Panama, geography and more about that cat

Posted on May 18, 2026 by Good Times with Jess

Hello Panama!

I’m here for a travel show and excited to meet with Caribbean, Central and South American travel suppliers. It’s five days of in-person meetings with all the wonderful places I can send people!

And six nights alone in my own luxurious hotel room. I already finished a book.

BB expressed her concern with my being gone. First she said,

“You’re going to be gone for MCAS!”

Nope!

“You’re going to be gone for my field trip!”

Nope!

“I don’t want you to go!”

I know!

Never mind that I have nothing to do with MCAS or the field trip.

BB doesn’t want me to go. RB will miss me, but isn’t having a crisis, Captain is on board and OPAL wanted to know why the heck we woke up at 4am yesterday, but was ready to seize the day until I didn’t take him with me.

We love that cat. He is CRAZY but also ADORABLE.

We took him for his first vet visit before I left. I filled in all the information online ahead of time, including medical records, gender, age, etc.

We walked in and they said,

“How can we help you?”

I pointed at the cat in the plexiglass backpack and said,

“This is Opal!”

“Oh hi Opal! She’s here for her first visit?”

“Yup.”

If we were talking about a person, I would’ve corrected the pronoun, but Opal, Opie, Opester, Opemania, Opalicious, Opamillion doesn’t know the difference and the amount of time I would’ve spent over the last 2 months correcting people would be ridiculous. And for what?

It’s an uphill battle for a testicleless cat, with a “girl” name, for whom gender is a meaningless construct. He has refused to wear his blue bow tie, so what else can we do?

We were shown to an exam room while Opal continued to be referred to as a she.

He enjoyed the room. There were counters to jump between, a window with a bird feeder right outside it, a keyboard to stomp on and a sink to snuggle into.

Aside from the needles, it was a great playdate.

We returned to the waiting area to check out. The woman at the desk, who had greeted us when we first came in, reviewed the notes, gave me a grave look and asked,

“Did you know Opal was a HE?!”

“YES!” Or a they or a whatever.

We picked the name, then got the cat.

Also his parts may be tiny and his sac empty, but it is still very obvious he’s a boy, especially considering the whole area had a close shave for neutering.

He has a light colored body, and dark hair on his face, paws and tail. His pubic hair is in stark contrast to his body. Captain marvels,

“I didn’t know his carpet would match the drapes.”

So it does.

But enough about him.

I disembarked in Panama City and was met at my gate by a VIP meet and greet. She whisked me through the airport, through immigration, through customs and I was in the transfer to my hotel before I knew what happened. I recommend this.

It was lovely, but also did not give me time to stop in the airport for a donut. I will rectify this on the way out.

People were asking what I was doing for Mother’s Day. We went out for Indian lunch buffet, but being away this week is Mother’s Day enough for me.

RB couldn’t remember the restaurant and asked,

“Indian lunch buffet? Do I like that?”

“You better take snacks along.”

As we walked up to the restaurant door, RB exclaimed,

“I LOVE the food here!”

“You do?!”

BB and the rest of us went straight to the buffet and piled our plates up, RB sat down and opened a bag of Pirate’s Booty.

It’s starting to feel like the home stretch to summer vacation!

BB just finished learning all of her states and capitals.

I was surprised to learn that’s still a thing. What is the point of memorizing them? I don’t know who of my peers has retained them, but I have not.

I have now spent many weeks managing BB’s anxiety about learning them. They did one section of the country at a time over the course of months. A perfect score on the practice test earned an exemption from having to take the actual test.

BB is more self-motivated than I ever was. She was determined to get a perfect score on all the practice tests.

In an effort to dispel her anxiety, I tried to reassure her that I didn’t think learning this mattered.

That did not help at all.

Then the first practice test came home with a perfect score and I was surprised to find myself outraged.

The test provided a list of states and capitals. The kids just had to match them up and remember the abbreviation and geographical location.

I found myself ranting,

“When I was a kid we had to memorize it all! There was no list provided!”

BB just stared at me.

Yes, I went from saying I didn’t understand the point, to saying the test was too easy.

I do think there’s value in understanding the geography. I was just chatting with Captain about flight routes to Tahiti. He was curious about why it’s such a long flight.

I explained that it’s past Hawaii and how long it would take. He nods his head,

“I guess I always think of Hawaii in that box not too far away.”

The good news is that Panama is a lot closer than that Hawaii box. It’s a 5.5 hour direct flight from Boston and only an hour time difference. I’ll keep you posted. Eventually.

This is 43! My passport is renewed. I’m ready

Posted on July 24, 2025 by Good Times with Jess

What a birthday month!

I do not know how to have the kids home and be on vacation and be working and be sailing and be beaching and be blogging.

I got it all done except for the blogging. So here I am. I didn’t forget about you. I never would/could. Someone will have to claw the keyboard out of my old, withered hands.

It will be like taking away my car keys. Until then I’m clinging to my early forties.

A 38-year-old beach friend was surprised to learn I was turning 43. She looked me up and down and said,

“So there’s hope for me!”

Which I have 100% taken as a compliment, but also, how much aging does she expect to incur in five years?

BB turned nine! It’s her last year in single digits. She is quickly moving into her tween years. She’s still wearing a Rufflebutt swimsuit, but I was told this is the last year for that.

I’m still wearing a string bikini, someone can tell me when it’s my last year for that. Maybe my 5-year younger beach buddy.

As I put RB to bed she asked her usual litany of random unanswerable questions, like:

“Why is that calendar with the chickens still here?”

“I don’t know. This is my brother’s room.”

“Didn’t you play in here?”

“Yes, but mainly in my room with my barbies and American Girl doll.”

RB turns to me in shock,

“They had American Doll Girls in the OLD DAYS?”

The old days? Yup. They did.

RB shakes her head. She seems to have forgotten all about the perplexing chickens.

Captain is on the verge of turning 51, so he’s really from the old days.

He just bought a new pair of shoes and I said,

“Those look spiffy!”

“SPIFFY?!?”

“What’s wrong with spiffy?”

“Sounds like a compliment for a guy in his sixties.”

Oh. Hmmm.

He took his brand-new, white shoes and we went sailing for a week. The sibling fighting may have aged us more than a week, but other than that it was amazing.

One of their favorite fights to have is,

“She’s LOOKING AT ME!”

If they have this fight on a huge, wide-open beach, you can imagine how many looks there were on a contained sailboat.

Most looks were mitigated with a bag of potato chips.

This is the wisdom I’ve gained in old age, don’t underestimate the power of a snack.

I’ve also learned that I can beach and work. Sail and work. Parent and work is trickier. And apparently I cannot blog and do any other tasks.

I’ll talk to you in August, before or after Captain gets one year closer to being genuinely spiffy.

P.S. BB is now proofreading my posts… so that’s how old we really are.

I think the dolls are making him look younger, but it’s hard to say.

Brake pads, rotors and the itsy bitzee that went for a ride

Posted on June 6, 2025 by Good Times with Jess

I rolled up to a family birthday party with the girls. It was Captain’s side of the family, but there was no Captain.

So where was he?

“He’s replacing the brake pads and rotors on my car.”

“He took it somewhere to get it done?”

“Nope, he’s doing it himself.”

Blank stares.

He’s in his happy place, under a car and I’m in mine, at a party, oblivious to how many juice boxes are being guzzled.

The drive to the party was uneventful. BB played with a new birthday present: a bitzee. And RB took a nap.

You may or may not be familiar with the bitzee mania. It is a small digital pet. The photo doesn’t really do it justice. It’s interactive. It moves, lights up and makes sounds. It’s digitally adorable and highly addictive, at least for the little people in my family.

On the drive home BB whipped out her bitzee. RB begged for a turn. Pleaded for a turn. Whined. Yelled. Grabbed. Tantrumed. Cried the most-heartbroken tears one can cry.

BB clung to her Precious.

She was worried RB would damage it and that I would not want to buy her another one.

Both valid concerns.

As we sat in stop and go traffic on 95 and World War III raged in my backseat, I made the game-time decision that BB did not have to share it, but she did have to put it away so she wasn’t taunting RB with it.

RB couldn’t stop crying. Tears rolled silently down her cheeks for the remainder of the ride.

Then I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. I said,

“RB, if you want to spend your own money you can buy one for yourself.”

“I can buy my own itsy bitzee?!”

“If you have $25.”

The minute we pulled up to the house she made a mad dash for her wallet.

Captain was ready to show off his hard work. He told me,

“The back tires are done!”

“New rotors too?”

I have no idea what I’m talking about. I learned how to spell rotors today.

“Yup, performance ones. You can see them.”

“I can?”

Captain points out my new, shiny rotors.

“Performance?”

“Yes! See those lines and grooves there?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what makes them performance”

Aha. I didn’t know I needed performance rotors.

I head inside. RB is trying to count her money. Ones, fives, tens, twenties are spread across her bed. They’re all being counted as one each. I count out $25. She bursts into tears,

“You’re going to take all of my tooth fairy money?”

“I don’t have to take any of it, only if you want to buy a bitzee.”

RB sobs and says,

“I do want to buy an itsy bitzee.”

And she did. She fell in love.

I tried to keep track of it and put it away when I didn’t want her to be using it. Turns out I failed.

I dropped her off at school and a teacher remarked,

“That’s a cool toy she brought in yesterday.”

“What did she bring in?”

RB is already hanging her head and refusing to make eye contact.

“That little blue box you open up.”

“I had no idea she brought that in! She wasn’t allowed to!”

RB’s bitzee is hidden away until further notice. I recount all of this to Captain.

Our child has always done whatever the heck she wants and couldn’t care less about anyone’s “rules.” Except apparently at school, where she’s mysteriously well-behaved.

At a playdate the other day, I overheard her tell her friend,

“This is my sister’s. Don’t tell her we’re using it. She doesn’t let me.”

If someday she’s climbing out of her bedroom window and sneaking off, I will not be surprised.

I will be jumping in my performance Toyota Highlander, finding my wild child and stopping on a dime, because I think that’s what my new fancy rotors are for?

And if anyone has an answer to the sibling fighting, please send help.

Marital love. Measured in gefilte fish

Posted on May 7, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Another Passover is in the books. It was awhile ago now, but I started writing this awhile ago.

Thank you to PJ library for their kid friendly Haggadah. Every year we’re able to read a little bit more. And if it weren’t for the illustrations, I don’t know that we’d be able to read at all.

BB was a full-on participant this year, which felt extra special and RB was a full-on nuisance despite eating a not-kosher-for-Passover bowl of Frosted Flakes two minutes before the start of the seder.

RB was willing to pause her complaining to ask the Four Questions and bargain for money for the afikomen.

BB declared,

“Twenty dollars!”

I said,

“One dollar.”

“Fifteen dollars!”

“Two dollars.”

“Ten dollars!”

“Three dollars.”

At which point, without BB’s approval, RB shouted,

“DEAL!”

I paid ten dollars, but still felt proud of my bargaining skills.

This is the year I realized the love Captain and I have can be measured in gefilte fish.

I adore gefilte fish. I have adored gefilte fish from the minute I could eat solid food. I also adore Captain. The two of them side by side is an easy pairing for me.

Captain only met gefilte fish when he met me. Turns out he was not as enamored with the fish, but I never would’ve known.

Wikipedia says:

Gefilte fish (/ɡəˈfɪltə fɪʃ/; from Yiddish: געפֿילטע פֿיש, German: Gefüllter Fisch / Gefüllte Fische, lit. “stuffed fish”) is a dish made from a poached mixture of ground deboned fish, such as carp, whitefish, or pike. It is traditionally served as an appetizer by Ashkenazi Jewish households. Popular on Shabbat and Jewish holidays such as Passover, it may be consumed throughout the year.

Historically, gefilte fish was a stuffed whole fish consisting of minced-fish forcemeat stuffed inside the intact fish skin. By the 16th century, cooks had started omitting the labor-intensive stuffing step, and the seasoned fish was most commonly formed into patties similar to quenelles or fish balls.^[1]

Ten years ago, at our first seder together, Captain ate the whole gefilte fish topped with horseradish. One of my favorite combos!

I don’t remember his exact words, but something along the lines of,

“Not bad!”

Each year Captain continued to eat the whole gefilte fish. Then about five years ago, when we were no longer in the stage of ripping each other’s clothes off, Captain ate about half of his gefilte fish.

A few more years went by and he continued to eat at least half of his gefilte fish.

Then this year.

I was so busy slurping up every last bit of my ground-up fish that I wasn’t paying Captain the least bit of attention.

I glanced over. He had taken the smallest, most imperceptible, almost microscopic taste of his gefilte fish.

I looked at him,

“You really don’t like it.”

“No I don’t.”

In that moment all I cared about was being very happy to eat his gefilte fish.

Then days later it dawned on me, we have now reached a place in our marriage where there is ZERO need for him to prove his love for me by how much ground-up, mushed-back-together fish he is capable of eating.

For better or for worse, until death or the end of Passover, he’s sticking to matzo ball soup.

When the kids are away, the adults will play

Posted on March 7, 2024 by Good Times with Jess

Heaven!

I’ve arrived.

Nothing like waking up in my own home without my children, knowing they’re having the most wonderful time at their grandmother’s. They survived on donuts, Thai food, McDonald’s and ice cream. And no need to share toys because Grandma has two dollhouses.

Captain walked in the door and we were able to finish every conversation we started. I woke up at 6am out of habit, rolled over and didn’t make a peep until 7:30am. This was vital considering we were planning to stay up past 9pm.

The kids weekend away was out of the blue. Captain and I didn’t have anything planned and it didn’t occur to me until a friend asked,

“What are you going to do?”

What WAS I going to do?

It didn’t really matter. Whatever it was, it would be glorious. The highlight being sleeping late and waking up to peace.

A whole two days of peace.

No screaming over who goes down the stairs first. No screaming because their two hot chocolates aren’t completely even. No screaming because someone looked at someone.

If parental love is measured out in the number of marshmallows each child gets in their hot chocolate, then my kids are evaluating my love with as much precision as their counting skills allow. RB doesn’t stand a chance.

Days before our weekend of bliss I ask Captain,

“Should we go into Boston?”

The thirty minute drive from the burbs might as well be the trek of a lifetime.

Captain ponders this momentous idea,

“We could.”

And we do. We park in our old parking garage. It’s nostalgic in a way like:

‘It’s so nice we don’t have to park here anymore.’

We wander through the seaport where I used to wander with baby BB in her sling, but it looks nothing like it used to look. Shiny new buildings are EVERYWHERE.

Around 7pm we walk into a shiny new building for a game of mini-golf. All ages of people are playing. Captain starts with a hole in one and then not realizing it’s a digitalized game, moves my ball to try to help me, but that adds a shot to my score. I was doomed. But who cares about winning?

I do. I didn’t come all the way in from suburbia to hand this game over.

We have a bite to eat. All ages of people disappear and we’re left with twenty somethings. Captain gazes around at the couples. He says,

“They have no idea that in ten years they’ll be living in the suburbs.”

I glance at one young woman displaying a grimace of disdain as her date returns to her. I don’t have my money on them.

We head for mini-golf round two. Captain and I scan the crowd for anyone close to our age. Captain almost shouts,

“See that guy? Gray hair and glasses?”

Yes! And his wife is yawning. I’m with you girlfriend. I didn’t know that a 9pm mini-golf game would finish around 11pm. But it was worth it because I won the second round.

If my children have taught me anything, winning matters, especially when your immediate family is involved.

I was also surprised to feel content with being middle age. There’s peace in my life, even when the kids are home, that didn’t exist in my twenties. Or at least that’s the conclusion I came to after spending a mini-golf game listening to the bravado of “Soupie” and “Sheppie.”

Sheppie said to Soupie or maybe the other way around,

“My second cousin is hot. I mean it. I’m really attracted to her, but she’s getting married next month.”

These are the quality conversations I’ve been missing since I stopped bartending.

The weekend worked out so well for everyone that we put another one on the books for April. Captain and I will go out in Boston again, aiming for the 5pm-9pm window.

I don’t know what we’ll do, but I’m going to win. I mean have so much fun!

It is rich on my part to give Sheppie and Soupie a hard time when I’m walking around playing for Team BJ.

Oh to be loved as much as a stuffie

Posted on January 13, 2023 by Good Times with Jess

BB is on a quest to quantify my love for her. How much is it? And how does it compare to other people and things I love? The fine and not so fine print being: ‘please tell me you love me more than my sister.’

She asks,

“How much do you love me?”

“It’s infinite.”

“Do you love Dad more than me?”

“No way.”

“RB?”

“Nope.”

“Do you love me more than RB?”

“No. I love you both so much I could burst. I would die for you.”

“Would you die for Dad?”

“No.”

I don’t want to say that there couldn’t be some situation that would make me reconsider. But in the depths of my soul I know I would do anything for BB and RB and as much as I love Captain, there appear to be some conditions.

BB presses,

“Do you love me the most?”

“I don’t love anyone more.”

“Do you love Blankety more?”

“I do not love Blankety more.” It gives me anxiety to think about sleeping without my 40-year-old blanket, but I can do hard things.

BB contemplates her security bunny. Bunzy is a bunny head with arms, and with what BB calls “blanket feet.”

These animal heads on small blankets have taken over the lovey market and they’re a little creepy if you give them too much thought. They’re a bunch of bodiless animal heads.

Thanks to having arms, Bunzy is able to wear an assortment of doll clothes, so sometimes it’s possible to forget she has no torso or whatever bunny bodies are called.

BB buries her face in Bunzy and tells me,

“No offense, but I love Bunzy more than I love you.”

“That’s ok.” I can only aspire to be 75% blanket and a dull, mottled gray color from never being washed.

Fresh out of the wash. BB’s love for Bunzy is not infinite when Bunzy smells like vomit.

Back to her usual shade of mysterious dirtiness

Present day. I’d rather not disclose how many minutes I spent on this photoshoot.

Til death or disintegration do us part

Posted on December 6, 2021 by Good Times with Jess

And that’s a wrap on Hanukkah! It was a good one.

Captain and I had an evening out, which never fails to remind me how we got ourselves into this mess in the first place.

I sported the faux, suede leggings I wore when I met him, which he loves and my new fuzzy coat which I love and he said looks like a sheep. Who doesn’t love sheep?

It was a dreamy moment without anyone bugging me for presents or more presents or when are there going to be presents. On our way out, I float into the restaurant bathroom. As I’m washing my hands, the woman next to me says something unintelligible followed by,

“…. very nice.”

“Thank you!”

In my contentedness, I made the assumption that she was saying something about me. Perhaps my sheep coat is very nice?

She stops washing her hands, turns to face me and enunciates loud and clear,

“THIS RESTAURANT is very nice.”

“Oh yes, it’s a LOVELY restaurant.”

There’s no way to recover from having assumed this was about me, but we spend a good five minutes singing the restaurant’s praises just in case.

For Hanukkah, my mom spent the week mending Blankety, my security blanket. I’ve mended her here and there over the 39 years of her existence, but it kinda breaks my heart.

No one wants to take a needle and thread to someone they love. Yes I understand she’s an inanimate object.

Blankety has never been one to wash frequently, especially as she’s gotten older and has really started to disintegrate. I washed her when I first met Captain. Her equivalent of a new pair of faux, suede leggings.

I washed her again right before BB was born. And I washed her two days ago.

Did you do the math on that? The blanket I smush against my face every night of my entire life, went 5.5 years without a wash.

A month ago as I did inventory on our winter gear, I said to Captain,

“I can’t believe the winter boots I was wearing when we met are 10 years old. They’re older than our relationship.”

Captain eyes Blankety in our bed and mutters,

“That’s the oldest thing in our relationship.”

I point at 47-year-old Captain,

“You are the oldest thing in our relationship.”

I may have won that one, but it made me take a hard look at poor Blankety.

She faded from bright pink to brown several years ago. Then her remaining innards started showing through and I couldn’t bear to put her in the wash.

Then I started to break out. Then Captain mentioned she doesn’t smell great and he steers clear of her in our bed. I think she smells fabulous and I’m not trying to share her with him, so good.

My mom promised to mend her and I promised to wash her.

I won’t say she looks like a whole new blanket, but she is a whole new color. Let’s do it again in 5 years.

I’ll be 40 this coming July. It’s got me contemplating mortality and Blankety’s life span. Will she live another 40 years? Will my faux, suede leggings still be around? I can only be so lucky to find out.

Blankety through the ages: