Don't Mince Words

I was in the middle of planning my 40th birthday trip to Hawaii when my brother called and suggested an alternative destination. His annual U.S. visit coincided with my birthday week and he was going to be in Florida.

Hawaii or Florida…hum. This would be my only opportunity to see my nephews and work on their vocabulary.

For two months, my trip was shrouded in secrecy. I bribed Sam, my six-year old nephew, to be my spy. The best information he could come up with was, “bring a bathing suit” and my cake would be chocolate with sprinkles. My brother cashed in his business miles and purchased my plane ticket. So now I knew I was flying into Tampa.

The rest would be revealed when I arrived.

I didn’t sleep on my red eye and was greeted in Tampa by my brother. His brother-in-law picked us up in the arrivals area in an F-something pickup with four doors. I sat up front while my brother slept in the back. I tried to sleep, but the country music was keeping me up, in between watching the brother-in-law deposit his Skoal drippings in a water bottle.

This was not a good sign.

Nearly two hours later, we were at the brother-in-law’s ranch: cows, horses, dogs, 4-wheelers and farm hands. I was deliriously tired at this point and too exhausted to appreciate the richness of this ranch. I needed a bed.

Instead, my birthday surprise was exposed – an Ultra Limited Edition 31-foot RV complete with a sign that read, “Cool Aunt Marna’s tour of the Deep South.”

I was fucked. I did not take six days of unpaid time off to tool around in the Sunshine State in an RV. I used to say roughing it was no cable, but with satellites, I’ve upgraded my mantra. Roughing it is no room service. My brother must of seen the horror on my face. “Don’t worry, you only have to sleep in it two nights,” he said. I wanted to turn around and go to TPA and reverse this bad decision fast.

After lunch, where I enjoyed gator fritters, we headed south. I could detail the destinations we went to, but it isn’t important. The nights I didn’t cry myself to sleep, I’d wake up and say “focus on your nephews, not the horror Marna.” I did a lot of sitting: sitting in cars, trucks and RVs. I got little sleep. I never felt clean. I wore my bathing suit one time. My back was killing me.

My birthday? Well, there were a few minor celebrations organized, but the most notable was a screening a photo montage video which included intro titling with my named spelled wrong. This was on Day 7, my patience zapped, so I blurted out, “Robert, you douche bag. You don’t even know how to spell my name?” The second part of the video google-earthed all the different places I lived. I felt like the butt of a week-long joke.

On Day 9, after a large bbq and activities familiar to the indigenous redneck population, the brother-in-law ordered a car for me. After sharing a 40th birthday chocolate cake with my nephews, I was wisked away back to civilization at the DoubleTree next to the Tampa airport. I had a bath. I slept in a real bed. I was finally relaxed.

On the flight home, I began reading “A heartbreaking work of staggering genius,” by Dave Eggers. I became envious of the relationship the two brothers had. They understood each other’s needs and knew how to have fun.

Maybe one day my brother will have the time to get to know and understand me. In the meantime, I’m another year older, and much wiser.

Hawaii here I come.

While connecting in the Charlotte airport on my way back to LA, I heard the recorded announcement, “if you see unattended luggage or suspicious packages, please contact a law enforcement official.”

When I realized where I was, I had a panic attack.

The cop I turned in to NYPD IAD is supposedly a federal marshal in Charlotte now. The thought of being in the same area code as him sent me running to the bathroom with dry heavs.

I walked to my gate looking over my shoulder and wondering if he had read flight manifests. Did he know I was there?

Will I be scared the rest of my life?

My brother and sister-in-law left the kids with a relative and the three of us went to Key West for my birthday in the 31-foot Ultra.

We did what you would expect in the limited amount of time we were there. We drank and we shopped. By 10:30 p.m. I was tired and somewhat bored since I really don’t drink much any more.

The cab ride back to the RV park was fast and we retired quickly. The couple slept in the front over-the-cab area and I got to try out the back full size bed. I was prepared to get my first good night’s sleep in more than six days.

I was tossed awake – rolled from side to side in bed, like a sailboat hitting a wake. I sat up in bed and realized my brother was having sex 30 feet away from me. While the heat generator drowned out the audibles, the RV obviously did not have fully independent suspension. I was getting residually fucked on my own birthday.

I felt like I was in college. You know when your roommate thinks she can be quiet having sex. You want to say something, but you know it will be over soon. You are happy for her. This experience was something different. I was a part of this act. It was yucky. It was my brother.

When the generator shut off, the movement subsided. I imagine the fuckers up front were restratigizing their actions. About a minute later, it started again. I debated about what to do, then I figured it would be over soon. You know, they are married, they have to do things fast, in between soccer practice and Dora the Explorer.

It eventually ended without an audio track, except the one in my head saying, “Happy fucking birthday.”

While lying in bed with Mr. WednesdayBeforeLast, I joked that our good relationship was ruining my bitch-about-LA-dating writing career. And then he gave me some material from out of this world.

“Don’t we have an anniversary coming up?” he asked.

What guy do you know remembers an anniversary? They can’t even remember their own mother’s birthday. They will remember where they boned you, or a sexy outfit you were wearing before they boned you… but a specific date? Get out.

Now the only reason I knew the calendar date was because I blogged our first meeting. I’ve never been one of those girls that knows the minutes and seconds of their relationship duration in local and Greenwich Mean Time. I’m the girl who says “I don’t know, we met sometime after the rainy season, but before flip flop weather.” I don’t track time because, let’s face it, I rarely have a live one that makes it to date three.

But now I do and I have to say, when he kissed me and said “happy anniversary baby,” the once alien phrase seemed bittersweet.

While I’m still not ready to be a counter, I do wonder how I’ve lived 14,200 days, 6.5 hours and 40 seconds without a guy this fabulous.

Ever since 9/11, I’ve been a little noise sensitive. Hearing the clack of metal plates banging on a street, firecrackers, or any other unexpected noise sends my heart racing.

I live steps away from a one-way street. Drivers often miss the light and hit cross traffic. I’m getting used to that noise. It just happened again. Squealing breaks, then the horn, then the bang. I stopped calmly folding laundry to go outside, not to look. I know, 9 out of 10 times, it’s some jackass on a phone that screwed up. No, I grabbed my business card and went outside in my Brooklyn sweatshirt to see if my parked car received any collateral damage.

My car was fine, but this time the innocent cross traffic car had been flipped. The corners of the intersection were littered with on-lookers. These are probably the same people that go to Ground Zero when they visit New York. Fuck them.

When I turned around to go back to my apartment, the sirens were near and the local news helicopter had already arrived.

I need to move.