbekistan and neither is my favorite Superman mug or my polka dot blanket. I can’t get my favorite donuts in Uzbekistan. You know where I also can’t do these things? Alaska.

For modern newlyweds, the honeymoon is meant as a chance to recharge and reconnect after the stressful wedding planning months. Jake and I were supposed to go on a 10 day Alaskan adventure and have the time of our lives before settling into a routine in our new hometown. I forgot one thing, though.

I am a hometown girl, who thrives off routine.

If it weren’t for this simple, yet undeniable fact, I’m pretty sure I could’ve overlooked the less than perfect details of the aforementioned adventure… like the fact that the only vessel worse than The Grand Princess was used as the setting of the movie Ghost Ship. 


Regardless of my lack of adventure lust, there is no scenario in which I wouldn’t have been frustrated that for eight thousand dollars, I had booked a balcony suite on a 20-year-old ship… literally. The Grand Princess was built in 1998 and only a poster of The Backstreet Boys in our room could’ve made that more apparent. We had a dorm refrigerator, empty save for two bottles of water, that management insisted on calling a “mini fridge” when they charged us $15 for drinking said water, despite having an all-inclusive drink pass. There were only two outlets in the room built before personal devices had become the norm and only one of them worked. The decor, right down to the brand emblem on our television, had faded with time.

838-02482326er Jake and I on our honeymoon.

Princess Cruise Lines took full advantage of the fact that, at least on this cruise, their average passenger age was wheelchair bound by refusing to update their ship, amenities, or entertainment in any way, since I was in the fourth grade. If I were a little more Amelia Earhart and a little less Miss Havisham, perhaps I wouldn’t have cared. I’d simply have lived for the days at port, but for me, one of the things I’d most looked forward to, was enjoying the coziness of the ship, with my husband by my side. It’s the entire reason I chose to book the longer cruise. The cozy part of my honeymoon wasn’t cozy, though… and after six months of wedding planning and moving and new jobs, I really needed cozy. As much as I loved my time with Jake, I couldn’t get over the disappointment that, while I’d planned my wedding day perfectly to the last detail, my honeymoon preparations had left so much to be desired. I hadn’t properly researched the cruise line or put enough thought into how I’d feel spending ten days away from the comforts of home and neither ended up being all that great.

When we were at port, Jake and I did have a wonderful time. We went on a rain forest walk and enjoyed a crab feast in Ketchikan, took an impromptu brewery tour and visited the Mendenhall Glacier in Juneau, went ziplining for the first time in Skagway, and shopped and saw the sights in Victoria, Canada. The souvenirs we bought were minimal and I took approximately 30,000 pictures, because I did have some wonderful experiences with my new husband. At the end of each one, however, I dreaded boarding what must secretly be the original Titanic, with their terrible, disrespectful management, nonexistent entertainment, blatant overcrowding, and severe lack of kitten and beagle snuggles, quality donuts, and the smell of home.

3e7az The perfect honeymoon.

I didn’t have a miserable time on my honeymoon. I don’t know if I could have a miserable time with Jake. We had our adventures and saw some amazing sights. Whereas Jake had never been on a cruise, though, I have and I couldn’t ignore the fact that we had been ripped off and it was all my fault. The six days on the ship had been just as important to me as the four days at port and they were… well, pretty crappy and left me longing for home. The one time we tried to watch a Movie Under the Stars, we couldn’t hear Avengers: Age of Ultron, over the sound of a construction crew, who I can only assume was frantically trying to keep us from sinking to the bottom of the North Pacific. The only other entertainment options were the casino and a series of sales pitches about the amazing deals on precious jewels just recently discovered in the Alaskan mountains. We spent more time watching movies I’d downloaded on my Kindle Fire than enjoying the “all inclusive entertainment” and it wasn’t half as comfortable as doing it on my own couch.

I’ll just go ahead and confess something that no millennial is ever allowed to admit: I don’t particularly enjoy travel. I’m too much of a homebody and it’s too much of a chore. I don’t like leaving my pets and my king sized bed and my WiFi and my books. I don’t appreciate any part of air travel, especially getting motion sick, with barely enough room to lay my head in Jake’s lap while he brushes my hair aside as I deep breathe. I hate the fear of forgetting to pack something important, only to realize later that I brought far more than I could have ever needed… but I should’ve included my hair dryer. I work in a library, so I worry about bed bugs always. I don’t like spending large quantities of money in just a few days time. I don’t want to stress about whether or not all of my belongings will get home. I really, really, hate Princess Cruise Lines.

Our honeymoon definitely wasn’t horrible. A couple of times, it was even wonderful. Overall, though, I didn’t really get the recharge I needed and I was just so frustrated with myself for spending so much of our money on something that turned out… just okay. We’ll have better vacations and I’m sure we’ll have worse ones, because if travel doesn’t really appeal to me now, I can only dread attempting it with children. We had a dream wedding and that will just have to make up for the fact that our honeymoon was… fine.


Crap I’d Like to Share: An Almost Post

Ward: “What’s a blog?”
Me: “Well, you just write… about anything you want. People write about traveling, cooking, dating…”
Ward: “So, it’s writing essays for fun?”

Gramma: “In all my life, I have never seen so many fat young people.”

The day I taught her to text, I left her house and got the following a few hours later:

The time I tried to sell a friend on 50 Shades of Grey:


Summer of ’11, Gail and I took the worst vacation of all time. The air conditioner in the car broke as we rolled into New Mexico days before the 4th of July, Gail got strep throat, and my mother was… well, my mother. However, we did leave a basket for the aliens (translate: littered in the desert).

alien gift basket

agb 1

agb 2

agb 3

agb 4

Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

This New Year’s Eve, Gail and I rented a motel room in a town about an hour away, took a cab to one of the many popular casinos in the state, gambled the penny slots all night, lost more money than we made, ate quesadillas as the clock struck midnight, drank too much, and took a cab back to the motel.

Me: “‘Motel 6: We’ll leave the light on for you… but that’s about it.'”
Gail: looking around at the sketchy parking lot “‘Motel 6: It’s well lit… thankfully.’ We probably shouldn’t keep insulting it once they can hear us.”

motel 6 room

Me: “Ew. Someone’s been raped in this room.”


Pre-drinking Smirnoff Apple and orange soda.

“Gail, the phrase is ‘apples and oranges’, because they don’t go together. This tastes like acid and urine.”

Throughout the night, as we gambled and drank, I recorded the quotes that made us giggle like maniacs in my phone.

My drunken lamenting over not understanding the appeal of gambling:
Me: “Gambling is gay.”
Gail: “You probably shouldn’t use that as an insult in public.”
Me: “It’s not my fault they’re gambling.”
Gail: “That’s not…”

Gail drunkenly complaining that we had to wait for the cab instead of being able to take the shuttle:
Gail: “We should’ve stayed at the Holiday Inn. They have a… a… thing.”
Me: “That’s great. You should be their spokesperson.”

I have no idea.
Me: “He could’ve gone home, looked in the mirror, and preened like a peacock.”

In the night, we slept on the Flinstone beds (slabs of rock) with our own personal blankets, because motel blankets are covered in semen and tears. I woke several times to down water and ibuprofen and call the desk to ask what time we had to be out, not that there was a credit card on file, because we paid in cash… like hookers.

Gail: “You know what’s awesome? We used our own money, rented a motel room out of town, took a cab to the casino, and gambled all night.”

I was more blunt with the same sentiment as I did my makeup.

Me: “Holy shit, we’re grown-ups.”

When Gail and I became friends, we were 15-year-old virgins, who couldn’t drive, or hold jobs, had never had a date or a first kiss. She used to make fun of me for loving the show Lizzie Maguire while we played old school Super Nintendo in her little sister’s bedroom floor. Growing up, everyone acts like you’ll just become an adult at a specific age or a particular milestone. So Gail and I each turned 18, moved out of our parents’ houses, got married, got pregnant… and it still never happened. Maybe that’s because we sucked at all of those things, constantly struggling. Three years ago, I was living in a motel, imagining the death of my ex-husband, through no intervention of my own, because that would allow me to be free of him. Gail was pretty much doing the same thing, only the sweeter version where he just leaves. Being an adult, or at least our version of it, sucked and we just felt like abandoned children, both having had no choice but to strike out on our own the second we graduated high school.

Then, we sold our wedding rings together, started dating, rented our first places of our very own with no one else’s name on the lease, put the bills in our own names, started our careers at entry level positions and…

holy shit, we’re grown-ups.

Being an adult is awesome now. My childhood wasn’t all that glamorous before my sucky early twenties. But now, no one hits me or manipulates me or steals from me. I don’t have to lie to my family to defend anyone and when I come home and the place is a mess, it’s my mess. I only have to feed me and if that means cereal, sweet potato fries, and orange juice for dinner, that’s my right.

I don’t always feel like an adult, however, even now. When I call my Gramma crying, because my mother’s acting like a lunatic again, I feel like the 14-year-old kid I once was. When I open a DVD and see the case is charred from a house fire he started, I’m 19 and my pets are dead on the lawn. When I call the credit agency to ask what this charge is for and they tell me it’s from the phone company when I was married at 21, I feel like the scared 23-year-old in the judge’s office, praying he’ll sign the papers. We were mislead as children. You don’t just suddenly feel like an adult. It comes in phases, like when I take a trip with my best friend. I don’t have to answer to anyone. I pay with my own money. I wake up and go shopping all day with my own money. I don’t wonder where that missing hundred is. I go home and have soup and pears for dinner and…

holy shit, I’m a grown-up.