Reaching the tipping point
When we were younger my mother always used to tell us that the sign of a really good vacation was that, at the end of it, you were ready to come home. She would tell us this without fail at the end of every family vacation. It was just one of those things she said - like how if one of us were sick, no matter with what, she'd tell us that it made sense because there was a "bug going around." It could have been the middle of a beautiful summer, healthy children frolicking everywhere, and if one of us came down with something, she'd tell us that there was a "bug going around," obviously, because she'd heard that other people were sick with very these very general, non-specific symptoms, like achiness and fatigue. And it always made me feel better - that the fact that there was some bug going around meant I was a less weak person for getting sick. She still does it. She still says the thing about vacations, too. Now, granted, most of my vacations have been less lengthy than this one, but that that idea has always held true. A week...two...three and a half...I'm generally ready to return to the banality of my normal life at the end of those beach-going/sleeping late/eating whatever I want-filled weeks.
I knew before coming to Maine that there might be some times I'd want to come home. Mostly, I thought this would be because I would miss J. I haven't written much about that - being apart from my husband for so long, but not because it isn't a notable feeling. On the contrary, I constantly wish he was here. He's a much stronger person than me when it comes to being alone. While I dread him taking a weekend long trip (but, of course, by night two am sleeping across the entire bed and watching Lifetime nonstop), he assured me before coming here for so long that he'd be fine. He had a lot of lab work to do. A lot of weekend trips planned. I knew he'd be ok and I also knew there was no way I'd be lonely up here. I'd miss him - definitely. But I woudn't be lonely. And that's proven true. I can honestly say I haven't - not for a second - been lonely. Not in this house of friendly maniacs. Its a constant party. But I miss Justin terribly and can't wait to see him next week. I can't wait to return to our daily habits. Reading at night in a quiet house. Making dinner for two.
That's one reason I can't wait to go home. I can't wait to be with J, every day. It isn't that I haven't had the time of my life, though. Obviously, this trip has been a very successful "last hurrah" of sorts, if that's what you want to call it. I'm not going to go back and become a nun, of course not. But this, this magnificent summer vacation, probably won't repeat itself in my life any time soon, if ever again. I've loved every minute.
Even the moments, like this morning, when I wanted nothing more to be home in my bed, far away from this place. Those moments are fleeting, but important when looking at the entirety of this trip. Feeling a little worn means there have been some good times.
Really good times.
I awoke this morning with a headache. Not your run of the mill headache, either. The kind where you wonder, what, in the name of God, happened. And then I remembered.
We'd gone out for dinner and cocktails last night while waiting for Cory's dad to get into town. We decided to meet him at The Thistle Inn, a slightly upscale little place where we like to act upscale. Like by drinking lots of Pimm's Cup, which I will, from now on, equate with debilitating headaches, as well as horse races and other snobby endeavors.
Afterwards we returned home for one of our favorite things - drinking 7,000 beers out on the patio. When I came downstairs to let the dogs out this morning, I saw the remains of our drinking frenzy. Beer cans and beer cans and beer cans covering the table and ground and in the middle of it all, a large pot. Like the kind of pot you'd use to boil lobster or make giant vats of stew.
I used it to make punch. When, at a certain point in the night, I realized we'd run out of alcohol, I dragged Jennifer and our new friend Georgia, into the kitchen. "We'll just make punch" I explained. I knew we had the dregs of a few kinds of liquor in the cabinet and my making punch has always been a popular choice in the past. I just think when I've made punch in the past I've maybe had some better ingredients to work with, and maybe haven't had tons of Pimm's Cup.
Some things we put in the punch: 7Up Bailey's Courvoisier Whiskey A bottle of red wine Coke
Don't tell me that doesn't sound delicious.
When we brought the frothing (literally, there was a rising foam) outside, after acting like crazed witches making our best brew, no one, surprisingly, wanted to drink it. And besides a few sips here and there (the general consensus was "It's very mild" along with wondering why the concoction stuck to the outside of our plastic cups like cement) no one had any. That signaled, I think, that it was about time to go to bed. Because when you've had enough to drink to think that you think it might be ok to put Bailey's and soda and red wine in the same recipe, you are probably done for the night. And this morning when I saw the scene and remembered what we'd done, I felt equally disgusted and impressed, equally completely ready to go home and overjoyed that we still have a few more days.