Yesterday was Lexi’s ninth birthday. Felt I should throw a large shindig for her, as she was absent from all of her friends last year when we live abroad. Invited no less than sixteen children thinking about half would attend, as today was teacher in service day. Incorrectly assumed that parents would be traveling with their little darlings to take advantage of the three day weekend. Large mistake on my part. Allowed Lexi to invite boys………another large mistake on my part. Hired my son, Conner and his friend Joe to help with party………..final large mistake.

Okay, my first spa treatment is accomplished…….barely. Who knew that visiting a deluxe spa could be so stressful? Enter a “quiet room” which is the equivalent of a quiet tomb before my scalp massage treatment. Anyone who attends the movies with me knows that I am not able to maintain silence let alone hold still for more than two minutes at a time. I pay good money for a movie ticket and believe it is my right to repeat aloud the lines I find most amusing. My husband disagrees and we don’t go to movies much anymore. Take a banana from the fruit bowl, a perfect pre-spa snack. Begin peeling banana which makes a very loud cracking sound. Old man in comfy looking chaise lounge gives me the hairy eyeball. Ignore him and commence to chewing. Good God, what has happened to my chewers? They have suddenly become obnoxiously loud. I am sounding like my daughter, Smackers. Try a sip of my water and find that I am unable to sip quietly and in fact have soiled my nice robe. Look longingly at old man in divan next to me; he has the perfect pre-spa chair. Make mental note to arrive earlier for next treatment.

Finally my spouse reached the ripe old age of fifty. I thought the day would never come, it is unsettling to be a year and a half older than your husband when the age of fifty draws nigh. Somehow my other half has a most unsettling way of looking the same as the day we married, some twenty-eight years ago. Almost like he has been preserved in bees wax at the ripe old age of twenty-one. What better place to celebrate than Amanpolo.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Miami, I mean think how much easier it would be to get to a tropical climate—like Bonaire. I’m just saying. . .

Every year I look forward to watching the Academy Awards ceremony with great anticipation. This year I decided to throw an “Academy Awards” soiree. What better way to fully digest the glitz, glamour, and the non-ending speeches than with a group of friends?

I recently returned from The National Society of Newspaper Columnist Conference, which was held in Ventura, California. My new writing group, BFF, Karen Rinehart, award-winning humorist and author, cajoled me into attending and I have to say I enjoyed every minute—except for that one time I waited in a long line for a drink, ordered a delicious beverage only to find I had no money, but I digress.
I’d like to say that I hung with all of my contemporaries at the Crown Plaza Hotel, but reality bit when I met Jeff Zaslow from The Wall Street Journal and co-author of “The Last Lecture.” I mean really, I write the humor column for the b-town blog (not that there is anything wrong with that) and I don’t recall winning any awards recently or for that matter have any other credentials that allowed me entrance to such an esteemed society. But times are hard and Karen said, “It doesn’t matter, they need people to fill the conference room, all the newspapers are shutting down or going Chapter 11, you could be a graffiti tagger and they’d let you in.” So I went.

We christened him, “Le Cork”, our Bora Bora scuba adventures continue . . .

Speeding out to the dive site, I struck up a conversation with one of my boat mates. Well, that’s not quite right, I talked and he nodded. I tried English and practiced my cave man French. No reply, only nods and grunts issued forth from my morose seatmate.

Two five-hour plane rides, one overnight in Tahiti, a commuter jump to Bora Bora, and finally a 15-minute boat ride to the Four seasons Bora Bora. Kind of Funny what a Seattle mossback will do to get out of the rain.

Echoes ring down the halls of the Serena Hotel, the three girls high-pitched voices on a ninety-degree decibel. The following morning we boarded a Cessna Caravan (the suburban of the skies) and arrived none the worse for the wear at a remote airstrip. At one point, a giraffe gracefully out-skirted us on the dirt runway making for an interesting landing. Bill Winters says that, landing on the dirt strip is one of the difficulties of running a safari operation because of the plethora of seemingly unaware four-legged creatures. Two Toyota Land-cruisers (custom modified chasse’s) await our landing, not only to make sure the runway is clear, but also to ferry us to our tented campsite.

It is New Year’s Eve, and all the island and staff are anticipating some fabulous festivities. Craig and I are very excited; perhaps we will finally make some friends. We have found that the other island guests are very inclusive. The kids express concern.