I'm sorry, Internet. Here I've been blathering over superficial matters like the salvation of my soul when I promised to enlighten you about the fabulous trip that was Luke's and my honeymoon.
And I would, if that new husband of mine hadn't beaten me to it.
His write-up is a pretty good one, so just go and read that. However, I will say I learned more about my shortcomings in those four days than during the course of my twenty-six years of life. Like:
I am no good at driving. Frema's a very lucky girl in that, for the most part, Luke does all the driving. In this case, there were nine hours of quality car time to endure--five and a half from northern Indiana to Michigan, where we spent the night in a hotel where the idea of a continental breakfast consisted of a Frosted Flakes dispenser and a box of Hostess Donuts, and three and a half hours to Canada. The day before, halfway to said hotel, I offered to take over and unwittingly proceeded to steer us forty-five minutes in the completely opposite direction. So, not only did I tack on an extra hour and a half to the trip, it was raining on and off ALL DAY, meaning a journey that should've taken fewer than six hours ended up equaling almost the entire length of the trip. Next morning I was eager to prove to Luke I could get behind the wheel without repeating imbecile behavior like confusing I-69 with I-96. This leads directly into my next item.
I am no good at customs. Because I was driving, our safe passage through Candian customs solely depended on my ability to utilize common sense. Apparently, though, such positions of power render me unable to take advantage of my brain bank, because when asked about our citizenship, I answered Illinois, even though it's been four years since I owned a Windy City driver's license and, you know, IT'S NOT A COUNTRY, and when questioned about the possession of firearms and/or other defensive weapons, and I actually paused to stare at Luke in wonder, like, I don't know, honey, DID we pack our nine-millimeter automatic?
Luke was not pleased.
"For future reference, we are from the United States," he said, once we (surprisingly) crossed the border. "Also, if someone asks you about weapons, just say no."
I am no good at gambling. That first night in Canada, we had a nice dinner and decided to treat ourselves to an evening of fun and potential profit at Casino Niagara. It was my first time participating in gaming activity, and I didn't expect to feel so intimidated by the hoards of men and women who probably TiVo shows like The History of Poker and rip the pants off their grandmas in no-mercy marathons of Texas Hold'em. I'd been so excited at the thought of sitting in front of the dealer, maliciously stroking my piles of winning chips, slapping the palm of my hand on that luscious green table cover until I remembered professional dealers aren't as willing to answer your questions during a hand, even the most thought-probing ones, like "How much is the ace is worth again?" and "When is it MY turn?" This meant Luke represented the Frema-Useless Clutter household by default, and he actually won thirty bucks at Black Jack, but I was so, "Do it again!" "Again!" "Yeah, baby, AGAIN!" that we walked away with nothing. I then proceeded to whittle away another six dollars at the slots because I liked pulling the silver lever.
In my defense, I am VERY good at finishing off a quarter pound of cookies'n cream fudge, falling asleep in the car, and pouting over the the rain we experienced at some point EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. of our honeymoon. Luke is already counting his blessings.
* I had pictures to share with you, but Blogger is being a stupidhead, so I'll have to try again tomorrow. In the meantime, will wedding proofs do? Find 'em by visiting this Web site, clicking "Online Proofing," and finding our last names. Enjoy.