We took the ferry to Block Island to start our summer vacation yesterday and already I have tons of blog fodder to share with you.

But first things first.  See, I will be changing the name of my blog to reflect that I am now a Block Island resident and will never leave, and I can’t figure out if it should be “Motherhood on the Block” or “Motherhood in the Block”.  On seems right, but it’s Motherhood in NYC.  No matter how great the ESL classes were, I’m still not a native English speaker, so these things are confusing to me.  What do you think?  On or in?

What?  Yes, the reason that I’m never leaving Block Island is that the ferry crossing was so horrific and vomit-enriched that I swore never to get on another ferry ever again.  I’m hoping that Block Island wises up a bit and gets itself landlocked, but I’m nothing if not a realist and that’s why I’ve resigned to spending the rest of my life here.

There are some problems, of course.  Like the fact that we only have our house rented for a week, for an amount that involved mortgaging some of my organs.  But I’ve been reading The Secret online, so I’m sure that the universe is busy building a new house for me as I type.

There are a few more minor points–the kids are supposed to start school in a few weeks, but Young Ladrinka, fellow vomitorium visitor, is already on my side.  Yes, he is willing to sacrifice school in order to support his mother.  I think I can congratulate myself on a job well done.

Husbandrinka thinks that I’m overreacting.  It’s a good thing that we’re not living in Victorian England or something because he’d have me labeled hysterical in no time, and probably have my uterus extracted for good measure.

“Fortunately” Husbandrinka doesn’t get seasick, but “unfortunately” he really dislikes vomit.  Now, you may be thinking that vomit lovers are few and far between, but let me reassure you, he dislikes vomit more than most normal people.  I learned this ten years ago when our daughter had her first stomach virus and I had to spend the night with her, soothing and wiping and cleaning and he had to spend the night sealed in our bedroom, catching up a season’s worth of The Sopranos.  He told me the next morning that the show was really good, but that he’d stayed up way too late watching it, which certainly reassured me because I stayed up way too late dealing with a puking child and knowing that at least one of us had a nice evening was just the salve that I needed, although knowing that he was a bit yawny from watching one too many episodes certainly tempered my happiness.

But during yesterday’s ferry ride, Poseidon avenged me.  Because I got seasick pretty much instantly (although at first I didn’t think anything of it, as I had just started reading Dr. Phil’s Give Yourself a Mental Makeover in O Magazine, and I assumed that nausea was a normal reaction to all things Dr. Phil.  But it wasn’t.)

After I excused myself (by running and screaming WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!) to the ladies’ room, apparently Young Ladrinka got seasick as well, and Husbandrinka had to accompany him to the, shall we say, men’s lounge.

According to Husbandrinka, the men’s lounge was already at near capacity, there was a man in his 60s, who stayed there the entire time (hi! I’m worried that I’m using the word “vomit” too often in this post, so from now on “stay” is going to be code for it!  Wait, don’t leave! The post is almost over! Stay and enjoy it! oh.)  In addition to the older man, there was also a man in his 40s and a teenager.  The teenager didn’t have a stall, so he er.. stayed in the garbage can and that’s when Husbandrinka started to feel unwell himself.  (By the way, I have no idea why Husbandrinka noted and told me the age of all the men that were there.  I can only assume that he’s an undercover Census taker.)

Once I got on terra firma, I vowed never to ferry again.  Which is why we’re sta-, I mean, remaining on Block Island forever.  And which brings me back to my original question- Motherhood on the Block or Motherhood in the Block?

Having a great time, wish you were here!

If your 12 year old daughter has a friend over, and they’re making a home movie in which your daughter is the “mother” and she’s heading to work wearing what looks like a slip, resist the urge to ask if she’s working as a prostitute.  Because when you do, your daughter will shriek OH MY GOD! and her two-years-younger friend will ask what a prostitute is and while you’re busy being all flustered and saying  things like “I mean a postitute. You know, someone who posts a lot” your 12 year old will explain to her friend that a prostitute is someone whose job it is to have sex with people for money and the friend will make the OOOOO face and you can already imagine the phone call that you’ll be receiving from her parents, who probably wanted to break the news about prostitution to her themselves.

And then you’ll ask your daughter how she knows what a prostitute is and she’ll say “from school” and when you push further, she’ll say “because during the Renaissance that’s what people who didn’t have jobs did” and of course the younger friend is not asking what Renaissance is, which is just your luck. Because you’re sure that her parents would look at you with great admiration if you taught their daughter something about THAT.