tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60513892272286739892024-03-13T14:28:18.254-05:00Fairytale BeginningWHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.comBlogger389125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-84482311145504328702012-09-27T01:53:00.001-05:002012-09-27T01:53:28.555-05:00326. Once Upon Another Time<div>
"Can I talk to you two for a moment?" Marvin asked, pulling Cayden and I aside into my parents's dining room. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
It was exactly one week after Cayden had landed in Texas and we started our lives together. It was also our marriage day. Not to be confused with our wedding day, which we set for October 20. The sooner we were legally married, the sooner Cayden could file his paperwork and the sooner he could start looking for work.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"OK, I know you don't want to make this a big deal because you want it to be special for your wedding next month," he started. The sparkle of his diamond earrings matched the sparkle of his smile and the excitement in his eyes. "But this is a big deal. Today you're getting married, and that's something to treasure. Cayden, SHE is something to treasure."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We nodded in agreement and Cayden gave me a sideways smile. We'd hoped to have Marvin come over to hear us say "I do" and then sign our papers and that was it. He was right, I wanted to save the emotional part for our wedding day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Marvin turned his attention to Cayden. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You are marrying into the most wonderful family. They are something special. Today is special," he said. "So I'm going to say those things out there in front of her family, and then we'll have cake and punch and we'll celebrate."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I squeezed Cayden's hand.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Sounds like a plan," I said.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Let's do this," Cayden chimed in. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
With that, Marvin gathered my family and our five dogs outside. Cayden and I stood facing each other in front of the flowering bushes next to the pool, wearing the same outfits we were wearing the night we met. I wanted to save my wedding dress for the actual wedding, but I still wanted my "marriage" dress to mean something. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was almost like the outdoor wedding I'd planned originally for June, except it was 75 degrees instead of 105. A perfect day to get married. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Template>Normal.dotm</o:Template>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>709</o:Words>
<o:Characters>4046</o:Characters>
<o:Company>RIDEMAKERZ</o:Company>
<o:Lines>33</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>8</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>4968</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>12.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridHorizontalSpacing>
<w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>18 pt</w:DrawingGridVerticalSpacing>
<w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayHorizontalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>0</w:DisplayVerticalDrawingGridEvery>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:DontAutofitConstrainedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
</w:Compatibility>
</w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="276">
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Marvin’s voice rose over the sound of the breeze through the
trees and the trickle of the water from the hot tub’s stone edge. No matter
what song he’s singing, his voice always gave me goosebumps. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As much as I love hearing people sing, I hate being sung to.
When people sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me it takes everything I have not to crawl
under the table and stab them all in the shins with my fork. What are you
supposed to do? Sing along? Dance? Who do you look at? Everyone? No one? The candles
burning on the cake? It’s awkward. And that ‘Happy Birthday’ song is about 10
versus too long. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Marvin wasn’t singing happy birthday. There wasn’t a table
to crawl under and I didn’t want to stab Marvin with a fork because I didn’t
want his yelp to interrupt the magic that was coming from his vocal cords.
There were no candles to look at. So instead, I focused my gaze on Cayden. My
candle. And for the first time, I didn’t mind being sung to. I let his lyrics wrap around me while I took in my soon-to-be husband’s eyes, his lips, the
slight gap in his teeth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cayden, on the other hand, never tore his gaze from Marvin.
Either he felt awkward, too, and decided to just stare at one person, or he was
hypnotized by Marvin’s love song, but I could have been floating face down in
the pool and he wouldn’t have noticed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard mom sniffle behind me and I was momentarily
distracted when my dog Joey came up to sniff around our feet. Before Marvin
started his speech, I thought I wasn’t going to cry. I thought this would just
be a quick exchange of ‘I dos’ followed by a signature on the marriage license.
I thought I’d save all of my emotions for our wedding next month. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then I remembered what I’d been preaching all along.
It’s not about the wedding or the dress or the three-tiered cake. It’s not
about the perfectly matched bouquets or the music or the first dance. It’s
about the marriage. It’s about love. It’s about me and Cayden, and the promise
that we’ll always be there for each other. It’s about family. My mom and dad
and sisters and brother behind me, they were my family, but now Cayden would be
my family. My husband. My everything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And somewhere between “we are gathered here today” and “lawfully wedded wife,” I let
myself feel it. THIS is how brides feel on their wedding day. This is our big
day. Tears spilled over my eyes and ran down my cheeks and I didn’t care.
Cayden’s voice wavered and I could tell he was letting himself feel it, too.
The sniffles from my mom and sisters grew more frequent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The stress and the struggle and the heartache of the last
three years washed away with those tears.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And by the power vested in me by the State of Texas, I
now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I closed my
eyes as his lips touched mine and I was brought back to that night we met. The
night we kissed at the bar. Before we even knew each other. Before we’d
understood the power of love and the crazy shit it can make you do. Before we
knew what our hearts and minds could and couldn’t withstand. Before the missed
flights and lonely nights. Before airport goodbyes and hellos. Before visa
refusals and government paperwork. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before we believed in fairytales. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This will all be worth it one day,” we used to say to each
other when things were particularly shitty. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/76523_10101002222010947_428454054_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/76523_10101002222010947_428454054_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would be way too cheesy and cliché to end this post with
“and they lived happily every after” or “and that’s how I got my fairytale
ending,” so I won’t. Besides, I still don’t buy into that whole “happily ever
after” thing by Disney’s standards. I’m sure there will be unhappy days and days I’ll
want to be as far away from him as physically possible. And there will be days
he’ll want to send me away on a trip with my girlfriends so he can have three
days of peace and quiet. And days where I’ll throw shoes at him and blame him
for all the world’s problems. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there will be a days that we fall asleep in each other's arms after a long night over good wine. There will be days we celebrate birthday and holidays and job promotions together. And there will be a day that we’ll look into our baby’s
eyes for the first time, and all of those days I wanted to strangle him will
wash away in my tears yet again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think marriage is going to be any easier than our
three-year long-distance relationship, because marriage isn’t easy no matter
how you look at it. Hell, life isn’t easy, but having someone to live it with
makes it taste oh, so much better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if our marriage is filled with even half of the love,
passion and understanding the past three years have been defined by, it will be
happily ever after indeed. So I don’t see marriage as my “fairytale ending” but more as
a new beginning. Call it another fairytale beginning if you’d like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time</span> I married the man of my dreams and then
went straight to a beer festival where I couldn’t drink much because I was on
painkillers and couldn’t even have sex that night because I’d just had an ovarian
cyst removed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That's how all good fairytales start, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/536123_429442277092852_1311065055_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/536123_429442277092852_1311065055_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-26036323440995253592012-09-09T12:58:00.002-05:002012-09-09T12:58:31.512-05:00325. SurpriseCayden thought I'd be the only one picking him up from the airport yesterday. Instead, this happened:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/576884_10100991996687577_1468664033_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/576884_10100991996687577_1468664033_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Friends, family, coworkers and even a handful of my blog readers came out to surprise him. I wanted to write a blog post to invite all of you, but Cayden had Wi-Fi on his plane and he told me he needed to catch up on the blog. It's nearly impossible to keep anything a secret these days with social media.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was excited.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/527248_10100992078548527_1449135094_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/527248_10100992078548527_1449135094_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
And he was surprised.</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/395310_10100991992351267_65202135_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/395310_10100991992351267_65202135_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/643958_10100454325754406_1280117380_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/643958_10100454325754406_1280117380_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/392021_815124349134_862186761_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/392021_815124349134_862186761_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cayden, me, Shanna and Ronnie</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I've never been happier. I woke up this morning in paid from too much laugher last night, and it's totally worth it. Six days until we're legally married.<br />
<br />
At 11:11 this morning, I didn't know what to wish for.WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-68283676049084961962012-09-06T00:23:00.000-05:002012-09-06T00:24:21.094-05:00324. SurrealI didn't understand the word "surreal" until I read that email. And then I read it again. And again. And again, until I could convince myself that it was, in fact, real. Cayden is moving here in three days. THREE DAYS. Unless you're reading this on Thursday, in which case I can say CAYDEN WILL BE HERE IN TWO DAYS!<br />
<br />
For the past three years I've spent so much of my time waiting--waiting for his next visit, waiting for his plane to land, waiting for our visa to get approved--that I'm having a hard time comprehending the fact that the wait is about to end. That whole 'good things come to those who wait a ridiculously long time' bit was about to actually live up to its promise.<br />
<br />
Can you believe it? If you've been reading from the beginning, you've been through the ups and downs, the tears of joy and tears of heartache, right along with me for the past two years.... 324 posts. And it's all coming down to this... a happily ever after. Or so we hope.<br />
<br />
And as you've been reading my story and geting to know us, I've been getting to know you. I talk to some of you so regularly on Twitter or via email that I forget we haven't met in person yet. You guys have been my support group whether you've known it or not, even if all you did was "like" one of my Facebook posts. I don't think I could have survived the emotional exhaustion of this long-distance relationship without a place to vent and people to commiserate with. I couldn't have done it without you.<br />
<br />
So now I thank you for your tweets, your comments, your emails. I thank you for your letters to your congressmen, your words of wisdom, your shared stories. I thank you for staying up late with me, supporting me and cheering me on. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.<br />
<br />
Will I keep blogging once I get my fairytale ending?<br />
<br />
Of course. Married life is going to be a whole new beginning. A fairytale beginning, perhaps.<br />
<br />
OK, enough cheesy one-liners from me tonight. I blame it on the fact that I've lost hours and hours of sleep trying to get this blog caught up before our next chapter. Surgery in the morning and then I need all the beauty sleep I can get before Saturday.<br />
<br />
Until my next update, enjoy these photos of us from the past couple years.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/5856_543202331351_4664088_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/5856_543202331351_4664088_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The night we met :)<br />
July 3, 2009</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/35748_823885409967_6015340_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/35748_823885409967_6015340_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My first trip to London<br />
June 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/75860_883988467957_597204_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-prn1/75860_883988467957_597204_n.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Halloween 2010</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc6/165367_919582407417_6466677_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc6/165367_919582407417_6466677_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cayden's first OU football watch party.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/395929_10100484788591667_1359620465_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/395929_10100484788591667_1359620465_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Austin Trip</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/378856_10100509791899837_1480845257_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-snc7/378856_10100509791899837_1480845257_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Years Eve 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/429911_10100669787682007_1023035369_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/429911_10100669787682007_1023035369_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St Paddy's Day Parade 2012</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/552384_10100921044381567_1858957158_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/552384_10100921044381567_1858957158_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozumel!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/483978_10100926816628937_732030237_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: medium; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/483978_10100926816628937_732030237_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day we left Cozumel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DVZAyWR09hvrvPHSThEc0CkAtjSCllUS0sQy8Zl5ExHHGyZY0QvuHsAM6f81lN3JGwkJOutFdF1ZD3MN0ET-YruO8ODmL_kzgSHWiC5hHHkTihTVYU-3ZglBkGjPpUvvY5mMPr6FgIg/s1600/DSC00897.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1DVZAyWR09hvrvPHSThEc0CkAtjSCllUS0sQy8Zl5ExHHGyZY0QvuHsAM6f81lN3JGwkJOutFdF1ZD3MN0ET-YruO8ODmL_kzgSHWiC5hHHkTihTVYU-3ZglBkGjPpUvvY5mMPr6FgIg/s640/DSC00897.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not sure why my leg is all crazy in this one, but here we are with our new friends on our honeymoon! [From left to right: me, Cayden, david, Vicky, Courtney and Chandler]</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-9923317613218088252012-09-05T23:12:00.001-05:002012-09-05T23:12:05.922-05:00323. To Those Who Wait14 days.<br />
<br />
15 days.<br />
<br />
"I put in my two week's notice... again," Cayden said during our morning phone call on day 16. "My last day of work will be September 7th and I have my eye on a flight to Dallas on the 8th. Now let's just hope I get my visa and passport back before then. I don't really want to be unemployed longer than I have to."<br />
<br />
"Good," I said. "I should be mostly recovered from surgery by then. If all goes as planned. I'm trying not to get my hopes up about you moving here on the 8th, but how awesome would that be?"<br />
<br />
"I know," he said with a sigh. "I'd be there for my birthday."<br />
<br />
"And my birthday," I added. "And OU-TX!"<br />
<br />
My hopes were up.<br />
<br />
Day 17.<br />
<br />
The OR was fully booked, so my surgery was going to have to wait.<br />
<br />
"How about September 6?" my doctor asked.<br />
<br />
Oh, yes. Sign me up for that. Who wouldn't want surgery two days before their fiance moved in? My big plan to run and tackle him at the airport in the happiest moment of my life was looking less and less likely.<br />
<br />
"Will I be able to walk by then?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"...slowly. But no sex for 2 weeks."<br />
<br />
Fuck me.<br />
<br />
Day 18.<br />
<br />
Day 19.<br />
<br />
Day 20.<br />
<br />
"Why in the hell do they say you'll have it back within 10 days when they clearly have no intention of doing so?" I whined. "This is getting ridiculous!"<br />
<br />
"You're telling me."<br />
<br />
Day 21.<br />
<br />
Day 22.<br />
<br />
Day 23.<br />
<br />
My blood started to boil.<br />
<br />
"So, when's he moving here? When's the wedding?" people asked.<br />
<br />
"I wish I knew," was my only response.<br />
<br />
We couldn't set a wedding date because we didn't know exactly when he'd be here. If we set a date in October and he moved here in September, he'd be unemployed for four months instead of three. My credit card balance didn't like the idea of that. Not one bit.<br />
<br />
"What if we do a quick JP wedding right when you get here?" I offered. "That way you can get your paperwork filed and then we can plan a wedding for October or November."<br />
<br />
"That might be our best bet," he said.<br />
<br />
"And that way we'll be sure I'm 100 percent recovered from surgery by the time I walk down the aisle. And hopefully you'll have your Employment Authorization documents by December."<br />
<br />
A plan was set in motion. No, it wasn't ideal. It wasn't the way we planned for things to happen, but we'd learned very early on in our relationship that when it's up to the government, it's best to have zero plans.<br />
<br />
Day 24.<br />
<br />
Day 25.<br />
<br />
Day 26.<br />
<br />
This is getting ridiculous.<br />
<br />
Day 27.<br />
<br />
Day 28.<br />
<br />
Day 29.<br />
<br />
"Surely, they can't keep your passport from you for that long, right? I mean, that's a pretty important legal document."<br />
<br />
"They can do whatever they want," he replied. "They're the US Government."<br />
<br />
I wanted to punch Mitt Romney through the TV screen with his "Let's keep America American" bullshit. It was like he was taunting me, rubbing salt in an open wound, sticking his tongue out and dangling immigration papers just out of my reach. Ass.<br />
<br />
Day 30.<br />
<br />
Day 31.<br />
<br />Day 32. I woke up to an email from Cayden.<br />
<br />
<title></title>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #999999}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #555555}
p.p3 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #232323}
span.s1 {color: #232323}
td.td1 {width: 67.0px; margin: 0.5px 0.5px 0.5px 0.5px; padding: 6.0px 16.0px 6.0px 0.0px}
td.td2 {width: 360.0px; margin: 0.5px 0.5px 0.5px 0.5px; padding: 6.0px 0.0px 6.0px 0.0px}
</style>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td class="td1" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>from:</i></span></div>
</td>
<td class="td2" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p2" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i><span class="s1"> xxxx</span>911@hotmail.com (Cayden)</i></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>to:</i></span></div>
</td>
<td class="td2" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p3" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i> xxxxxxwp@gmail.com (me)</i></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>date:</i></span></div>
</td>
<td class="td2" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p3" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i> Mon, Sep 3, 2012 at 7:45 AM</i></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="td1" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>subject:</i></span></div>
</td>
<td class="td2" colspan="2" valign="top">
<div class="p3" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i> Good Morning</i></span></div>
<div class="p3" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
<br />
<title></title>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #232323}
p.p2 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #232323; min-height: 15.0px}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Good Morning baby</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>So, check out the below. Yes, that right there is my one-way plane ticket to come and live with you FOREVER!!!! I have the visa in my hand right now. If you weren't excited before, get excited now because it's HAPPENING THIS WEEK!!!!</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>I'm so happy right now.</i></span></div>
<div class="p2" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Well, I'll chat later</i></span></div>
<div class="p1" style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>Love you lots</i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-53999232564476878252012-09-05T01:23:00.002-05:002012-09-05T01:23:48.386-05:00322. Demon BabyNine days later. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
No word. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ten. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Eleven. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Twelve. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thirteen. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nothing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"So, isn't your fiance moving here soon?" my doctor asked. I was at my annual wellness exam and my doctor loved to catch up on the status of my roller coaster of a relationship. "There's got to be a wedding soon, right?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Well, that's a funny story," I started, and then filled her in on the honeymoon and the email and the latest non-happenings. It made for good small talk while my legs were propped up in stirrups. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Wait. What's this?" she asked, pushing against my lower abdomen. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Ummm, it better not be a fucking baby,</i> I thought to myself. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wouldn't that just throw a twist into an already overly dramatic storyline? I started to laugh at the thought of it, but the look of concern on my doctor's face told me it might not be a time for jokes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I can't tell if that's your ovary or something else. Let's get you in for an ultrasound today."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
AN ULTRASOUND? LIKE, FOR A BABY?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My heart started to race. I was afraid to ask any questions because I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answers. Wouldn't I have noticed if I was pregnant? Didn't I still have an IUD in there standing guard against my babymakers?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stared at the garbled mess on the ultrasound screen and attempted to see something. Anything. Was that an alien? Was that whole Twilight: Breaking Dawn demon baby thing coming true?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What is it?" I finally got the courage to ask. I fought the urge to cover my ears before she replied. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Looks like you have a 12 centimeter ovarian cyst and you need surgery to remove it. Like now."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now, aside from "you're pregnant with a demon baby" and "it turns out, you were born a male," this is the last thing a bride-to-be wants to hear when her fiance could be moving there any day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm going out of town the last week of August, so I want to do the surgery before then," she said. "How does next week look for you?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For the second time in two weeks, I was dumbfounded. Speechless. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And with the honeymoon, surgery and a wedding to pay for, I was in serious need of a winning lottery ticket. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-64254306244887016572012-09-05T00:49:00.001-05:002012-09-05T00:49:23.751-05:00321. One Missed CallWe didn't hear back that week.<br />
<br />
We went into week 16 filled with hope and frustration. Cayden went back to checking his email every 7 seconds and I went back to asking Cayden to check his email every 7 seconds. I called Congressman Pete Session's office. His assistant called me back and said it was still in additional processing. I thanked her and asked her where the nearest baby unicorn was so I could punch it.<br />
<br />
I fell asleep with my phone in my hand and woke up in the same position. I told Cayden to call me the moment he got the email, even if it was 3 am in Texas. Every time my phone rang for our normal morning phone calls, my heart would skip a beat. Maybe this would be the call.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey, baby. I'm out a the pub for lunch so I can't call during our normal time, but I'll try to call you a little bit later.</i><br />
<br />
I hated when our schedules didn't sync up. Sometimes we only got one phone call a day, so if we missed it, we might not get to talk until the next day. And sometimes that made my blood boil. This was going to be one of those days. I hit reply:<br />
<br />
<i>I'm going into work early, so we probably won't get to have our phone call today :( </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It was the week after we'd returned from our honeymoon and I was still playing catch up at work. It didn't help that my director was about to be on maternity leave.<br />
<br />
I drove to work in a crappy mood. I'd woken up thinking it was Friday, but then realized it was only Thursday AND I didn't get to have my morning call with Cayden. Everyone on the road was being as asshole and the commercials on the radio made me want to track down the Mattress Giant's President Christine Cook and shake her as hard as physically possible until she promised she'd never record another commercial as long as she lived.<br />
<br />
<i>Just leaving the pub. Is it too late to call?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I was walking into my office building and contemplated sitting outside for a quick call, but then decided I'd just take the call at my desk because no one would be in the office yet anyway.<br />
<br />
<i>I can talk for a bit. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I was trying to keep my bad attitude out of my text message, but I was peeved.<br />
<br />
"Hey baby," he said when I picked up the phone. His voice immediately soothed my nerves.<br />
<br />
"Hey, how was your pub lunch?" I tried to keep my voice down because my coworker Olsen was already plugging away at this desk.<br />
<br />
"Well, I think I had one too man drinks. I feel a little buzzed."<br />
<br />
"Why are you drunk before 2pm on a Thursday? Don't you have to go back to work?" I was confused. Was it actually Friday? The thought perked me up.<br />
<br />
"Well, I was celebrating," he said. I could hear the smile in his voice.<br />
<br />
"Celebrating what? That it's Friday? Is it Friday? Oh my god, I have no idea what day it is. I give up." I threw my hands up and jabbed the power button on my laptop.<br />
<br />
"Celebrating the email. I got the email."<br />
<br />
I typed my password into my computer and waited for it to start up. It took a full five seconds before I realized what Cayden had said. The email. THE email. THE EMAIL??<br />
<br />
"YOU WHAT?" I demanded.<br />
<br />
"I GOT THE EMAIL," he yelled into the phone. "THE email!"<br />
<br />
My jaw dropped. Tears sprung to my eyes. I couldn't move. I couldn't respond.<br />
<br />
"Are you there?" he asked.<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I choked out, thick with tears. It all came rushing over me. All of the emotions. All of the waiting. All of the additional processing. All of the frustrations. Tears splattered against my keyboard and I didn't bother to wipe them up.<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you call me???" I demanded. Olson popped his head up from his cube to check on me. I gave him a thumbs up, despite my tears disheveled appearance. He had gathered enough context from my end of the conversation to know what had just happened. His eyes lit up with genuine happiness and relief.<br />
<br />
"I didn't want to wake you," Cayden laughed. "Can you believe it?.... Whitney, are you there?"<br />
<br />
I was battling the silent tears. I tried to respond but I couldn't figure out how to make my vocal cords function. I was speechless. I was stunned. I may have even been in some form of shock. I just nodded against the phone and hoped he could hear it.<br />
<br />
"Aww, baby, don't cry."<br />
<br />
"I'm trying not to," I lied. I didn't have the emotional strength to even attempt to stop those tears.<br />
<br />
"What did the email say," I asked, when I could find the words.<br />
<br />
"That they're ready to process my visa and that I need to call the courrier to come get my passport. From that point, I should get my passport back with my visa within 9 days!"<br />
<br />
It was Thursday, August 2nd. Exactly 16 weeks since his visa had been refused. In nine days he'd have it in his hand. Nine days until forever.<br />
<br />
"But it does say that it still may need more additional processing," he added. "But I think they have to put that in everyone's email, just as a precaution. I already called the courrier and they're picking my passport up tomorrow. Baby... it's finally happening."<br />
<br />
"How the hell am I supposed to work today? I need to go home! I need to start replanning our wedding! I need to buy men's body wash for our shower! I need to clean. I have so much to do!"<br />
<br />
It's safe to say I was losing my damn mind.<br />
<br />
Cayden laughed at my emotional breakdown. I laughed, too, and then I stepped outside to call everyone and anyone who would listen. Starting with my mom.<br />
<br />
"MOM? HE GOT THE EMAIL!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-41242309221616057502012-09-05T00:08:00.000-05:002012-09-05T00:08:02.352-05:00320. Lucky Number 7?After eight days in paradise, it was time to say goodbye for the last time.... again. I begged the time to stand still. I pleaded for someone to invent time travel before we had to part ways again. I wanted to relive our honeymoon all over again because every single moment of it had been absolutely amazing, and I couldn't stand the thought of watching him walk away from me again.<br />
<br />
We ate our breakfast slowly and left plenty of time to sip our coffee and enjoy our last few hours together.<br />
<br />
"I think we'll hear back this week," Cayden said, nodding assuredly.<br />
<br />
"We've thought that every week," I whined. "I can't get my hopes up again. So I'm just going to assume we won't hear back on the the very last day of week 22. But at least that's only 7 weeks away."<br />
<br />
I tried to sound optimistic, but the thought of going another 7 weeks without him made it hard to swallow the lump forming in my throat. I took another swig of coffee and gazed out at the calm, empty pool.<br />
<br />
"I know this is going to sound weird, but I think I'm going to miss our new friends, too," I said. "We definitely have to invite them to the wedding."<br />
<br />
"For sure," Cayden agreed. "Don't worry, we'll take a road trip out to Monroe, Louisiana. I have to see where this Duck Dynasty show you all were talking about takes place."<br />
<br />
I smiled and nodded, but my mood was already heading south. I wanted to drag Cayden back up to our room and hide under the sheets with him and hope no one found us. But instead, we had to gather our bags and head to the taxi stand.<br />
<br />
It just so happened that our new friends had a layover in Dallas and we were all on the same flight. If anything, that would make this final goodbye slightly more tolerable. At least I wouldn't be the lonely girl crying at the airport. I'd be the girl crying at the airport amongst new friends. Or maybe I wouldn't cry. Maybe I could find a way to lock it up for the final goodbye.<br />
<br />
The six of us piled in the airport shuttle and I plastered myself against Cayden. Everyone was mostly quiet, either because they were recovering from the previous night's boozefest or because they felt awkward knowing they were about to get stuck with the crying girl.<br />
<br />
The moment I saw the ferry dock out the taxi window, I tightened my squeeze on Cayden. It was his stop. He'd have to take the ferry to Playa del Carmen and take another taxi to the airport in Cancun. The driver pulled over, and I told him not to leave me while I said my goodbyes. Cayden shook hands with our new friends and we all made promises to be Facebook friends as soon as we all had free Internet access.<br />
<br />
I stepped out of the taxi with Cayden and wrapped my arms around his neck. There was no swallowing that lump in my throat. It nearly choked me. As I'd done so many times before, I buried my face in Cayden's shirt and let it absorb my tears. He squeezed me hard.<br />
<br />
"I don't want to let go," he whispered against my cheek.<br />
<br />
"Neither do I," I mumbled into his shirt.<br />
<br />
"This couldn't have been more amazing. And one day soon our life together is going to be amazing. I can't wait."<br />
<br />
"Seven weeks," I whispered. I couldn't manage to talk full volume with the tightness in my throat. "Seven weeks tops. And then it's forever."<br />
<br />
He pried my face off his soggy shirt and kissed me. "And then it's forever."<br />
<br />
I'd survived 3 years long-distance. I could handle another 7 weeks. At least that's the pep talk I gave myself as waved at him through the window.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-29580479214454598472012-09-04T23:38:00.001-05:002012-09-04T23:38:56.020-05:00319. Bright Blue Strip and Tequila Shots<i>If you made it to the bright blue strip, you've gone to far. </i><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I glanced around me and saw nothing but bright blue. In a moment of panic, I let go of the acceleration and almost launched myself forward off the jet ski.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>And whatever you do, don't let the jet ski come to a complete stop.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Shit. I twisted the handle and sent the jet ski skidding across the water. Cayden flew past me in the dark blue water, the safe area, with a giant smile across his face. He was clearly enjoying jet skiing as much as I used to back before I fell off one in college, jacking my hip against the side and internally bruising it for the next year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wanted to stop and enjoy the scenery, the fish swimming below us, the wispy clouds above us, but I was scared to death at what would happen if I let the jet ski come to a stop. Would it spontaneously combust? Sink? Electrocute me? I should have asked for more information, but interpreting the Spanglish was getting exhausting. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I THINK I'M GOING TO GO IN," I yelled to Cayden as we passed each other. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'M GOING IN. I'M DONE. FINITO."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"PARDON?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I pointed to myself and then to the shore, hoping he'd get the picture. Now, where was I supposed to park this thing? I let the jet ski idle while I maneuvered it around the snorkelers. I was desperate to get off that death trap. We'd rented the jet skis for a half an hour, was I was done after 15 minutes. I waved my arms at the ski shop attendants in bright orange shorts. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"NO MAS PARA MI," I called. They waved me in and helped pull my jet ski up onto the sand. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Fun?" one of the men asked as I handed him my life vest. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"A blast!" I lied. I needed a drink. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cayden pulled up alongside my jet ski and hopped off. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That was amazing," he said. "I can't believe it's already been 30 minutes. That time flew by!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd chickened out early and he still had $30 worth of jet skiiing left. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
---</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Let's go into town!" Courtney said when we regrouped in front of their room. "We've been on this resort all week. Let's go to town so we can at least say we did."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The six of us piled in a taxi van and headed off for an adventure in Cozumel's main square. The square was lined with litte gift shops and jewelry stores, and the store owners called out to us like the creepy kiosk workers in the mall. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"T shirts!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Silver!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Shot glasses!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Sapphires!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"FREE TEQUILA SHOTS!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Free tequila shots? Did we hear him correctly? Our ears perked up. You can't turn down free tequila in Mexico, right? Can't you get thrown in a sketchy Mexican prison for something like that? We all agreed that it was better to accept the free shot than to risk a life sentence behind bars. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The store we'd been beckoned into was a jewelry store/liquor store hybrid. One man behind the glass-walled jewelry display case tried to sell Vicky a necklace while another man poured the shots. It was a genius marketing scheme. I bet jewelers in the states would make more money if they served free tequila shots on the sales floor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Cuanto cuesta?" I asked after the after burn of the shot faded from my nose, eyes and throat. It wasn't an intense burn like the kind you get from cheap tequila; it was the dull burn of a good tequila that signals that the alcohol had already made it into your bloodstream. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The man held up the bottle and said, "Sesenta dolares."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sixty dollars?? It wasn't THAT good. Suddenly, I was in the mood to bargain. I shook my head and laughed so he'd know there was no way in hell I was going to dish out that kind of money for a bottle of sub par tequila. I noticed that he'd already started wrapping the bottle in brown paper, determined to make his sale.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"How much you have?" he asked. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty. Veinte," I answered. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This time it was his turn to shake his head and laugh.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
""Fifty," he countered. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty." I stood firm on my price and started backing toward the door. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He took the paper-wrapped bottle and put it in a plastic bag. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Forty."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty." I wasn't going to budge from 20. I took two more steps toward the door and he followed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Thirty," he said. This was too easy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty-three." This one almost threw me for a loop. What was an extra $3 to him? Courtney tried to offer me $3 so I could make the purchase, but I brushed her off. Everyone else was watching, highly entertained by the auction. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty." I held the $20 bill between us. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Twenty," he said, swiping my $20 with more than a little attitude and pushing the bag of tequila in my hand. I stepped out triumphantly. The trip to town was a success. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-22666787083632596272012-09-04T00:20:00.000-05:002012-09-04T00:20:11.282-05:00318. Full MoonsShe didn't call. In fact, she never called back. And we didn't pursue it.<br />
<br />
We took it as a sign that we needed to wait. Needed to keep waiting. Besides, we would have had to reapply for a spouse visa and start the whole process over, which would have been my nightmare. And at least we'd always have our fake beach-side wedding with our new friends to look back on.<br />
<br />
That week marked 15 weeks since Cayden's visa had been refused. The Embassy said it could take 16-22 weeks at the longest, so there was a chance we'd hear back at any moment. We checked his email every day, in hopes that we'd get the word that our wait would one day soon come to an end. Until then, the unlimited margaritas would help pass the time.<br />
<br />
We spent our days lounging on rafts in the relaxation pool or attempting drunken crossword puzzles by the beach. The sun baked our skin until we were both a dark shade of caramel. I was in heaven, and I never wanted to leave.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/576005_10100926817372447_265172769_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/576005_10100926817372447_265172769_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"Who wants to go for a swim?" David asked one night, pulling his shirt over his head before any of us had answered. We were all standing on the beach in front of Courtney and Chandler's room. The next thing I knew, his stark white butt was running toward the water.<br />
<br />
We all looked at each other and shrugged. Vicky, Courtney and I stripped down to our bras and thongs, and I'd never been more grateful for the seven months of yoga I'd done. Chandler and Cayden jumped in with just their boxers. At some point Chandler ditched his boxers as well because there were two full moons in the water and one crescent moon overhead. Cayden pulled me against him and kissed me, and I couldn't help but think about the scene in Twilight: Breaking Dawn when Bella and Edward go skinny dipping under the stars on their honeymoon. But unlike Breaking Dawn, I didn't wake up the next day pregnant with a demon baby.<br />
<br />
----<br />
<br />
On the fifth night, Cayden started to feel the effects of our all-day binge drinking. Luckily, I came prepared with every type of nausea/heartburn/anti-diarrhea/constipation/etc medicine known to man. I didn't want to risk either one of us to spending one second of our honeymoon with a case of the shits. We'd learned our lesson after the food poisoning incident in 2010 when we both thew up jalapenos out our noses.<br />
<br />
So that night we filled his belly with crackers, Tums and a combination of other goodies from my magic medicine bag and spent a sober night in, curled up next to each other in bed. We talked about our trip and how we wanted to rent jet skis and go into town before we left. We talked about how wedding and how we had to find a way to make room for our new friends on the invite list. We laughed about Chandler wiping out on the catamaran and about how so many people had heard our story on Kidd Kraddick's Love Letters to Kellie.<br />
<br />
The only English channel on the TV was playing Zathura, a crappy space movie for little kids starring The Hunger Games's own Josh Hutcherson, in which he plays a little bitch like he does in most of his movies. Zathura was like a poor man's Jumanji. Cayden fell asleep before the riveting turning point, and I stayed awake just so I could tell him how it ended. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-91124337316100311912012-08-31T00:23:00.003-05:002012-09-03T19:40:49.863-05:00317. PDASex on the pier under the stars sounded a lot more romantic than it actually was. Or maybe we're just not as coordinated as others. My shoulder blades dug into the hard, damp wooden planks as Cayden rocked against me. I felt a splinter making its way into my spine. Cayden winced as his knee slid into the gap between two planks.<br />
<br />
"This isn't working, is it?" I asked looking up at him, a look of defeat in his eyes.<br />
<br />
"What if we..." he started to say, and then flipped me over on my stomach and pulled me up on my hands and knees. I tried to ignore the pain of my knees bruising against the wood. I had to keep my core tight to keep from sliding forward and face planting.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, not working," he finally said, and we both collapsed on our backs next to each other. "My hips hurt. When did we turn into fragile elderly people, anyway?"<br />
<br />
"Good question," I said, remembering the scrapes and bruises still fresh on my knees and arms from our waterslide adventure a few days before. "But considering our old age and the fact that we've been drinking non-stop for three days, I'm surprised we haven't experienced one of those I'm-not-a-college-student-anymore hangovers. Those are the worst."<br />
<br />
"I wonder why that is. Maybe we're sleeping through our hangovers?" He scratched at his right collarbone, the way he always did when he was contemplating or devising a new theory.<br />
<br />
"This is pretty amazing, though, isn't it?"<br />
<br />
I felt Cayden give me a sideways glance.<br />
<br />
"No, not that," I said, trying to untangle my panties from my ankle. "This." I waved my hand out across the star-filled sky. "This," I said again, gesturing to the two of us.<br />
<br />
"Amazing doesn't even describe it."<br />
<br />
"Whoa," I said, sitting up too fast.<br />
<br />
"What?" he answered, looking alarmed.<br />
<br />
"I just realize that was the first time we've had sex anywhere other than a bed or the shower. Well, the shower barely counts because I can never keep my balance."<br />
<br />
He scratched his collarbone a little harder while he thought. How was it possible that we'd been together more than two years and hadn't ever had adventurous sex? Probably because our time together was limited and we both had roommates.<br />
<br />
"What's the weirdest place you've ever had sex?" I asked, suddenly realizing I didn't know many details of his past sex life beyond the fact that he used to be quite the little man whore in his military years.<br />
<br />
"Hotel stairwell in New York," he said, a grin spread across his face.<br />
<br />
NYC? Was this during the same trip he met me?<br />
<br />
"Oh, no. Not that trip," he said, reading the curious look on my face. "My first trip to NYC. Hotel stairwell on New Years Eve. I was wearing a party hat and we didn't even bother undressing. I bet we looked ridiculous." He laughed and shook his head at the memory.<br />
<br />
I laughed, too, as I tried to picture it, which is probably a weird reaction to have when you picture your future husband banging another woman. But I could just picture him with a big sparkly top hat that said 'Happy New Year' and a look on his face that said, 'is this really happening? The guys are never going to believe this.'<br />
<br />
"What about you?" he asked. "Weirdest place you ever had sex. Go."<br />
<br />
"Rooftop of my apartment in the East Village in NYC."<br />
<br />
"Doesn't sound much more comfortable than this." He knocked on the wood next to him.<br />
<br />
"I brought a yoga mat," I said with a grin.<br />
<br />
He looked proud of me for being so prepared. Both of us were wishing we'd brought yoga mats or at least a towel onto the pier.<br />
<br />
We sat there quietly for a moment, listening to the water lap against the wooden posts. Our minds were both here and there, enjoying the moment but also imagining what our future would be like. I couldn't believe I was on my honeymoon with such an intelligent, sexy and respectful man, and he was about to be mine forever.<br />
<br />
"Do you think she called???" I blurted, as soon as I remembered the conversation we'd had with the wedding planner.<br />
<br />
"Only one way to find out," Cayden said, pushing himself up to a standing position and pulling me up with him. "Let's order room service. Dessert and red wine. And then, whether she called or not, let's celebrate another incredible day with some non-adventurous king-sized bed sex."<br />
<br />
It was oddly the most romantic thing he could have said.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-23417727017220890332012-08-29T23:11:00.005-05:002012-08-29T23:11:45.515-05:00316. Blessed"Mom?" I asked, trying to keep the drunk out of my voice. "How mad would you be if Cayden and I got married while we were here?"<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure what I was expecting her to say. Maybe I expected her to talk me out of it. Maybe I was expecting her to yell at me for wasting money on a long-distance phone call to ask such a ridiculous question. But I definitely wasn't expecting this:<br />
<br />
"Not mad at all! We want him here as badly as you do. Do whatever you have to do to make that happen."<br />
<br />
I almost squealed into the phone. I nodded to Cayden and gave him a thumbs up.<br />
<br />
It was just after the sunset snorkel cruise that we decided we had to get married. We were standing on the dock, watching the sun set between the storm clouds. A group of girls walked by behind us singing "Love letters! Love letters to Kellie!" Turns out, it wasn't just Vicky who'd heard me on the radio.<br />
<br />
"So what exactly do you have to do to make that happen?" Mom asked.<br />
<br />
"I actually don't have a clue. We're going to ask around and see what all we need. I don't know if we need our birth certificates or if we can just throw back some shots and find a fake Elvis to marry us like they do in Vegas."<br />
<br />
Surely I could find a fake Elvis in Cozumel. A fake Mexican Elvis. Si. Si, senior.<br />
<br />
"Well, you have our blessing." I heard Dad give a "woo-hoo" in the background and I could almost picture him doing a fist pump. My parents rock.<br />
<br />
Cayden kissed me before I could hang up the phone. I'd been on a high for a full three days. Cayden was feeling the same way I was. I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his carefree laugh. I started to wonder if that's how I'd feel every day when Cayden and I could finally live together. Or maybe it was the effects of the romantic setting mixed with various alcoholic beverages that was making me feel that way.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
"So... we want to get married. How can we make that happen?"<br />
<br />
We were sitting across from the hotel's wedding planner in the lobby before dinner. A surprised look crossed her face before she opened her binder and ruffled through some papers.<br />
<br />
"How long are you staying?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"We leave in 5 days," Cayden answered, squeezing my hand in excitement.<br />
<br />
"Let me call the judge and see what I can do," the wedding planner said. "It used to be that you could get married on a whim here, like people do in Vegas, but the marriage laws here changed recently and it could take up to a month to get a marriage certificate."<br />
<br />
My heart dropped. I needed another margarita, STAT. Cayden sighed and patted my leg.<br />
<br />
"But like I said, let me call the judge and then I'll call your room and tell you what he said."<br />
<br />
All that night, through dinner with our favorite new friends and a night of dancing to 90s music at the beach-side bar, I couldn't wait to get back to our room to check our messages.<br />
<br />
But that was going to have to wait until we had sex on the pier under the stars.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-58524681276925862772012-08-27T23:22:00.004-05:002012-08-27T23:22:48.184-05:00315. Come Sail Away with Me<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
There's something both beautiful and disconcerting about being on a on a sailboat while lightning is striking all around you. Bright sky and sunshine above, dark clouds and blinding flashes of lightning to the left, right and straight ahead. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Cerveza o margarita?" </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
My attention was diverted from the ominous weather to the plastic, sweaty cups of liquid sunshine in front of me. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Margarita. Gracias," I said to the hispanic man behind the bar on deck. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I titled my head back and let the sun sting my cheeks as I swallowed the cold, tangy drink. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"I need to drink until my body stops hurting," Courtney said. We all nodded in agreement.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
All six of us had woken up that morning with bruises, scrapes and body aches in our shoulders, arms and hips. Courtney and Vicky had burns on their hip bones. My hipbones came away unscathed thanks to "curves." Turns out, the pool slide was no match for drunken twenty-somethings. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Let's buy that one," I said, pointing across the water to what looked like an abandoned resort. The colorful walls were closing in on each other and the grass roof had deteriorated in parts, leaving gaps for sunshine, rain and anything else that wanted in. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Yeah, we can fix it up and call it..." Cayden said, struggling to come up with a name that combined all of our last names. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"It can't be that expensive, right?" Vicky asked. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Surely not, I thought to myself. I leaned into Cayden as I pictured the six living right there on the beach. Instead of cars we'd have scooters, jet skis and stand-up paddle boards. We'd have hammocks everywhere. And maybe we'd even have a slide that goes into the ocean. A padded slide. And, of course, we'd have to hire a full-time bartender. That would be the life. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Secure your life vests and grab your snorkel gear!" </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I tightened the strap around my waist and look curiously at the strap dangling between my legs. Surely that's not supposed to go up my butt, right? A quick glance around proved me wrong. I chugged the rest of my margarita and reached down to secure the strap in its awkward position. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"How ridiculous do I look?" I asked after pressing my goggles against my face until my eyes bulged. The snorkel dangled next to my right ear. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Cayden turned around with the snorkel already in his mouth, making his lips bulge out worse than his eyes. I couldn't stop myself from laughing. We both looked ridiculous. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
The lightning died down by the time the boat stopped at our first snorkel site. Good thing. I wasn't in the mood to be electrocuted on my honeymoon. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Cayden and I held hands as we jumped off the side of the boat and into the crystal blue water. Beneath me, colorful fish and plant life drifted about as if we weren't there, flailing and kicking around in their peaceful home. A giant crab poked out of a crevice in the reef. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Cayden, look!" I mumbled into my snorkel. I looked to my right. Then my left. Cayden was nowhere to be seen. I came up from the water and removed my foggy goggles. Way behind me, I spotted Cayden. Actually, I heard him before I saw him. He was coughing up salt water and struggling with his face mask. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Babe, are you OK?" I asked as I got closer. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"I keep breathing in water," he said. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was red. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I tried not to laugh, but I couldn't hide it. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"How are you breathing in water? Your nose is in your mask and your mouth is attached to a snorkel. Are you putting the snorkel under water?" </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"No," he said, shaking his head and draining his snorkel. "I just put my head under and try to breath."</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
He dipped under water for a demonstration and came up hacking and coughing, which caused me to nearly die of laughter. Big, bad Cayden couldn't figure out how to use a snorkel. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Poor thing," I said between laughs. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
While he struggled with the snorkel, I struggled with the life vest straps. Whose idea was it to put a strap between your legs that yanks UP when you jump in the water. I felt molested. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"Hey, babe," I said, clinging onto Cayden to relieve some of the pressure in my life vest (i.e. crotch). "Isn't there some kind of rule about getting married in international waters? Aren't boat captains prepared to do that?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
I was basing my theory off an episode of How I Met Your Mother. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
"I think you might be onto something," Cayden said, but I was pretty sure he was also basing his answer on the same episode. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
Suddenly, getting married was all I wanted to do. Even with a strap up my ass and Cayden choking and blowing snot bubbles, I wanted to say I do. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/181173_10100920622546927_1167982231_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/181173_10100920622546927_1167982231_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-69703067134333071232012-08-20T23:20:00.000-05:002012-08-20T23:20:14.394-05:00314. Or Forever Hold Your PeaceWe stumbled out of the restaurant that night with our bellies full of beef tenderloin and cannoli and our minds full of wonder at what else the week would bring. It was only our first full day at the resort, and I felt like I'd been there for the better part of a week.<br />
<br />
"Wow," Cayden said under his breath. I looked up and followed his gaze until I, too, was wowing.<br />
<br />
"It's beautiful."<br />
<br />
Just before the wooden deck dropped off to the sand ahead of us stood a single white gazebo. Beyond that, dark waters reflecting the moon's glow pushed and pulled at the edge of the beach. I looked up and saw more stars than I'd ever seen at one time. I couldn't look away.<br />
<br />
Cayden looped his arm through mine and I let him guide me toward the beach without peeling my eyes from the star-speckled sky.<br />
<br />
"You've made me so proud." I stopped abruptly as I realized it wasn't Cayden I was walking with. It was David and he was patting my hand. What the...<br />
<br />
"So so proud."<br />
<br />
I looked to Cayden for help and I found him under the gazebo, his eyes glued to me with a mischievous grin. Chandler was just behind him and to his right, standing tall with his hands crossed behind his back. Courtney and Vicky were to my right, facing me, flanked on one side of the gazebo. I took another step forward and it clicked. I was walking down the aisle.<br />
<br />
I squeezed David's arm in excitement, the way I imagine I'd squeeze my dad's arm as he walked me down the aisle. I'd waited for this moment for so long. I'd always wondered what it would feel like to see Cayden at the end of the aisle waiting for me. My heart slammed against my chest. One step closer. And another. And another.<br />
<br />
"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" Chandler asked, waving one arm toward Cayden. Cayden stood tall and smiled.<br />
<br />
"Her father does," David answered.<br />
<br />
"Very well."<br />
<br />
David kissed me on the cheek and held my hand out to meet Cayden's. The muscles behind my ears started to throb from the strength of the smile spread across my face.<br />
<br />
Cayden took both of my hands in his as we stood facing each other.<br />
<br />
"Dearly beloved," Chandler began. "We are gathered together here in the sight of the sun gods, and in the face of this beautiful all-inclusive resort full of bottomless drinks and beautiful people, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony."<br />
<br />
I felt downright giddy.<br />
<br />
"Who has the rings?" Chandler whispered sternly to my bridesmaids.<br />
<br />
"Shit," I said. "I do!"<br />
<br />
I pulled my ring off my finger and handed it over Chandler.<br />
<br />
"Sorry," I whispered to Cayden. "I totally didn't bring your ring. It's on my dresser. How about an I.O.U?"<br />
<br />
"This ring is a circle," Chandler said, holding he ring up in front of his face for all of us to witness.<br />
<br />
Cayden and I tried to stifle our laughs. Chandler was on a roll, and we didn't want to ruin a perfect moment.<br />
<br />
"Hey babe?" Courtney said hesitantly. "I hate to interrupt...but I think there was shellfish in my dinner."<br />
<br />
A concerned look washed over Chandler's face as he scanned his wife up and down, checking for signs of an allergic reaction.<br />
<br />
"I feel things starting to swell."<br />
<br />
Vicky took Courtney's arm and looked at us apologetically.<br />
<br />
"I'll take her back to the room to get some Benadryl. David, that means you have to catch the bouquet."<br />
<br />
Cayden and I looked at each other and laughed.<br /><br />"Let's all go back," I offered. "I don't have my vows ready, anyway."<br />
<br />
"Thank god," Cayden said with a sigh of relief. "I haven't even started writing mine."<br />
<br />
He bent down and kissed me. "I don't know if our real wedding can beat this one," he said after he pulled away. "Well, minus the swelling bridesmaid."<br />
<br />
Chandler handed me my ring and I slipped it back on my finger, which had felt abandoned and naked without it.<br />
<br />
I leaned my head against Cayden's arm as we walked back to or room. Our fake wedding had been the perfect end to the most perfect day of my existence. How could it possibly get any better?<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-89338801951635946912012-08-20T00:16:00.001-05:002012-08-20T00:16:56.381-05:00313. Slip n Slide"You grab my leg and I'll grab yours," Chandler said. I didn't think twice before slipping down on my back and hooking one arm around his shin. With his head at my feet and my head at his, we created a human raft and allowed the current to force us down the curvy slide. We screamed and laughed as we swished back and forth, nearly spilling out the side of the slide and into the landscaping surrounding it. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Move!" we both screamed as we spotted David climbing up the slide just a few feet in front of us. He jumped and straddled the slide in just enough time for Chandler and I to fling through this legs and pour into the pool on the other side. We both came up laughing and sputtering water. I couldn't tell if his eyes were bloodshot from the chlorine or the numerous alcoholic beverages we'd consumed up until that point, but I was pretty sure mine looked the same. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Y'all almost nailed David!" Cayden, spilling some whisky and coke in the pool as he gestured toward the scene of the almost collision.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I stood on tiptoe and planted a big, wet kiss on his slick lips. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was having the time of my life. I couldn't remember a time I'd been happier. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh, you missed it," Cayden said. "Vicky went down that other slide on a raft and she flung off of it and into the bushes!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh my god." I couldn't believe I'd missed it. I lived for moments like that. "Where the hell did she get a raft?" Not that it really mattered. They weren't even allowed to be in the exclusive pool, but we were all about breaking rules. In fact, even though Cayden and I had exclusive wristbands, we weren't allowed to use the slides because we didn't have pool-terrace rooms. But like I said, we were rebellious rule breakers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We spent the next hour or so climbing back up the slide and flying down on our backs, our stomachs, and each other before we decided to break for dinner.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"So, quick naps and showers and then we meet up in the lobby for dinner?" Courtney asked. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Nap time? More like sexy time." I thought I said it in my head. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That's exactly what I meant by nap time," Courtney said, giving Chandler a suggestive look. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We parted ways and Cayden and I skipped toward our cabana hand in hand. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I love our new friends," I said, looking up at Cayden with drunken eyes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I know, they're perfect," he said. "They're so much fun. And they're just like us! I wish they lived in Dallas."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I guess we're just going to have to take some road trips to Monroe, Louisiana."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-3603178532652203142012-08-14T01:10:00.000-05:002012-08-14T01:10:42.755-05:00312. Cup Sizes"So, which pool is it going to be?" Cayden asked as we surveyed the third and final pool. It was the exclusive pool, which was adults-only, and Cayden and I had exclusive wristbands to grant us access. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Where is everybody?" I asked as I shifted my beach bag to my other shoulder. I'd assumed the exclusive pool would be full of people my age, sipping margaritas and organizing off-site adventures. Instead what we found was a middle-aged couple reading separate Kindles under giant sunhats and three 30-something women face-down and passed out in their lounge chairs, probably recovering from the previous night's festivities.<br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The first pool--the activities pool--had a volleyball net and Spanish music played through the surrounding speakers. It would have been perfect if not for the handful of toddlers and pre-teens I spotted having a splashing contest at one end of the pool. Getting waterlogged by a bunch of little shits wearing braces was the last thing I wanted to do on my honeymoon. And if they got pool water in my pina colada, I couldn't guarantee anyone's safety.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The second pool we surveyed was the relaxation pool. No music. No hyperactive children. No obnoxious teenagers binge drinking and flashing their boobs like it's spring break in Cancun. Just a swim-up bar and the sound of the nearby ocean for entertainment. </div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Let's go back to the relaxation pool," I suggested. "I thought I saw a few people our age over there. Could be fun."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was only 10:30 a.m., so I shouldn't have been that surprised that people weren't already at the pool with a drink in hand. We'd woken up earlier than expected, and we'd already enjoyed (some sexy time and) a huge breakfast of eggs, sausage, french toast and fresh fruit from the buffet, which we ate on the restaurant's wrap-around patio overlooking the crystal blue water. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thick, gray clouds rolled in as Cayden and I threw our towels down on two blue lounge chairs at one end of the relaxation pool. We looked at the sky and then at each other and laughed. With our luck, it would rain non-stop for the next seven days. Neither of us was phased. It could have rained all day and all night and I would have been perfectly happy to spend the next week locked up in a hotel room with Cayden and 24-7 room service. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You seriously look amazing," Cayden said, eyeing me up and down as I rubbed suntan lotion on my arms and chest. I still felt half-naked in my new swim suit, but I also felt half awesome. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Thanks, baby," I said, trying not to blush. "So do you."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Me? No. Not until I get a tan."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
OK, so he was a little pasty. He had that "London summer glow."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The pool water was cool and refreshing, albeit at an awkward depth. The entire pool was barely four feet deep, just low enough to expose your entire stomach and chest, and just high enough to drown you if you tried to sit down. We squatted down onto our knees and waded over to the swim up bar with our plastic double-insulated cups.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Two frozen margaritas, por favor."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Where did you get those?" the brunette girl next to me asked, pointing at our cups. She seemed to be about my age with giant green eyes and a chest only money could buy. I looked down at my slightly shrunken boobs and sighed. As much as I loved losing weight, I hated that it came at the expense of my once full boobs. But then I remembered my margarita cups were bigger than hers and I smiled. More boobs for her, more margaritas for me. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Brought them with us," I said. "I read on Sabor's Facebook page that you should bring your own giant cups or you get stuck with the tiny ones, which means you have to keep going back for more. Good for business. Bad for my buzz," I said. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That's genius! I wish we'd known about that." She turned to her friends who were propped up in lounge chair next to the bar. "Hey! We need to go get giant cups like theirs. Chandler, why didn't we think to bring giant cups?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A guy in a lounge chair with a shaved head and sunglasses, who I assumed to be Chandler, looked disapprovingly at his small cup of melted margarita and shrugged. The hipster-looking guy next to him with a swoop of sand-colored hair peeking out from under his fedora hat gave his cup the same defeated look, and the thin, leggy, beautiful model-type next to him seemed to be too engrossed in whatever she was reading on her Kindle to notice her cup was sub par. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The brunette turned back to us and lifted her cup by way of greeting. "I'm Courtney, by the way. Where are y'all from?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I couldn't quite place her accent. It was southern, but I got the impression that it wasn't Texan. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'm from Dallas and he's from London," I said, suddenly realizing yet again that there was no easy to to explain what we were doing there without going into the details. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"From London???" she exclaimed. "Oh, let me hear your accent!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cayden laughed. He was used to this. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What do you want me to say?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ah, Vicky, are you hearing this?" Courtney called out to the leggy model. "He has a British accent!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There's really no better icebreaker. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Three hours and 8-10 drinks later, we were all best friends. Oh, we were also shitfaced. I wasn't sure if it was the copious amounts of alcohol or our gregarious personalities, but we all clicked. I couldn't even hate Courtney for her gorgeous green eyes or perfect rack because she was downright hilarious. And while Vicky may have looked like a runway model with her tousled beach hair and never-ending legs, she definitely didn't have the dry personality or inflated ego to match. She was a sweetheart with an adorable Louisiana accent and an air of innocence about her. The hipster boy, David, actually wasn't a hipster at all and had a weird obsession with dragons. They all lived in Monroe, Louisiana, and they were in Cozumel celebrating Chandler and Courtney's one-year wedding anniversary. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When we told them we were on our honeymoon, they cheered and congratulated us, and then confusion washed over their drunken faces.<br /><br />"Wait..." Courtney said. "I thought you said he lived in London and you live in Texas. Are you married and living in separate countries?" She was looking at me like I was insane. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Not exactly..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cayden and I took turns summing up our situation. All the while, Vicky listened with a speculative look. I could't tell if she was too drunk to understand or if we were took drunk to explain it right, but it looked like she was thinking very hard about something. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We got the usual responses. "WHAT?" "That's bullshit!" "His visa was REFUSED? I thought getting married made him a citizen?" "So how much longer do you have to wait?" and "I'm so sorry for you guys. I can't imagine how much this sucks."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it was Vicky's response that completely threw me off. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"So... weird question," she started. "Were you by any chance on 'Love Letters to Kellie' on Kidd Kraddick?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I WAS!" I screamed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"You were?!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"She was!" Cayden screamed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Holy shit!" Courtney added. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And like a bunch of drunk 20-somethings, we freaked the fuck out. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-11929892768307367442012-08-12T21:35:00.001-05:002012-08-12T21:35:26.749-05:00311. FlashbackWhen I felt his arm draped across me the next morning, I thought I was dreaming. I was afraid the heaviness of his arm across my hip would disappear if I opened my eyes. It had happened before. One minute I'd be laying there, his arm around me, our noses touching as we tried to gaze into each other's eyes without laughing, and the next minute I'd be alone in my bed wondering if I'd completely lost my mind.<br />
<br />
I stayed completely still and begged my eyelids to find the strength to hold shut. I wanted to go back to that dream place with Cayden and the candlelit dinner, the ocean, the sand between my toes, cold water lapping at our feet, the long pier with the thatch roof under a bed of stars. It all seemed so real and so unreal I couldn't make sense of it. I wiggled my toes under the sheets and they still felt dry from the barefoot walk in the sand. I felt the weight of his arm shift and I thought he was going to disappear again. I squeezed my eyes shut to hang onto the dream and his hand crept lower down my hip.<br />
<br />
The sensation gave me a flashback to another part of the dream. A dirty dream, indeed. His shirt was off. My lips and hands were trailing down his neck, his chest, his stomach. I remembered how pale his stomach looked under my tan hands and the way it shuddered in reaction to my lips. I'd untied his linen pants and pushed him down on the bed. I remembered just standing there for a moment, admiring the man in front of me in the tight black boxer briefs and the feeling of excitement at what was about to happen. I slid my lace panties off and kicked them to the side before I crawled on top.<br />
<br />
"Good morning, baby."<br />
<br />
What? I didn't remember him saying that in the dream. That's kind of a weird thing for someone to say at a time like that. My eyes fluttered as I tried to hold onto the dream, but I felt it slipping away. The dream was gone but the weight on my waist was not. What the hell?<br />
<br />
"Are you awake?"<br />
<br />
I let one eye peek open. I saw a tile floor, a couch, a sliding glass door. Beyond the glass door I saw a hammock and palm trees. It wasn't until I saw my panties lying next to the coffee table that I realized I hadn't been dreaming about Cayden, I'd been replaying the activities of the night before. I confirmed it by looking down at the slightly pale hand on my hip. It was real. Cayden was there.<br />
<br />
I turned around to face him and clung to him, at which point I realized we were both still naked. I buried my face in his chest and wrapped a leg around him, just to make sure he wasn't going anywhere.<br />
<br />
"I take that as a yes," he said.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I whispered.<br />
<br />
We stayed like that for a long time, just holding onto each other and enjoying the feeling of naked skin against naked skin. When you go four months without any physical contact, the lightest touch can feel like the most amazing thing in the world. And the roughest touch can leave you paralyzed in sexual satisfaction. A flashback of Cayden's hand entangled in my hair in a tight fist made me hold my breath.<br />
<br />
"So, what should we do today?" Cayden asked, interrupting my erotic flashback for the second time that morning. "Drink all day under the sun or drink all day under the sun?"<br />
<br />
While I couldn't go wrong with either option, I had a third option to throw into the mix.<br />
<br />
"Or," I said, kissing the side of his neck. "We could..."<br />
<br />
I left it at that as I trailed back down his neck. His chest. His stomach.<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-67878975710338862752012-08-07T00:32:00.001-05:002012-08-07T00:32:07.999-05:00Bullies, Elves and AspirationsEvery Christmas when I was a little girl (OK, let's be honest, I was never really what one would consider "little"), my teachers read my elementary classes a book called "Elphland: The Story of Santa's Elves." And every year, I remember bragging to all of my classmates after story time, "My dad wrote that book!"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Their 8-year-old jaws would drop.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Your dad's famous?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yep," I'd answer, glowing with pride and bragging rights. "And he also makes toys, so he's kinda like Santa."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I wasn't lying. My dad worked at a toy company for as long as I can remember. So in my mind, he was Santa. Or at least one of his lead elves. He was also my softball coach, assistant basketball coach, and life coach when it came to those shithead playground bullies. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, I was bullied. Not half as badly as hundreds and thousands of other kids, but as the chunky kid with braces, glasses and a seriously unfortunate case of psoriasis, I was an easy target. I was also a large target, which is probably why I only remember one bully in particular. The rest of them were probably afraid I'd sit on them. Rightfully so. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, back to the reason I'm writing this. My dad wrote Elphland about 15 years ago, and although hundreds of students at Woerther and Ridge Meadows Elementary heard and loved the story every year, he never got around to getting it published. Elphland tells the backstory of Santa's Elves--who they are, where they came from, why they work so hard to put smiles on so many kids' faces every year--and in doing so, Elphland speaks to the bigger issues children face today like bullying and prejudice. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Last year, my dad finally decided to self-publish a spiral-bound soft-copy and send it out to family friends and mommy bloggers. Babble.com, an influential parenting magazine, ranked Elphland among the Top 10 Totally Awesome Christmas Books of 2011. Yes, this is me glowing with pride and bragging rights again at the age of 26. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Whitney, why the hell are you telling us about your awkward years and the fact that your dad may or may not be an elf?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have a point, I swear. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my family, we like to go big or go home. (Actually, we all like to go big and then go home for a big Cuban meal.) So dad isn't stopping at a few flimsy spiral-bound soft covers. He has dreams to publish the fully illustrated storybook complete with an audio book with music, a musical soundtrack with songbook, a coloring book and plush dolls and animals based on the storybook characters. His ultimate vision is to produce an animated Elphland movie that will air on TV every Christmas season, because let's face it, those old Rudolf and Abominable Snowman claymations from the 50s are getting old.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Being that it doesn't look like any of us will be winning the lottery any time soon (trust me, I've been trying), he created a Kickstarter project to help raise the necessary funds. The video he created for the site gave me chills and made me cry. I blame the music.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="360" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GoZIWu3Wc2o" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
If you're feeling generous, head on over to his Kickstarter page and donate as little as $1 to help him reach his goal. No pressure, though. I promise I won't sit on you if you don't.<br />
<br />
Kickstarter: <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/braulp/elphland-the-story-of-santas-elves">http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/braulp/elphland-the-story-of-santas-elves</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-57252105875978717282012-08-05T22:53:00.002-05:002012-08-05T22:53:52.462-05:00310. Date Night<i>I'm here!</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
My stomach did flip flops as I read the text message. I nearly flipped out of the hammock I'd been glued to for the past few hours.<br />
<br />
<i>I'll meet you in the lobby!</i><br />
<br />
I stopped in front of the mirror on my way out and was surprised to see that the humidity hadn't yet caused my hair to revert back to my 7th grade style when I lived in Houston and straighteners didn't exist. I put my hat back on anyway and reapplied my deodorant, lipstick and perfume before I skipped toward the door.<br />
<br />
looked at the time: 8:05. My stomach growled as a reminder that the only thing in my stomach since my bowl of cereal at breakfast were three beers and a handful of peanut M&Ms. My big plan to throw Cayden down on the bed and kiss every inch of his body was quickly being replaced an even greater desire to stuff my face with anything and everything at one of the various restaurants on the resort.<br />
<br />
I passed by the tennis courts and basketball court, rounded the corner and walk-ran between two rows of two-story white cabanas. I smiled at the staff members behind the hospitality desk and nearly hurdled over a small hispanic child chasing after a beach ball in the lobby. I scanned the room.<br />
<br />
There he was. Standing in front of the front desk with his suitcase propped up next to him. His smile mirrored mine the moment our eyes met. It took everything I had not to let four months of sexual and emotional frustration explode right there in the Sabor lobby. Talk about will power.<br />
<br />
I closed the distance between us with a few strides and wrapped my arms around his neck. He pulled me tight with his arms around my waist and I was finally exactly where I wanted to be forever. I wanted to cry. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to wrap a leg around him and dry hump him in the hotel lobby. Instead, I stood on my tip toes and kissed him.<br />
<br />
My lips stung and puckered and I pulled away as fast as I'd swooped in.<br />
<br />
Cayden looked down at me laughing.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, I forgot to tell you. I probably taste like the ocean."<br />
<br />
I made exaggerated spitting gestures and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.<br />
<br />
"That ferry ride was rough."<br />
<br />
I decided I didn't care whether he tasted like spearmint gum or the Gulf, and I stole another lip-stinging kiss.<br />
<br />
"You're here," I said when I pulled away. "You're really here."<br />
<br />
I said it every time to reassure myself it was true.<br />
<br />
"I'm here," he said with a smile. "And holy shit, you look amazing. Look at you."<br />
<br />
He spun me in a circle. I beamed.<br />
<br />
"OK, now let's get you a shower so we can go eat. I'm so hungry I could eat a dolphin."<br />
<br />
Cayden held my hand tightly as we walked to our room. I pointed out the activities pool, the relaxation pool, and three of the five restaurants. "What are you hungry for? I'm thinking either Asian-fusion or Italian." I silently hoped he'd say Italian. I could have motorboated a plate of fettucini right about then.<br />
<br />
"Let's do Italian," he said, smiling down at me.<br />
<br />
After he was fresh and showered and dressed up in his gray linen pants and button down shirt, we did something we hadn't done in four months. We went on a date.WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-13525642308830253412012-08-01T19:07:00.000-05:002012-08-01T19:07:07.162-05:00309. Planes, Trains, and Other Various Forms of Transportation<link href="file://localhost/Users/Colin/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link>
<link href="file://localhost/Users/Colin/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_editdata.mso" rel="Edit-Time-Data"></link>
<style>
<!--
/* Font Definitions */
@font-face
{font-family:"MS 明朝";
panose-1:0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0;
mso-font-charset:128;
mso-generic-font-family:roman;
mso-font-format:other;
mso-font-pitch:fixed;
mso-font-signature:1 0 16778247 0 131072 0;}
@font-face
{font-family:Cambria;
panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4;
mso-font-charset:0;
mso-generic-font-family:auto;
mso-font-pitch:variable;
mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;}
/* Style Definitions */
p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal
{mso-style-parent:"";
margin:0in;
margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:12.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;
mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝";
mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";}
@page Section1
{size:595.0pt 842.0pt;
margin:49.65pt 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in;
mso-header-margin:35.4pt;
mso-footer-margin:35.4pt;
mso-paper-source:0;}
div.Section1
{page:Section1;}
-->
</style>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now from Cayden's perspective:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
---</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Almost 4 months to the day since I was saying goodbye to
Whitney in Dallas, it was time again to start what has become known to me as
the ‘ritual’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passport, check. Bag
packed, check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Percy Pigs, check.
Bus to the train station, train to the airport, check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel like Clooney in the movie <i>Up In
The Air</i>, with getting on a flight almost as autonomous as waking up to pee in
the middle of the night, eyes half shut, yet not spilling a drop. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Despite the familiarity of the ritual, this trip had a
different feel to the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was
I excited to see Whitney? Like you couldn’t imagine!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bitter pill I’d been swilling around my mouth for the
past 4 months though, the heartache, the frustration, the anger, the rage, the
dashed hopes……it had all left a bitter taste that was hard to shift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt I should have been more excited
for our pre-wedding honeymoon, but until I had Whitney clinging to me like a
Koala Bear, I felt I couldn’t get overly excited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the train to the airport, I had a sickening thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if the embassy had made another
‘technically, it’s not a refusal’ gaff and prevented me from travelling anywhere
while I was under review? Normally, I wouldn’t have entertained the idea, but
this whole process has made me into a nervous wreck. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I set myself milestones.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Milestone 1 – Get checked in without a nasty surprise that I
can’t travel</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Milestone 2 – Get through security</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Milestone 3 – Get on the flight</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good news, I achieved all 3.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cloud of the last 4 months started to lift once I was
airside, and I treated myself to some extra legroom, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, I was finally starting to feel
things were going our way, for the first time in a long time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The flight was 10 and a half hours long, not half as
eventful as Whitney’s flight with a crazy, Jack-guzzling, possible killer, but
it didn’t go without its drama. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I became a witness to some crazed lunatic of a woman
threatening a member of the cabin staff. I was told someone would need to speak
to me about the incident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welcome
back nervous wreck Cayden, and to thinking the worst. Would they keep me when
we landed? Would I have to talk to the police? How long would I need to stay?
Would I miss my connections to Cozumel? It had the hallmarks of being a real
pain in the ass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I landed at Cancun airport and felt a huge sigh of relief. I
had made it. I was in Mexico and just a couple of hours from seeing
Whitney.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I was happy. This is
how getting excited about a pre-wedding honeymoon should feel like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gingerly strolled past the cabin
crew, hoping they would not keep me for questioning, and on through to customs.
Did I feel guilty for arriving in the country? NO. Did I get pulled aside and
interrogated because of my surname? NO.<i> Is this what it’s like to travel to the US for normal people?</i> I thought
to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to travel the 45 miles from Cancun to Playa Del Carmen
by taxi, and then catch a ferry to Cozumel. I managed to get a shared taxi ride
for the first leg of the journey. A Brit, an Argentinian, a Spaniard and an
American couple made up the passengers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was like a game of charades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Argentinian gesturing to me like an angry monkey wanting a banana,
as he tried to explain in his language whatever the heck he was trying to say.
The American thinking that speaking louder would allow the Spaniard to
understand him. It made for a fun ride, I suppose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got to the ferry port at Playa Del Carmen and was greeted
with a long, almost white sandy beach, with calm turquoise water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looked like something I’d seen on TV
for the Copa Cabana in Brazil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Seeing the local families, playing in the sand and sea; that’s some way
to live life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I boarded the ferry
with a couple that had also been on my flight. They were a young couple that
had just got married that weekend. Yes, you know I was hoping that was us, but
after we exchanged stories, and after they had got over the shock and disbelief
of what Whitney and I have had to go through, they gave each other a glancing
look, kind of to say ‘thank god I have you’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw the mutual appreciation they had for each other, so
the urge to throw them in to the sea and kick sand in their faces from sheer
jealousy went away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Warning for
all you K1-visa applicants, it sends you CRAZY!!!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The ferry journey, I won’t lie, it was a little rough. We
thought we had got the best seats on the ferry, at the back, in the open with a
perfect view of Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking
out towards Cozumel, deep in thought…then smack! A nice salt water wave to the
face. 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 and begin the drying out of the contact lenses from the
salt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 20 minutes of swaying, dipping, salt water slaps across
the face and dried out contact lenses didn’t matter after 40 minutes because
I’d made it. For the first time in 4 months, I was on the same landmass as
Whitney. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a 20 minute taxi ride (yes, a bus, a train, a plane, a
taxi and a boat later) I pulled up to this:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dpPntRTEFo7Vu_UewV4pZSXKw3pnqQuk4iJwz9p32d9MH3O2fORAEMCyJV4APeDjfJ7aucngfNyBdLQRqlHwrU2An8-8caCexVnHytaXQWB9RV93lk5xTddQVVTG9V5_6YfX3fE57LY/s1600/sabor.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dpPntRTEFo7Vu_UewV4pZSXKw3pnqQuk4iJwz9p32d9MH3O2fORAEMCyJV4APeDjfJ7aucngfNyBdLQRqlHwrU2An8-8caCexVnHytaXQWB9RV93lk5xTddQVVTG9V5_6YfX3fE57LY/s640/sabor.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-23764362451558751462012-07-31T23:40:00.000-05:002012-07-31T23:40:08.665-05:00308. Bienvenido"Hola! Bienvenido! Welcome to Sabor," a short hispanic man with friendly green eyes greeted me as I stepped off the shuttle. He replaced my nearly empty Dos Equis can with a plastic cup of ice cold beer. Welcome, indeed.<br />
<br />
I waved goodbye to the new friends I'd made on the shuttle--a Navy Seal stationed in Japan and his dad, a married couple in their 50s who were about to embark on their 20th scuba diving adventure, and a pair of newlyweds who I kind of wanted to punch in the face just because they were allowed to get married and I wasn't--and followed behind the man with the friendly green eyes rolling my bags toward the lobby.<br />
<br />
The sun fought to break through a thick layer of clouds overhead. Palm trees decorated the walkway to the lobby and a large pool with a tiki bar and interconnecting water slides sprawled out ahead of me. From what I'd read on the website, I identified this as the Exclusive pool, available only to those staying in the exclusive section of the resort, which we were. Exclusive also meant adults-only. Yes, the adults-only pool had water slides attached to the first-floor guest rooms. Unfortunately, our room was on the third floor. But not unfortunately, this is what greeted me as I walked in.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/s720x720/488070_10100926793220847_1902344979_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/s720x720/488070_10100926793220847_1902344979_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Romantic, right? That was my first thought. My second thought was a vision of me getting tangled in it and nearly suffocating myself as I tried to rock Cayden's world. Neither one of us is known for our grace or elegance, so sensual bed curtains could cause serious safety risks. The thought of rocking Cayden's world sent tingles to places I won't mention. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i>I get to do that TONIGHT</i>, I thought to myself. After four months of not touching, kissing or getting all up on my fiance, I was plenty ready. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"Mas cervesa, Miss?" </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I jumped as I realized Green Eyes was still in my room. He'd set my bags down by my bed and he was gesturing toward the fully stocked mini fridge. I looked down at my half empty plastic cup and wondered where the rest of the beer had gone. Had I spilled it on the walk over? Surely I wasn't already three beers down...</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
"No gracias," I replied and handed him three one-dollar bills on his way out. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I had to cut myself off. If I kept drinking at the rate I was going, I'd be bleary-eyed and shit-canned by the time Cayden got there and face-down in bed just minutes after. And I don't mean that in a good way. It was 2:30 pm. Cayden's flight would land in Cancun in one hour. Then he'd have to take a taxi to Playa Del Carmen and take a ferry to Cozumel and then get a taxi to the resort. He guessed he wouldn't get to the resort until 7:30. What in the hell was I going to do for five hours if I couldn't drink?</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I found the answer on my patio.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/549583_10100921899932037_1562575877_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://sphotos-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash3/s720x720/549583_10100921899932037_1562575877_n.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-70252110115951527362012-07-29T23:32:00.002-05:002012-07-29T23:48:27.485-05:00307. Crazy People"Wow, looks like somebody's nervous."<br />
<br />
This coming from a guy who'd just chugged 5 mini bottles of Jack Daniels and was wearing a shirt that said "Guns don't kill people. Crazy people kill people. Occasionally they use knives or something."<br />
<br />
I raised an eyebrow at him from the empty seat between us in row 19. I was a lot of things at that moment--excited, sexually-frustrated, antsy, exuberant--but nervous wasn't one of them. He pointed to my leg that was bouncing a million miles a minute.<br />
<br />
"Oh, that's not a nervous thing." Although maybe I should have been nervous about being thousands of miles in the air with the drunk in the crazy-people T. "I'm just so ready to get off this plane and start my vacation."<br />
<br />
"What's the occasion?"<br />
<br />
I looked down at ring and couldn't help but to smile. The deep blue of the sapphire almost matched the blue ocean out my window.<br />
<br />
"Honeymoon."<br />
<br />
He eyed the empty seat between us and it was his turn to raise an eyebrow. The look he gave me said, "Great, I'm stuck next to the crazy woman who married an imaginary husband. I bet she has a knife."<br />
<br />
"He's meeting me there," I said, and then offered the cliff note's version of our story, which led to the 60 Minutes version of our story because there's no easy way to explain why someone would go on their honeymoon before their wedding to someone who wasn't allowed in your country. It was especially hard to explain why his visa might have been refused without saying "9/11," "military background," and "they're trying to make sure he's not a terrorist." I didn't feel like an airplane was an appropriate place to make those references.<br />
<br />
"So marry him in Cozumel!" His slightly drunken eyes lit up. "Seriously, you have to do it. It's beautiful there."<br />
<br />
I'd day dreamed about that a million times. But unfortunately, dreaming about it was all I could do.<br />
<br />
"I wish. If we did that, our Fiance Visa would be void and I'd have to reapply to bring him over as my spouse. It would start the whole process over because that's a different kind of visa. So we'd have to do all of the paperwork again and spend all of the money again, and it would only go into additional processing AGAIN."<br />
<br />
The thought of starting over and waiting another 6-12 months to be with him made my heart sink.<br />
<br />
"But, you don't have a fiance visa..." he pointed out. For being five drinks in, he was pretty observant.<br />
<br />
"...yet," I said, finishing his sentence. That one word was so filled with hope it seemed to float between us in the empty seat that should have been Cayden's.<br />
<br />
"I still think you should get married in Cozumel."<br />
<br />
Join the club.<br />
<br />
To change the subject, I asked him questions about himself. Who was he? What was his story? Why was he sitting alone on a flight to Cozumel throwing back shots of Jack Daniels like they were shots of Gatorade?<br />
<br />
His name was Chris. He was with a group of 15 friends and coworkers who were sitting farther back in the plan. He'd paid extra for an aisle seat, which just so happened to be in my row. He worked at a small consulting firm in Colleyville and he'd been to Cozumel every year for the past 10 years. He was divorced with a 4-year-old, who was the reason he was staying in Cozumel only 6 days while the rest of his group was staying for 10.<br />
<br />
"I just feel like I shouldn't be away from him for that long, you know?"<br />
<br />
I nodded sympathetically. Although I didn't have a snotty 4-year-old to worry about, I knew exactly what it was like to be away from someone you loved with all your heart, and it wasn't a good feeling.<br />
<br />
Chris leaned across the empty seat as we looked out the small plane window.<br />
<br />
"We're flying over Cancun right now. And down there a ways is Playa del Carmen."<br />
<br />
I looked down at the treetops, sand and water, and a huge smile took over my face. I pictured me and Cayden down there as two specs on the sand. We were lounging in sun chairs and holding hands as we looked out across the blue-green water. A third spec in the sand, a waiter in khaki shorts, brought us frozen margaritas with fresh limes grasping the salt-rimmed cups.<br />
<br />
"So, do you have anything planned while you're here? Besides not getting married?"<br />
<br />
Chris's voice and the scent of Jack Daniels brought me back to reality.<br />
<br />
"Nothing at all. It's exactly what we need."<br />
<br />
I thought back to the last time I was in Cozumel. I was on a cruise with three of my girlfriends the summer after we graduated college. Dawn and I had opted for the Twister Boat excursion, which was a speedboat with safety harnesses like a rollercoaster and the driver flew across the water at full speed and then slammed on the brakes and spun the boat as fast and dangerously as possible. I'm pretty sure he was trying to kill us. The Twister Boat dropped us off at Isla de Pasion, a small private island with an open bar, buffet, shops and a trampoline in the water. They left us there for six hours, during which we proceeded to get completely shitfaced, and then they put us back on the Twister Boat. Or the Boat of Death as I like to call it. Dawn later threw up whole french fries. We're still stumped on how she managed to eat that many fries without chewing them.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, that vacation was a fucking blast, but that wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my eight days with Cayden. I envisioned lazy days drinking by the pool, afternoon sex and wine with dinner at oceanfront restaurants.<br />
<br />
The plane touched down and it took everything I had not to race down the aisle, knocking over elderly and small children and anyone else who got in my way to get to the front. I don't know why I was in such a hurry considering the fact that Cayden's plan wouldn't land for another three hours, but I felt like my vacation wouldn't officially start until I was at the resort with a drink in hand.<br />
<br />
Chris stayed with me as we went through immigration.<br />
<br />
"I'm going to hang out with you so all of my friends see it," he joked. But I could tell he just wanted to make sure I got to my resort in one piece. He helped me pull my black and white checkered bag off the conveyor belt and he made sure I bought the right shuttle ticket. Although I'm sure I could have done it myself, I was grateful for his help.<br />
<br />
"A drink to start your vacation off right?" Chris asked. There was a Margaritaville bar conveniently located next to the shuttle pick up. "I'm buying."<br />
<br />
Oh, what the hell. I had time to kill. Chris's friends trickled out and joined us as they got through immigration and baggage claim.<br />
<br />
"Why is it that I always fall for the married women? Or the almost married women?" Chris asked his friends as he winked at me. I would have chalked him up to a creepy old man, but I could tell he was a good guy just trying to be a creepy old man in front of his friends. I winked back and thanked him for the beer.<br />
<br />
"One more for the road?" he asked, and ordered two more Dos Equis before I could answer.<br />
<br />
"The road?" I asked. "I can't take that thing on the shuttle. Don't they have open container laws here?"<br />
<br />
Chris laughed and handed me another cold, sweaty beer can. "Open container laws? Babe, you're in Mexico!"<br />
<br />
I was in Mexico with a drink in hand. My vacation had officially begun.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/s720x720/418681_10100926794248787_601914852_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://sphotos-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ash4/s720x720/418681_10100926794248787_601914852_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Crazy Chris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-49358112845379842412012-07-01T22:10:00.002-05:002012-07-01T22:12:58.021-05:00306. The Good LifeI haven't even thought about our denied visa since we booked our trip to Cozumel. It's liberating. I spend my days daydreaming about lounging in the pool with a margarita in one hand, Cayden's hand in my other, the sun soaking our skin. Not a care in the world. I spend my nights dreaming about hands in other places. Lips on lips. Tongue on stomach. You get the picture. And the only thing that makes these dreams bearable is knowing it's going to happen, and soon.<br />
<br />
16 days.<br />
<br />
16 FREAKIN DAYS.<br />
<br />
$%&*@$!!<br />
<br />
You better believe I'm going to be doubling up on my hot yoga classes until then. Speaking of which, I've officially lost 20 pounds since January, and I've never been more excited to wear a two-piece. I've been hiding in one-pieces and the most stylish tankinis I can find (which are few and far between) every summer since... well, since I can remember. A few months ago I saw this bathing suit on Pinterest that caught my eye. I decided I'd reward myself with it if I hit my goal weight.<br />
<br />
I wore it today for the first time.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/5664120/il_570xN.300362633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://img1.etsystatic.com/000/0/5664120/il_570xN.300362633.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/57889120/medium-ruffle-bikini" target="_blank">(Ruffle Bikini by LoveLucyBea on Etsy)</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I've never spent that much money on a bathing suit ($72.50) or waited that long for it to arrive (almost 6 weeks), but I'd do it all over again and spend twice that if I had to. It's so worth it. I feel absolutely amazing in it. And my sister pointed out today that this it matches my ring perfectly. How convenient.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm on cloud 9. Or cloud 16 if there is one. On top of that, I just got a new client at work, and it's by far the most exciting account I've ever worked on. I've been working non-stop for the past week (apart from a few breaks for day dreaming) but not even a second of it felt like work. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I love my job. I love Cayden. I'm loved by Cayden. I love my family, friends and random strangers who smile at me on the sidewalk or on the road. I love my kickball team. I love yoga. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I'm in love with love. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This, y'all, this is the good life. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-30843611650251840942012-06-25T00:40:00.000-05:002012-06-25T00:40:03.892-05:00305. Little Milestones10 weeks with no word. We were supposed to get married last weekend. I'm supposed to be a wife right now. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I spent my would-be wedding weekend at Rae's lakehouse with all of my favorite people--well, all but one of my favorite people--and it was a blast. With sunshine, cold beers, vodka-drenched watermelon, friends, boats, and brisket, it's hard to be upset about anything. I was pleasantly distracted until late that Saturday night, after the drinking games came to an end, after the beer cans were crushed and recycled, after a bonus round of "Never have I ever,"when the couples paired off and headed to the full-sized beds to snuggle close to each other for a drunken night of sleep. That's when it hit me. There were 11 people in the house and I was the only one without my someone. I fell asleep on the loveseat that night. Alone on my wedding night. <a name='more'></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had to snap out of it. I didn't want to be Debbie Downer. I didn't want to shit on everyone's parade. I didn't want anyone to feel bad for me. And most of all... I didn't want to admit that I might be depressed. I'd been leaning on words like "frustrated" or "emotionally exhausted" to avoid saying the D-word. But as soon as I told Cayden that I might be an itsy, bitsy, teeny, weenie, fraction of a bit of depressed, I knew it might be true. And the feeling was mutual. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i>I'm sorry you're feeling down baby. I hate that we have to feel this way. It's definitely depression. Since this whole thing happened, I've been lethargic, can't concentrate, lost the will to do most things that I'd normally want to do. I'm a really strong person mentality but this whole thing is enough to break anyone. I've tried to cut my feelings off about how I feel about the process. It was working really well up until last Thursday when I realised it should have been my last day in work. Then on Friday, I was so pissed that I should have been flying to start my life with you. Hearing from Sessions didn't help either. I kind of knew he couldn't help but to have the last line of hope dashed, it hit home that there's literally nothing more we can do but just hope they get back to us soon. </i></div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i>For coping now, I'm trying to set myself little milestones so it actually feels like I'm not just rotting away here. I've got my Salesforce exam on Wednesday which will be nice to get out of the way. I'm progressing in the gym, so that's good too. I've even been helping Topher with finding jobs so that it gives me some sort of thing to take my mind off this whole process. I'm hoping that being able to watch the football championships over the next month will help too, but I'm just not that motivated about it at the moment. Normally I'd be really excited about it. I hope we hear back this week.</i></div>
</div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Little milestones. That's what we needed. Something to look forward to. I'd been debating whether or not flying to London for a quick visit was practical. Knowing our luck, as soon as I booked my ticket we'd hear back that he was approved. Neither of us thought it made sense to spend $1,000+ on a plane ticket to London when he'd be moving here soon enough. Well, not soon enough, but you get the picture. Also, I'd been saving my vacation days for the wedding and maybe a quick honeymoon somewhere nearby. That wedding was eventually going to happen, and I couldn't magically pull extra vacation days out of my ass. And if I could, I'm sure I'd be part of a traveling circus posted up next to the Bearded Woman as the Vacation Day Shit Show. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What if we met somewhere?" I asked him during one of our morning phone calls. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Like where? Canada?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No, I was thinking somewhere more... tropical. Bermuda. Bahamas. [Come on pretty momma]. Cabo. Hell, let's go to Tahiti or Beliz."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Or Brazil. I've always wanted to go to Brazil," he said, enjoying the fantasy of running away together.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It could be like a pre-honeymoon. Since you're not allowed to leave the country until three months after we're married, let's take advantage of it now. Instead of sitting here waiting around, let's go on our honeymoon somewhere tropical and have all kinds of sex."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What can I say? Sex sells. He was sold on the idea. Besides, considering that we planned our wedding before he proposed, it wasn't all that weird for us to go on a honeymoon before we got married. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I'll start researching today," he said. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I knew I'd have an Excel document waiting for me when I woke up the next day, all broken down by price range and amenities. Groupon Getaways and LivingSocial Escapes woo-ed me with all-inclusive vacations to Beliz, Costa Rica and St. Maartens. I forwarded all of them to Cayden.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Cayden: Slight problem...</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
His message on Gchat pulled me out of my sex-on-the-beach daydream (which probably isn't all that dreamy with all the sand and the shells joining in on the fun). </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Me: Of course there's a slight problem. Why wouldn't there be a slight problem? </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I held my breath as I waited to hear what obstacle we'd have to tackle this time. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
C<i>ayden: All of the flights to the Caribbean and South America connect in the US. I can't fly to the US. </i></div>
<div>
<i>Me: Even if you have proof that you're getting on a connecting flight?</i></div>
<div>
<i>Cayden: Even if I have proof. I can't get through customs. </i></div>
<div>
<i>Me: Awesome. So... how does Tuscany sound?</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Ever since I'd seen <i>Under the Tuscan Sun</i> I'd dreamt about Tuscany. I'd also dreamt about switching bodies with Diane Lane. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Cayden: I'll look into it. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
The longer we looked, the more overwhelmed we became. The flights alone were out of our price range. We'd planned on asking for donations to our honeymoon instead of registering for wedding gifts, but being that the wedding didn't happen, our honeymoon fund sat at a whopping $150. But that's what credit cards are for, right?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After a few days of tossing around ideas, we decided to give up. If we booked a trip and then we heard back that he was approved the next day, he wouldn't be able to do anything until he got back from our trip. If he sent in his passport to get his visa, there's no guarantee he'd get it back in time to go on the trip. So, really, we could be prolonging his move here by going on a honeymoon. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We went back to waiting. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then two days ago, we said "Fuck it. Let's do this." We booked a 7-night all-inclusive trip to <a href="http://www.saborcozumel.com/default.cfm" target="_blank">Sabor Resort & Spa </a>in Cozumel, complete with direct flights from London and Dallas and a hammock on our private balcony. I GET TO SEE CAYDEN IN 22 DAYS! I'M FREAKING THE FUCK OUT! Goodbye Debbie Downer! Hello Ecstatic Eliza! I haven't been this excited since the day we found out Cayden's petition was approved. My credit card on the other hand, well, now he's the one "emotionally exhausted." But we'll deal with that later. [And thanks to <a href="http://www.groupon.com/deals/ga-sabor-cozumel-resort-spa-1-miami" target="_blank">Groupon</a>, we'll get to keep our first born.]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Praise sweet baby jesus for little milestones that look like this:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9303/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_01_wide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="387" src="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9303/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_01_wide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.saborcozumel.com/ssp/gallery/6/lg/wyndham4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="262" src="http://www.saborcozumel.com/ssp/gallery/6/lg/wyndham4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9319/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_04_wide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9319/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_04_wide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9355/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_07_wide.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="388" src="http://s3.grouponcdn.com/images/site_images/2282/9355/Sabor-Cozumel-Resort-and-Spa_07_wide.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-2576388830264709942012-06-19T00:31:00.003-05:002012-06-25T00:40:41.087-05:00304. Lessons on Life, Love, and Growing UpOnce upon a time, a man and a woman met at a bar. They dated long distance for two years and closed the distance with "I Do's." Tonight, they celebrated their 29th wedding anniversary. Congratulations, Mom and Dad!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/419513_3410973832377_536866483_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/419513_3410973832377_536866483_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
If I thought getting zero hours of sleep sounded like a blasty blast, I'd stay up to write 29 things I learned about love and marriage from my parents over my 26 (almost 27) years of life. But being that a) no sleep doesn't, in fact, sound like a blasty blast at all; b) 29 seems like a weird number for a list; and c) I still have a lot to learn on the matter, I decide against it. Instead, I bring you<b> four.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>4 Lessons my Parents Taught me About Life, Love and Growing Up.</b><br />
<br />
1. Marriage isn't always a walk in the park, but it can be a day at the beach. Those days make it oh, so worth it.<br />
<br />
2. Always,<i> always</i> capture the moment. Life moves quickly, but it only takes a second to snap a photo that can make time stand still.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/542274_4068926960794_1083350017_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/542274_4068926960794_1083350017_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
2. Some things are worth fighting <i>over</i>, but more important things are worth fighting<i> for</i>. Pick your battles and fight for love, family and respect.<br />
<br />
4. One day you'll look at your kids, well after their back-talking phases and their most awkward of awkward years, and then you'll look at each other and think, "Damn. We did well," which may or may not be followed by a high-five.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://p.twimg.com/AvorfaWCQAEjcIw.jpg:large" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://p.twimg.com/AvorfaWCQAEjcIw.jpg:large" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6051389227228673989.post-58542988242497328042012-06-06T22:21:00.001-05:002012-06-25T00:41:11.200-05:00Thoughts on Stuff<blockquote class="tr_bq">
[Tonight's blog post is taken from the blog "<a href="http://aroundtheworldwithkate.tumblr.com/post/24563707990/thoughts-on-stuff" target="_blank">Around the World in Katie Days.</a>" Yes, Kate gave me permission to steal it. No, I'm not just reposting this because she mentioned my story. She had me at "I was an illegal alien for four days." I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did!]</blockquote>
<br />
<title></title>
<style type="text/css">
p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Futura}
span.s1 {color: #ffffff}
</style>
<br />
<div class="p1" style="text-align: center;">
"Thoughts on Stuff"</div>
<div class="p1">
I was an illegal alien for four days.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
My residence permit expired on June 1. It was supposed to expire on July 1—as all other UU students’ permits do—but somewhere, a typo happened, and my permit got messed up. I noticed this immediately after getting it in February, and UU’s international office moved mountains to get an extension for me. They gave me the paperwork, they checked the paperwork, they paid the extension fee (200 euro for A MONTH’S EXTENSION. They don’t issue a new permit for that—they send you a LETTER), and they followed up with the immigration office for me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
We did everything right. I was on the right side of the law, I had highly educated, native Dutch speakers advocating for me, and I filled out all the right forms. Despite this, I didn’t get my extension letter by June 1. I had to take the bus to the immigration office to get proof that my extension is processing. My meeting with the IND officers was ridiculously complicated and involved but ultimately ended with me getting proof. All things considered, it wasn’t a huge deal, but it was stressful and involved an awful lot of time and money from lots of different people. And it’s technically not over yet.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
As I was sitting in the IND office, waiting for my proof of residency, I got to thinking about the immigration problems in my country. I’m a Texan, so border fences and INS roundups make the news fairly often. We have a loud, public, and frankly sometimes racist debate about immigration all the time in America. I don’t want to comment on that debate, though I know I will probably offend some of you with my views on this issue.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Instead, I want to comment on the sympathy I feel for immigrants in America. How confusing they must find our system. I found the Dutch system confusing, and like I said, I had the right people on my side and followed the legal procedure. It must be terribly scary and difficult for people who don’t speak English to navigate our system.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I get a picture of a young boy in my head when I think about this. Sonia Nazario, who I met when she last spoke at UNT,<a href="http://www.enriquesjourney.com/" target="_blank"> chronicled the tale of the kids who ride on the roofs of trains through Central America and Mexico to America</a>. It’s called the Train of Death. And so I think of the Enriques of this world, who risk everything to ride this train to illegally immigrate to America. I think of the women who work in terrible conditions to keep their kids alive because they know they have a better chance in America than they do at home.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I think of the guys standing at the day labor site in Denton, trying to provide for their families. My dad does work with international economies, and a few years ago, he started working with Mexico. Somehow, he ended up involved in producing a documentary that found him following a man from Mexico around the DFW metroplex. I remember him coming home and showing me footage of these day labor sites, these guys taking any job that came along from any guy who stopped because they had families at home to feed. This man—and I think many of these men—was an illegal immigrant who spoke very little English. How scary it must be to try to navigate our immigration system for men and women like this—not to mention for young children.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And I think, where are their advocates? Where are the people to guide them through this process? Who translates documents for them, who explains why things are the way they are, who helps them when things go wrong? Who helps them get the money they need? The answer—in many cases—is no one.</div>
<div class="p1">
That makes me sad. Illegal immigration is a complicated issue, but I can’t help but think that maybe we could reduce the problem if we made our system a bit less complicated.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I guess immigration has been on my mind a lot as I’ve seen two of my fellow Gaylord Ambassadors have very different experiences with the American immigration system. Both of them followed American laws to the letter, but they’ve had similar struggles.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
My friend, <a href="http://normantranscript.com/local/x610439116/Mother-daughter-reunite/print" target="_blank">Chinh</a>, lives with her mother for the first time in 18 years (or she did, before she recently had to move for a job). Chinh and her father immigrated from Vietnam when she was little, but her mom wasn’t able to come with them because of our immigration system. After working her butt off for years (seriously, this girl works harder than anyone I’ve ever met), Chinh was able to sponsor her mother, and she received her permanent visa in April—just in time to see her daughter graduate as our outstanding senior. That’s a success story that makes me really happy, and I, like most of the state of Oklahoma, am just thrilled for her family—though the fact that a family was separated for 18 years absolutely crushes me.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Another Gaylord alumna hasn’t been quite so lucky (yet!). I started following Lauren after I discovered her blog about her fairytale long-distance romance. Lauren fell in love with a British man, and they decided to get married this year. They <a href="http://www.the33tv.com/news/kdaf-dallas-bride-forced-to-cancel-wedding-after-british-fiance-denied-visa-20120522,0,361070.story" target="_blank">cleared all the hurdles</a> that you see inThe Proposal but when it came time for the final questions, they found that her fiance’s visa had been deferred for “additional processing,” meaning they had to cancel their wedding and live separately for an indeterminate amount of time. There’s quite a bit of suspicion the processing happened because of her fiance’s Pakistani last name. At any rate, they have no answers and no wedding date.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It’s stories like these that really make me think about our immigration system. This is not an issue I’m an expert on, but these situations really make me think about how incredibly terrifying immigration is.</div>
<div class="p1">
It was scary for me not to know what would happen if IND rejected my extension petition or didn’t give me proof they were considering it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It must have been scary for Chinh’s family not to know when they would be reunited.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It must be scary for Lauren not to know when she’ll see her fiance again.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It must be scary for the countless other immigrants who try to come to America legally or who come to America illegally and try to get permanent visas.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
And I can’t help but wonder: isn’t there a better way?</div>
<div class="p1">
-----</div>
<div class="p1">
Check out Kate's blog here: <a href="http://aroundtheworldwithkate.tumblr.com/">http://aroundtheworldwithkate.tumblr.com</a></div>
<div class="p1">
And follow her on Twitter! <a href="http://twitter.com/katemcp92">http://twitter.com/katemcp92</a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>WHITNEYhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03294183172126115295noreply@blogger.com1