Ingredients for a Romantic Vacation

(Bearing in mind that the last time Hubs and I left town together — alone — was April 2006.)

So, back to what makes for luurrve in Denver:

1.) One hideous case of Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever/Hantavirus/Bubonic Plague (no test results yet, so the disease du jour is determined via frequent Googling of all illnesses spawned by blood-sucking bugs and/or rodents)

2.) One bottle of nasty blue pills that make me feel as though someone has scrubbed down my entire digestive tract with a bottle of Clorox.

3.) Multiple anxiety attacks because the in-laws are staying at our house to care for the children. ("Will my mother-in-law rummage through my nightstand, thereby discovering the Marital Drawer 'O Fun?" or "Did I drop enough not-so-subtle hints that they are NOT allowed to drive the children anywhere unless said offspring are buckled into their respective car seats rather than stuffed into the back of my father-in-law's pickup truck?")


And then this, Saturday morning, at our Denver hotel:

"Ow! Ow! Oh, shit! Hey, help!"

Hysterical laughter and sobbing ensues.

Yes, the lower back, MY lower back — the one weakened in recent years by hauling around enough baby gear to outfit a Toddler Trek to the base camp of Mt. Everest — picked this most inauspicious time to rebel.

Still, in spite of the nausea, back spasms and Hubs' stressing out over photographing the wedding of longtime friends, we still had a good time.

Although, perhaps some of us should have refrained from mixing champagne and other assorted drinks with our Clorox meds.

One glass —



And two —



And three —




Is this dancing? A back spasm? Another symptom of tick-borne illness?

You decide.