The Boy and I hit a milestone this past week: Not only have we been together for five months now (he is always convinced it’s longer, which is either very good or very, very awful) – we took our first vacation together.
Yes, we’ve had weekend getaways, but this was an honest to god, get on a plane, go somewhere for nearly five days, vacation.
When I was in junior high I was in homeroom with and became very fond of a girl named Cocoa. We remained close all through high school, and when she went away to college we managed to stay in touch. I even visited her once, and we went to a concert together in Burlington, VT. She was the maid of honor at my wedding ten years ago. We hit a patch after that where we didn’t see each other for several years, then BOOM! It was reunion time – we spent a random, crazy night together in Boston. We had a random and crazy night in California while I was there shooting a wedding. She came to see me in Portland for a weekend. And for the last few years I take some time every winter to visit her in San Diego.
I look forward to this annual trip – it’s never a huge expense – I wait till I find some cheap airfare and I sleep on her giant couch and we drink beer, walk on the beach, we’ve been to Sea World (we get free tickets from her sister in law) – it’s basically a big sleepover like we were teenagers again. Only with alcohol. (No. Seriously. We weren’t drinkers in high school, any of our friends can attest to that!) And every year I have taken this trip alone. The Ex never once made the effort or expressed a desire to come have some fun in the sun with me – instead, he stayed home with the dogs.
It was even pointed out to me that I would spend the whole time I was there without talking with him once on the phone, that it was pretty obvious there wasn’t a connection anymore. But the point here is that he never once came on this annual vacation with me.
The Boy though… He ponied right up and hopped a plane with me at 7am last Wednesday, despite being a nervous flier, and within hours we were standing on the curb of the airport in San Diego, hugging my girlfriend, who came to pick us up with costumes for us to wear on the way home. He, without missing a beat, donned a captain’s hat, I put on a Super Mario hat, and off we went.
We dorked out at Balboa Park. We walked the really, really big pier in Ocean Beach (where my friend and her fiance live). We had pizza and beer. We had a giant breakfast just a few doors down the street from Taang Records – a label I have a HUGE music-hard-on for, and I got to play inside, talk old shows with the dude running the joint, and bought a limited pressing of an old Bruisers album on red vinyl.
me at Taang Records with my new Bruisers album!
We didn’t do anything crazy, anything over the top, anything absurdly expensive. We shared an air mattress. We snuggled. We laughed a LOT. My friends LOVED him, and he got along famously with them. In general, it was a really excellent, easy, quiet, lovely, few days.
Except for one night. One night…one night things got a little crazy with The Boy, my girlfriend, and her fiance.
You crack out the Cards Against Humanity and there’s no telling where the party is going. We were, of course, enjoying some adult beverages. We were being silly. We were having a GREAT night. And I kept going pee, as drinking will do to you. But I apparently couldn’t keep up with myself. Sure as hell, during a particularly hilarious round, well after my case of the giggles had begun, it happened.
I yelled, “”Ohmygod. It’s happening. I’m peeing. RIGHT NOW. It’s over.”
That’s right. I peed. My pants. I’m 33, I wet my pants laughing playing a card game.
Now, I want to say, in my defense, it was in fact SO minor a leak that my yoga pants weren’t even wet – it only FELT like a substantial pee. The laughter from my friends and The Boy was making me laugh even harder, though by then I had tears rolling down my face from being totally mortified.
I asked, “Ohmygod, are you going to dump me now?!”
And as everyone is losing their shit laughing at me he answers, “DEPENDS!” to which I yelled, “Y’all are assholes!” and I went to the bathroom to change my undies. When I came back, still laughing, still crying, with them still howling, he said, “Don’t worry, baby, you’re still my NUMBER ONE girlfriend!” Yes. He made a “number one” reference. Which got everyone screaming again. “This is PISS YOUR PANTS HILARIOUS,” he said. My friend’s fiance was more practical and said simply, “Calm down, chowderhound. This is either going to end your relationship or make it stronger.” The Boy said as long as he didn’t have to wipe my ass, we were cool – and reminded me that I had once licked a chicken and he still liked me.
But a vacation, even one with me pissing my pants, would not be complete without an amazing photo shoot. The Boy was given, years ago, by the brother of a friend, a teeny yellow Speedo. The Boy packed this Speedo in hopes of finally having his photo taken in it, in an absurd way. So, one afternoon we strolled to the beach, went to a private little cove, and he proceeded to strip down to his Speedo, a few strings of seashell necklaces, a coconut bra, and a dive knife strapped to his leg. Add in a snorkel and the Captain’s Hat, and you have magic. For the next 20 minutes, in the setting sun and incoming tide, we frolicked, my girlfriend assisted with lighting and learned how to use a reflector. We did pinup poses. We did cheesy shots in the surf. We terrified other tourists. We laughed and laughed. And at the end of the shoot, nearly inexplicably, my girlfriend donned a pig mask, and this happened:
run, piggy, run!
That’s right. Dive knife in hand, bull kelp in the other, coconut bra in place, a fierce look on his face, a chase around the cove ensued. This photo is going to be turned into a canvas and shipped to my girlfriend and her fiance as an engagement present. It’s going to be printed on aluminum and hung prominently somewhere in his home. It is, without a doubt, a moment I will never, ever forget, and one I am exceptionally glad I have committed to “film.” (Hey, it pays to be dating a professional photographer, am I right?)
But he got his…you see. That banana hammock was not just snug, it was covered in salt water. And we had to hoof it home after. And it chafed. The poor man had an incredibly sore, irritated, groin, making him walk like he’d just been thrown off a horse. After he showered off we walked a few blocks from our friends’ house to a pharmacy where I couldn’t stop laughing that his cart contained Anti Monkey Butt Powder, Aveeno Anti Itch lotion, and a can of diet Red Bull.
And, I may have wet my pants laughing while playing a card game, but I didn’t stand in an alley in San Diego and rub Anti Monkey Butt Powder on my nuts. (You bet your ass I was howling with laughter and not the least bit compassionate.)
So, yes. We survived our first vacation together. He’s met and charmed more friends of mine. He’s seen me pee myself, I’ve seen him walk funny and apply soothing lotion to his nuts and inner thighs. We’ve gotten up at 4:30 am for a flight, and I’ve photographed him in a banana hammock.
I daresay, five months down, and many, many more adventures ahead of us. I have nothing but Big Love for this guy. *swoon*
