I’m currently typing this from my cabin bathroom—the only place I can get five minutes of peace on this floating family nightmare! My husband booked a romantic Valentine’s cruise for his ENTIRE extended family, including his passive-aggressive mother who keeps commenting on my weight, his sister who acts as if I’m not good enough for her precious brother, and his uncle who apparently thinks international waters mean inappropriate comments are fair game. I love my husband, but I’m one snide remark away from “accidentally” pushing someone overboard. How do I survive seven more days without committing a felony or filing for divorce?
Trapped at Sea with the In-Laws from Hell
Dear Trapped at Sea,
Oh honey, hiding in the bathroom to send distress signals? You’re living my worst cruise nightmare! It’s time for some emergency in-law survival tactics.
DEPLOY STRATEGIC SEPARATION: Book yourself into every spa treatment available (medical necessity for your sanity). Sign upfor solo shore excursions while they do group activities. The ship is huge. Use every square inch to avoid toxic relatives.
PROTECTIVE BOUNDARIES: When Uncle Inappropriate strikes, loudly say, “That’s completely inappropriate!” and walk away. Public shame works wonders. For mother-in-law digs, try, “How interesting that you think that” with a sweet smile.
RECRUIT ALLIES: Find other passengers to chat with at dinner, make friends with the bartenders (they’ve seen everything), and remember—everyone else can see their behavior too.
SURVIVAL MANTRA: This cruise will end. You’ll go home. They’ll become distant memories you can laugh about later.
Most importantly? Have a serious talk with your husband about boundaries when you get home!
XOXO Trixie
P.S. Room service is your friend. Eating alone beats dining with energy vampires!
Day 7: At Sea
Claudette and Richard had an affair.
They had an affair!
I could not believe it. A part of me wanted proof.
And well, the ghost in question was conveniently absent after that, so I couldn’t grill him as to the who, what, where, and why. Although, let’s face it, I know the who, I definitely know the what, I probably don’t need to know the where, but I definitely want to know thewhy!
I could hardly wrap this information around my skull, no matter how hard I tried, mostly because this information breaks all known laws of physics and friendship. It’s no wonder those women hated each other.
And since Richard disappeared after that bombshell, probably off having a supernatural tantrum in some other dimension where dead people go to process shocking revelationsabout their own extramarital activities, I couldn’t exactly shake the truth out of him.
Anyway, last night was a master class in how to spend an evening when your best friends have abandoned you for romance and law enforcement, respectively. Nettie went off with what can only be described as her reverse harem—apparently, speed dating turns into group dating when you’re eighty-something and have zero shame to your heart-shaped game.
Bess floated away to dinner with Rex like a woman who’s discovered true lust comes with excellent table manners and a Montana ranch. Meanwhile, both Wes and Ransom got tied up with ship duties, leaving me to bump into Candy and embark on what I’m now calling “The Great Buffet Adventure of Valentine’s Eve.”
We ate at the buffet, caught a magic show, ate at the buffet again, went to the casino where we lost our shirts in what I’m pretty sure was a rigged casino version of bingo, then called it a night after I discovered that gambling and I have the same relationship as I do with exercise equipment—lots of good intentions, terrible execution.
It’s the second sea day in a row, and most of today was spent playing actual bingo—where I had slightly better luck—enjoying another high tea where those tiny little cakes have me forever smitten, and doing some duty-free shopping that may have gotten slightly out of hand. Again, all with my new ship bestie Candy by my side, because apparently, when your original crew abandons you for romance, you adapt or die.
But to my surprise, Ransom signed us up for something called Love is in the Kitchen, which sounds either delightfully romantic or like a naughty euphemism that would make Elodie proud.
The ship’s teaching kitchen hits me with the kind of sensory overload that makes my food-obsessed heart sing opera. The aroma of garlic and herbs mingles with Valentine’s romance and whatever expensive wine they’re pouring like water, while the sound of chopping and sizzling creates a delicious sound that’s part cooking show, part romantic battlefield. Professional-grade stainless steel surfaces gleam under soft lighting designed to make everyone look like they’re starring in their own culinary love story, and Valentine’sdecorations drape every available surface as if Cupid decided to redecorate a commercial kitchen.
“Finally,” Ransom says as we approach our designated cooking station. “Something we can do together that doesn’t involve corpses—or at least not those of people.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I shoot back, eyeing the knife display with slight paranoia. Face it, I’ve witnessed too many creative murder weapons on this ship. “We haven’t started cooking yet.”
Multiple stations are set up around the kitchen like romantic battle positions, each equipped with enough professional equipment to make any chef proud. The other couples are already claiming their territories with the enthusiasm of people who think ninety minutes of competitive cooking will solve all their relationship problems.
Bess and Rex look absolutely adorable at station three, though Bess appears to be having a minor panic attack about the prospect of cooking in public—a feat she hasn’t performed in years. Rex, meanwhile, surveys the kitchen with the confidence of a pilot who’s probably prepared emergency meals at thirty thousand feet.
“I can’t even make toast without setting off smoke alarms,” Bess confesses to Rex with horror.
Looks to me someone is contemplating public humiliation via cuisine.
