Molly + Sailboat = ARRRGGGGGH

I am not good with math in general (as in, I cannot make change from a dollar for something that costs 50 cents), but I am CERTAIN that my math in the title of this entry is RIGHT ON THE MONEY.

I have nothing and everything to write about today, so humor me because if I continue to write about the atrocities that have happened and continue to unfold in the wake of Katrina, I will be forced to take all the pills in my possession and believe me that is a LOT of drugs.

We spent this past weekend "up north" with Dan's family at their "cottage" on a "lake." First of all, EVERYONE in Michigan goes "up north," even if that only entails driving 20 minutes sort of in a north-east-westerly direction from your house. Technically I go "up north" when I drive to work every day. We did not have this phenomenon in Cleveland when I was growing up, as "up north" meant "Lake Erie" which meant "cesspool of hypodermic needles." But in Michigan, you ain't nobody til you got a place "up north," as I quickly learned.

I first went to the "cottage" with my then-boyfriend-now-thank-god-no-longer-sick-and-driving-me-to-the-edge-of-sanity-really-REALLY-needs-a-haircut-please-note-this-does-NOT-mean-shave-your-head-you-dumbnut-husband about six weeks after we started dating in the winter of 1999-2000. I had a boyfriend in Cleveland whose family had a cottage in New Hampshire where his family and I would vacation every summer -- it was about 200 square feet, wood, with a toilet that ran on battery flushing and a shower that delivered about a half-cup of water per hour. It was great though, and in the wilderness, and on a beautiful inland lake, so of course this is what I was prepared to see when Dan invited me to go "up north" to his family's "cottage."

The "cottage" is about 2000 square feet, with a master suite bigger than my entire first floor, room to sleep about 72 people of varying sizes (although I believe the fire marshall would only approve about 40, those other 30-or-so -- see, I'm not actually going to figure out the number -- pile in strictly for the waffles), a never ending supply of beer and froofy drinks, a ginormous yard that, when we eventually got Murphy and started bringing him up, was about the closest thing to Doggy Nirvana he could possibly imagine, jet skis, a private beach (now that it has been dug out of 29 feet of sludge caused by weird coastal erosion, it is much more conducive to laying out without feeling like you are succumbing to the La Brea tar pits), etc.

This cottage is inexplicably called the Blue Goose, which is super because the entire building is pink. I'm sure it made sense at some point. Anyway, this is the "big" cottage -- they also own a rental cottage that is still 5 times the size of what I was expecting, albeit more cottage-esque in its circa 1974 decor. We still get booted to the rental cottage when there is an influx of actual grown ups staying at the big cottage, although having a baby is a great trump card since Grandma and Grandpa adore her. I should say, if they had their way, they would boot Dan and I out and just keep Molly, and frankly, there are many mornings at 6 am where this is a very welcome suggestion.

Anyway, Dan's family is from all over the surrounding "up north" area, including Bad Axe, MI which my San Francisco-native boss still snickers at everytime I say it. I believe he is starting an official petition to the governor to have it renamed "Bad Ass." Hey, we already have Climax and Hell, MI -- why not Bad Ass?

So this past weekend, as is common for all major sun-worthy holidays, hordes of Hearsches descended on the "big cottage" to, in this order, 1) slobber over our child 2) buy our child toys 3) buy our child clothes 4) drag our child around to "be seen" 5) eat. a lot. 6) drink 7) play about 900 rounds of Tripoly, a card/gambling type game that this family has managed to turn into tribal warfare 8) yell at the TV during various sporting events 9) yell at each other because this is the loudest family on earth 10) sleep

Somewhere during the course of all that, Grandma and Grandpa and I decided it would be precious to take Molly out for her first sailboat ride. Now that she can walk like a pro, and likes being outside, and likes the beach and the sun and all that good stuff, we figured this would be a groovy little outing.

Har.

Considering this child does not want to be touched by so much as your FINGER when she is walking, and god forbid you should try to cuddle, hug, kiss or get within 3 feet of her without wearing body armor, I don't know why we thought she was going to be keen on wearing her very cute, very orange, very CONSTRICTING baby lifejacket. We lumbered onto the boat, got settled, and attempted to strap this 21 pound ball of fire into a restraining device.

I look like I was fighting with a mountain lion, and I wasn't even the one strapping her in. Then, because it was 85 degrees and sunny, we had to put a sun hat on little miss baldy pants, which was about as successful as the Tigers' recent offense (for you non sport types, that means it SUCKED). So as Grandpa is motoring the boat out past the breakwall and onto the lake -- oh, did I mention this is LAKE HURON?? As in, really really really BIG LAKE with waves and everything -- I am trying to hold onto a very, VERY disgruntled orange flotilla with flailing appendages who is trying to alternately claw my eyes out of their sockets and crawl back into the womb to escape the rocking motion of the below-deck cabin.

About 10 minutes into our trip, the cabin below had reached a temperature somewhere between 85 degrees and pottery kiln, and the rocking motion was doing GREAT things to mommy, queen of the claustrophobes. I do NOT get seasick, never have in my life. But trying to calm her down while swaying and lurching was not going well with the 9000 calories worth of breakfast sloshing around in my stomach.

In short, it wasn't a very long sail. We did finally get her up on deck, and she stopped crying long enough to eat some animal crackers and try to ingest the filthiest, non-baby-proofiest items she could find on board.

After that, I went back to the big cottage, took a big pill with a big drink and took a damn big nap on the beach while Daddy, who was smart enough to point out that he HATES sailing, would be going nowhere near this excursion, and wouldn't be surprised if his boat-aversion got passed along to his child, helped Molly play with the in-house slot machine.

There is no doubt where the gambling gene came from. It's the only time I can stand numbers.