Mosquito, Nevada

That's right, we spent our Valentines in Mosquito, Nevada--just the eight of us--at a Soccer tourney.

Does that sound romantic or what?

It's called Mosquito because it's an itchy little town that buzzes in your ear when you try to sleep. My kids wanted to know why if it's called Mosquito, it's spelled Mesquite and I told them the truth, that Nevada discriminates against the letter o.

My (know-it-all) MIL corrected me and said the town is named Mesquite after all the mesquite bushes on the other side of the Virgin River.

"Well," I said with a hmph, "what are the odds that that Virgin River is actually a virgin? This is Nevada, after all."

Was that rude?

But I have a point, right?

I mean, remember when Brittany Spears became an oxymoron because she claimed she was a virgin? And remember when Madonna became a simile because she said she was like a virgin?

It's all just rhetoric.

Later on though I started thinking that maybe it really is a virgin river after all. I mean the whole town of Mosquito is pretty barren. The desert palms are kinda prudish too. They stand up perfectly straight and you'll never catch them teasing each other like the palms in Hawaii. The wind isn't playful either, it's more on the stern, abrasive side, like a catholic nun or a librarian--always shushing you or giving you the stink eye.

The whole place is just kinda impatient. Even the toilets flush every 30 seconds whether you're finished with your business or not.

However, there is one really attractive thing about Mosquito, Nevada--the sun. That is one HOT sun. Bold too. Nothing shy about it.

The Astroturf's not hard on the eyes either. It's a bee-U-tiful, bright, vivid green--almost the color of joy. Except it's not real joy. It's synthetic--little blades of grass implants all over the soccer field.

Between the bold sun and the Astroturf implants, let's just say I didn't wear a single drab colored sweater all weekend.

Picture this: me . . . walking across the Astroturf in slow motion . . . in my slippahs--toes fully exposed, and my flimsy hot pink, v-neck tee . . . my thumb hooked carelessly in the pocket of my denim culottes . . . It would have been picture perfect if that indignant wind hadn't kept scolding me every time I got too friendly with the sun.

The one thing I realized from my romantic weekend getaway is that love truly is all you need. Plus a little sun. And maybe a "periodic" pedicure.

I got plenty of all three this weekend. Except the pedicure, which I didn't get because of the recession. And anyway, I still have a little bit of polish left from my last pedi.

I didn't get much love either, but I still have a little bit left over from my wedding so I'm good. Waste not, want not, that's what my MIL always says (among other things).


Naybe I'll gather the courage to tell you about the other things tomorrow.


Stay tuned for photographic evidence of my hub pumping gas in his snowman pj's. (Talk about mood killer!)