ow

Am back from speedy vacation. Ache all over, but especially in arms and legs.

My mom tells me often, with a wistful glint in her eye, of the days when they were first married and my father would sleep in on vacation, of how he used to take naps during the day, and just lounge around.

But no more!

Ever since I can remember, he's been the exact opposite. The entire family must be awake at 8AM. Then breakfast. Then golf (which I am exempt from -- I always refused to learn, I think at least in part because I knew it would give me a three hour rest on vacation days). Then to the beach, then boat rental time, then fishing time (where we narrowly avoided getting ticketed by the NYS Environmental Police), then swimming in the lake time, then tennis playing time (the major cause of the achiness, I suspect), then back to the beach for another swim, then back to the room to get ready for dinner, then dinner, then walk around the town for a couple hours, then ice cream, and home. I am SO TIRED! My idea of a vacation is sitting in a comfortable chair looking at the water with a good book. None of this activity crap! :)

I must say that there's nothing more disturbing than discovering that you're awful at something you used to be good at. I used to be moderately good at tennis, but now I suck. There is no other way to describe my whiffaliciousness. I suck. I miss balls that a seven year old could hit, to the point that I started actually looking at my racket to reassure myself that, no, there wasn't a hole in it.

Anyway. The cat got sick in the hallway (what a lovely thing to come home to!) and maternal unit just returned from the store with cleaning stuff. Off to scrub!

go mets! you can do it! maybe not...

Spent the evening watching the Mets game, a painful activity. Final score: Chicago 13, Mets 4. By the seventh inning I was only asking that they close the gap to nine runs so that they didn't lose by a double digit margin, and they did that. So I'm a little happy about that.

Had a Mets-related dream last night. I was standing in front of the team, who were lined up in the third base line, and I was chewing them out for sucking so bad. I distinctly remember Todd Zeile being very upset. By the time I woke up, though, I felt I had talked some sense to them. Wanted to call the manager, Bobby Valentine, and tell him to give them the pep talk I gave them in my dream except I forgot most of it and, you know, I don't exactly have Bobby's home phone number.

Last night I got in a big debate over the Mets with my father and brother ("Their problem's offense! No one's hitting!" "No, it's pitching! The pitching sucks!"). Somehow, I think two years of intense fanhood makes me an instant expert in the field.

Also, last night, while driving back from dinner, parents got in a massive fight about a letter that needed to be mailed. It was a strange role-reversal.

Mom: You couldn't go out of your way five minutes to deliver that letter, could you? Nooo, had to be in a huge rush! Couldn't drive a quarter mile out of your way!

Me: Hey now, why don't we all just --

Dad: Well EXCUSE ME for being in a rush to go on vacation!

Me: Now, Dad--

Mom: It was a quarter mile to a friggin' mail box!

Dad: Oh, stop whining.

Mom: Stop whining! I --

Me: No more fighting.

Dad: Stop the car, I'm going to walk home.

Mom: Oh, be quiet, you --

Me: If you guys don't calm down I'm not going to pull in the motel. I'll go right by it, just drive around the lake, I really will. JUST TRY ME!!

I chickened out, of course, and pulled in while they were still somewhat pissy. But they did calm down right after that, and ended up laughing at themselves at the motel. It's funny, my parents have these hollering fights but always end up laughing ten minutes into them. Neither of them can stay mad at the other one -- it's something I've always liked about their marriage. My mom told me in the car today about how one of her friends had gotten angry with her husband and refused to speak to him for three days. My mom was flabbergasted -- she can't give the silent treatment for three minutes, let alone three days. It's better, my mom said she always figured, to just holler it at each other and get it over with instead of sulking for days. I agreed.

Anyway. Just a little parental musing. That's one of the three pieces of marital advice my mother has ever given me. They are, in total:

(1) Marry someone who makes you laugh,

(2) Hollering is better than the silent treatment,

and

(3) Old habits die hard: split duties at the beginning of the marriage, and don't let the warm-fuzziness of newly-wedhood allow you to take on duties you don't intend to carry out for life. This last piece of advice is usually given through clenched teeth while she's doing his laundry, folding his clothes, making him lunch, etc.

Peg's guide to marriage in a nutshell! It's worked so far for her, and I hope it'll serve me well someday.