Pirates life is for me - Day 1

It was March when Wife decided to loosen her claws on the Melissa family "fortune" and floated the idea of a cruise for our fifth anniversary.

At first, I thought the woman was yanking my chain (that came later). I get quite suspicious when I hear the purse creak open because I don't hear it often. Hell, she has a combination lock on her purse - Bank de Melissa - and won't give me the combo. I don't blame her, if I had access to the bank, I'd likely take the wad and blow it on something unproductive like a riding lawn mower so I stop fainting in kitchen after cutting the greeds (grass and weeds) in the Melissa Back 40. Who am I kidding? I'd spend it on those bath tub-sized beers at Old Chicago.

So dubiously I agreed, waiting for her to laugh evilly before pulling away the football just as I'm ready to kick it.

But lo and behold, Wife was serious for once - she's the joker, I'm the mature/serious one in this relationship - and before I knew it we were booked on our first cruise. "Uno mas cerveza por favor."

She called/e-mailed/homing pigeoned everyone we knew, including those we pay to hang out with us, to join us on "Melissas' Do (it on) the Pacific 2006" and before you can can say "Donde esta el bano?" we had seven folks joining us: Chris, Jerry, Angela, her parental units Juan and Sugar, Ben and Brett. God (Al Pacino) help the poor servers who had to deal with this rag tag bunch of goof offs.

I ate so much I pooped out four-course meals. I drank so much I never knew whether it was me rocking or the ship. We took enough pictures to keep Canon in business, and some of the shots are clean enough to show to the public.

So, as promised, albeit a few days late (I'm a slacker, I know, but TBS had a "Wizard of Oz" marathon that was begging to be watched), here is my recap of the trip - day by day:

Day 1 - Watch out 110 freeway, here we come
We leave from my Parental Units ' double-wide in Hemet, armed with two suitcases you could fit an Ethopian village in; two duffle bags, one of which was body-bag sized and I figure that's what Wife will use to haul my drunk ass back to the ship in case I had too many shots at Cabo Wabo; and a small suitcase that housed enough over-the-counter medicine I thought I was married to Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.

I'm already a nervous wreck by 10:30 a.m., and I hadn't hit the freeway. The Chargers are playing Buffalo and I can get the game on the radio. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, and I'm often a blissful dude. Listening to my teams while operating a machine that travels 80 mph intermingled with like machines is not the best thing for humanity.

Wife and Chris are talking about what they want to do when we get on the ship as I'm meandering through traffic like I'm Ladanian Tomlinson and we make record time to the dock, but with one huge problem, there's still 10 minutes left in the game. I rush us through check-in, saying yes to every question the lady asks us - which explains the strip search and the German shepard's nose up my pooper - so I can catch the last few minutes of the game. We wander around the lobby waiting to board the ship to begin "Melissas Do (it on) the Pacific 2006" and there it is, the most beautiful TV (and the last one I'll watch for seven days) I've ever seen because it is showing the Charger game. They call our boarding number but I let it pass since there's two minutes left in the game and the Bolts are holding on to a Nicole Ritchie-slim lead. I'm nothing if not obsessive and I'm worried that by leaving the car and radio broadcast I somehow screwed the Bolts' chances of moving to 10-2 on the season. But, by the grace of Al Pacino, they hold on to win and I clear our happy little group of three (I think they were happy on the inside, because after waiting 10 minutes for the final two minutes to finish they didn't look too pleased on the outside) for departure.

Thanks to my parental units, we knew to hit the buffet first. If Royal Carribbean's serving, I'm eating. And I announce my pressence with authority at the lunch trough, piling on pasta with roast beef with something they just labeled "fish" with assorted salads with soft-serve ice cream. Us professional buffeters don't waste time.

With potato salad seeping out my ears and my skin secreting au jus from all the beef I just ate we decide to explore the headquarters for "Melissas Do (it on) the Pacific 2006." We walk along the port side, we traverse the starboard side, we wander along the aft and hike through bow, and if I knew what all the crap meant I'd have a better idea where we went on the boat. As it was, I decided I would write a letter to Mr. Royal Carribbean explaining he really needed one of those Disneyland People Movers to shuffle the 2,500 hostages - I mean - vacationers around the boat. When he hears this idea, man, it's easy street for the Arizona branch of the Melissa Tree.

Duringour Lewis&Clark-like expedition, we foundthe spa, or as I like to call it, the money leechers. They do teeth whitening and hot-rock massages on the ship, for the nominal fee of a gazillion bucks. Some lady with an exotic accent talks about both processes, and Wife must sense I'm ready to verbalize my outrage and yanks my back hair to quiet my vocal skills - if I want my teeth white,I'll drink a gallon of bleach, and if I want a hot-rock massage I'll roll on the Arizona asphalt in July.

The hostages are called down to Deck 4 for "mustard." Wife explains it's not "mustard" but "muster", and I tell her I don't care what they call it, I can't eat anymore (at least not until dinner). The Safety Wench in the orange shark attraction device - she maintains it's a life vest, but I know better - tells me to shut my yapper and step in line so we can be counted before we're forced to swab the deck or hoist the sails. She scares the livin' bejeezus out of me so I do what she says. However, Royal Carribbean's big mistake is attaching whistles to these life vest and before long I'm whistling "The Bridge over the River Kwai" as she's calling out room numbers. Safety Wench shoots me glare which said she was ready to send me off the plank, so I stop with the whistle and play with the shark attraction light instead.

We watch the ship pull out from port, the group of nine together now, and I have a thought as I'm watching the lovely San Pedro docks Los Angeles beaches fade into the murky darkness of the Pacific Ocean, "Holy crap, I'm off land and at the whims of some Captain who's from Norway. What the heck does he know of Mexico if he's a wood-shoe wearin', windmill turning Viking?" We're screwed, but at least the sparse city lights dotting the hills surrounding the docks and bay are a sight to behold. Like little fireflies waving good-bye, I can feel four months of stress wash away with the waves.

With everyone settled in, we meet at the cheesy piano bar - little did we know that this would be home away from home for the next 7 days - and vacation officially begins with everyone drinking frosty, umbrella drinks because we're suckers for pina coladas that are more pina than colada. Over drinks, we realize Angela, Jerry and her family have the Leo DiCaprio "Titanic" rooms, Deck 2 in the back over the boat's motor. Ben and Brett are one level up, while Wife, Chris and I are in the Kate Winslett and Billy Zane suite, only with a smaller balcony.

We dress up a bit for dinner and I immediately work our poor waiter, Mustafa. "Dude, I can't decide between the cod and the shrimp ravioli. I wish I could have both." I give our man Mustafa the same eyes our pooches give us when we short change them on doggie biscuits and he gives in, bringing me a side of the ravioli. He doesn't know what he started, the flood gates are open and I'm Hurricane Michael. Both dishes are orgasms in my mouth, and I have to stay a little longer at the table waiting for my weiner to go back down because food excites me in a special way.

We finish the night watching Karaoke, including Jerry and Angela belting out some notes, both sounding very good. They work on me to get up there and I get as far as picking out a song, but just don't have enough alcohol in me (I'm a six-beer karaoke-er, and by that math it would cost me almost $30 bones to cackle out a tune - that's money we could spend on something worthwhile like Bingo) to pull the trigger on J. Geils Band "Centerfold."

Midnight, bushed, just one more drink at the Schooner Bar - home away from home - and that one drink lasted two hours. We meet Manolo (who pronounces his name Manilow), Ricky (who says his name is Barry) and Rowell, three guys from the Phillipines who 1) are not afraid to mix more Jack Daniels in Cokes than the other way around, and 2) tell us there's no need to return to the dining room for dinner the rest of the week, the Schooner Bar has everything we desire, including a pool in the back. It's like first day at school where you introduce yourself, as we make newcomers to the bar do the same. We instantly become one happy drunk family, especially with Manolo "freshening up" our drinks and not charging us. That's the way to my heart, my friend.

And if it weren't for the choppy seas after the closing down the Schooner Bar and tasting shrimp raviolis on the way back up, it would have been a perfect day. On the whole, I had to give it a 99 out of a 100.