Caribbean Cruise, or, Buy The Booze Pass If You Vacation With Your Mother; Part 1

A little over a year ago, my mom and I realized that we had never taken a vacation together, just the two of us. We decided we needed to fix that and booked a 9 day cruise to the Caribbean.

I decided to keep a log of our trip for posterity sake, and recently I found a copy of that log. Because it made me giggle, and because it’s a good excuse to post some of the gratuitous beach porn, I decided I would share our trip with everyone.

Day 1


10:25 am: Checking into the cruise. The line is absurdly long, despite us getting there extra early. Luckily, mom needs a crutch to walk so we were able to cut through a lot of lines.

2:25 pm: Made it to our room. Drink pass, which allows up to 16 drinks per day, bought. Drink #1.

2:50 pm: A vaguely overwhelmed looking little old lady come up to me and holds my hand. I consider that I’ve had far worse people try to hold my hand and decide to just let it happen until her daughter claims her.

3:45 pm: Apparently there’s a safety drill we have to go to. We head toward our muster point (side note: because mom is considered disabled, our muster point was one of the dining rooms. I wonder if they assume that if the ship starts to sink, disabled cruisers will find it easier to float out on tables ala Jack and Rose on their door rather than get in, you know, a lifeboat).

3:55 pm: Mom is looking for a crew member to make sure that the captain of the ship isn’t the same one that crashed the cruise ship in Italy. I make a quick stop for drink #2.


5:00 pm: We go up to the pool, where an old guy in a speedo walks by with one testicle literally hanging out. Like, the speedo was trying to divide the scrotum into two separate scrotii (side note: I have no idea what multiple scrotum are actually called, and I know that scrotii isn’t a word – although it totally should be.). I’m equally horrified and fascinated now that I’ve made eye contact with the nut and the 3 absurdly dark hairs sticking out. I’m hypnotized by the nut. I’m nut-notized. I follow at a distance to try and get a picture, but I lose site of the nut in the buffet. The spell was broken so I left and got a consolatory drink (#3).

5:45 pm: Drink #4. Have reached the “I wish I could dance!” stage.

6:30 pm: Drink #5. Have reached the “Wait a minute, of course I can dance!” stage.

8:10 pm: Drink #6-…9ish? Dinner, followed by the floor show. Mom and I agree that the main chick is spectacularly horrible and clearly blackmailed someone to be there.

11:45 pm: Drink #well into double digits (side note: thank you, drinking at sea level!). We’ve just finished watching a comedian, and mom’s now talking to him about sex. There’s no amount of mind bleach to erase this conversation. I find a trash can to vomit into instead.



Day 2

9:00 am: Oh My God. Can’t remember the last time I was this hungover. Vomit. Almost get stuck in absurdly small bathroom. Extricate myself, back to bed.

11:00 am: Vomit a little more. Shower. I swear to my liver that if it survives, I’ll never drink again.

11:50 am: After a breakfast burrito, I feel human again. I have, however, lost my mom.

12:30 pm: I spot the testicle again!! This is so exciting, it’s like spotting a shriveled little Yeti in the wild twice on the same camping trip! (side note: how is that thing not sunburned and chaffed yet? Is he rotating nuts every hour? Or is the other one just the groundhog and only comes out once a year, and if it sees it’s shadow it’s 6 more weeks until he can get his Viagra prescription filled?)

1:00 pm: Found mom, and explain that her note of “I’ll be by the hot chocolate machine” is not helpful when there are no fewer than 4 hot chocolate stations on that deck alone.

2:00 pm: Mom spills some of her diet coke, and looks at me very innocently and says “oh good, I didn’t lose my cherry!”. This brings back flashbacks from the conversation with the comedian. I am now drinking again. Sorry, liver.

8:10 pm: I am so proud of mom for trying new food! I am so proud of myself for not throwing up during the mid-afternoon thunderstorm!


Post-thunderstorm sunset. This pic doesn’t begin to do it justice.

9:30 pm: Have made up for the sobriety earlier during the day and have reached the “wait a minute, I think I can sing after all” stage, and am happily singing along to all the 90’s trivia songs.

10:15 pm: We go to the 90’s music show. I am hoping that this show will be better than the one the night before, and have several more rum and cokes to help this not be a horrible mistake.

11:00 pm: I was wrong. So very wrong. Not enough rum to make this chick sing better. Her voice is vocal equivalent of that guy’s sweaty ball sack rubbing against my face. Cabin service and my book salvage the rest of the night.



The floor show stage. Not pictured: Horrible singer. I assumed she’s backstage, blowing the director because that’s the only way she got this gig.







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