I’ve been off the ship for a couple of days, but mentally I’m still somewhere in the Caribbean, floating in water so clear I could see my own stress leaving my body. Then I got home, opened my suitcase, and Half Moon Cay literally spilled onto my floor. A full sand dump. And yes — I crouched down and stared at it like a psychopath, debating if I should vacuum it or keep it in a small emotional support jar.
Because once I vacuum that sand… the cruise is officially over.
And I’m not emotionally ready for that.
Now add Caribbean jetlag to all this. We flew to Fort Lauderdale on EST, then the ABC islands had us an hour ahead, so my body has no idea what timeline we’re operating on. My stomach is hungry at 2pm, 3pm, 11pm, and sometimes 7:12pm for no reason at all. Basically, I’m eating like a raccoon in a 24-hour 7-Eleven.
My husband?
Gone.
KO.
He walked into the house, blinked once, and entered a coma.
Jetlag grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him straight to Dreamland.
And the problem is: before collapsing, he took out ground beef that day intending to cook something. I saw the beef defrosting and thought, “Oh good, he’s cooking tonight.”
LIES.
He fell asleep like a woodland creature settling in for winter.
So now I’m standing in the kitchen, jetlagged, sunburned, confused about the time, with defrosted ground beef staring at me like, “Soooo… what’s your plan?”
Fine. I cooked.
But it wasn’t cooking — it was survival engineering.
Here’s what I had to work with:
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a frozen Italian cheese mix that comes in a solid block, so I had to SHAVE it with a knife like I was carving ice at a wedding
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a tiny sad chunk of cheddar that wasn’t molding yet, so into the dish it went
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leftover red and yellow onions that were still in their safe, non-green stage
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a ton of fresh garlic because everything tastes better with garlic and also I am Filipino
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a Sam’s Club–sized box of pasta big enough to feed an evacuation center
I browned the beef (rage-cooked it, honestly), threw in the onions, dumped the garlic like a woman who has survived things, mixed half a jar of vodka sauce with half a jar of alfredo like a chaotic scientist, added the pasta, covered it with every cheese shaving I could scrape off that frozen Italian brick, and baked it until it resembled something edible.
My husband woke up, took one bite, and acted like I had channeled an Italian grandmother from the spirit realm.
Sir.
You were unconscious for two hours. Anything tastes good after being reborn.
While all this was going on, my daughter texted me:
“Mom, can you make a Countries Flags book for him?”
My grandson is THREE.
He speaks English.
Understands and speaks a little Mandarin from his online class.
Knows Tagalog from his nanny.
Builds 100-piece puzzles in a few hours.
AND — because why not — he also competes in toddler push-bike races like he’s prepping for the toddler Tour de France.
Meanwhile I’m Googling flags like, “Which country is the one with the blue thing and the star?”
Humbling.
And then it hits me like a frying pan:
Thanksgiving is NEXT WEEK.
We’re flying to Vegas.
I haven’t unpacked.
I haven’t cleaned.
I haven’t vacuumed the Bahamas off my floor.
I don’t know where my going-out bra is.
And now I have to mentally prepare for a holiday with two different dinner time cultures:
My husband and I?
We eat dinner at 3 or 4pm.
We are in our Senior Citizen Gourmet Era.
Get the food in while the sun’s still out.
Goodnight.
My daughter’s family?
They eat at 7pm.
Like… humans.
Like people with metabolisms and hope.
Add to that:
Her house is big — too big for a starter home — beautiful, spacious, all that…
but absolutely not equipped for my husband’s chef requirements.
This man needs pots from the Renaissance, knives forged in fire, bowls in 12 sizes, proper roasting pans — basically a medieval kitchen arsenal.
My daughter?
She has one pan.
Maybe two if one isn’t in the dishwasher.
And layered under all of this is my internal monologue about certain people in town right now who think their arrival is some kind of major event requiring dinners, outings, or hospitality from me — while I’m still trying to figure out what time zone my kidneys think we’re in.
So yes:
I want my husband to have his father-son moment,
but I CANNOT host, entertain, or play Hallmark Holiday Stepmother
while I’m this tired, this jetlagged, and this close to packing for Vegas.
And I refuse to feel guilty about it.
So that’s my life right now.
Half unpacked.
Half packed.
Pasta surviving the apocalypse.
Grandson ready for the toddler Olympics.
Thanksgiving approaching like a tsunami.
People wanting attention I do not have.
And me, still brushing sand out of my suitcase and calling it “emotional support exfoliant.”
And somehow — even in the chaos — I’m laughing.
Because this messy, ridiculous, sunburned, garlic-scented life?
It’s mine.
And tonight, that’s enough.
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