dear sweet jamaica,

Andy and I talk about our next vacation a lot. Especially after I get on Facebook and see that everyone and their mother has taken some sort of vacation in the last year. We know it's far away but we feel if we keep talking it up then maybe it will get here sooner. We're crossing our fingers that on our 5 year anniversary we'll be able to go on one. We're 1/2 way there! I'm hoping it's Jamaica. We went there on our hunnymoon and it was amazing. I wrote this letter...

Dear sweet Jamaica,

I miss you.

I miss the jerk chicken at the 24 hour snack bar.

I miss Red Stripe...kinda sorta.

I miss that restaurant where I could sit 15 feet from the beach and dig my toes into the sand. Still wish Andy would have danced with me in the middle of the restaurant on the beach like I asked. To embarassing I guess. Andy, How many times do you live? You live ONCE.

I miss the spirit of the Jamaican people.

I miss the room service.

I miss the resort staff that seriously thought I was a movie star from the states. When they asked if I was famous I answered, "Pretty Much" and kept walking.

I miss drinking pina colada's before noon.

I miss how awesome that wooden winding staircase was that led to our loft bed.

I don't miss the 10lbs I gained while visiting. They never left.

I miss the hot rock massage at the Red Line Spa.

I miss that one blue hammock on the right side of the resort that we slept in for hours every single day.

I miss the 'disco night'. Who knew how much Jamaican's loved disco? Who knew how much my husband hated it?

I miss the sunset.

I miss that nice waiter who I jokeingly told could stay with us anytime he was in Indiana. He took me seriously and asked for my cell phone number so he could reach me if he ever made it to the states. I'm not sure if he'd ever seen a map and realized where Indiana is in relation to Jamaica...or even Florida. So I grabbed a napkin and gave him Andy's number, he's better with giving directions :).

I miss the sand.

I miss just about everything...except for the man that tried to sell us weed on the beach, and the Hedonism resort that was right next to ours and the shop that only sold chunks of wood that were carved into naked people, and the talent night when the resort staff sang. Jamaicans can't sing. I didn't really miss that.

Sincerely yours,

Mo Breden, the movie star