The Last Day of the Cruise: My Inner Cow Had to Sit This One Out

Today was the last day of the cruise, and if you've ever cruised, you know there's something about that final day that makes you believe your stomach has unlimited storage capacity.

Normally, by this point, I've eaten enough to feed a small village. But somehow, I always manage to find room for just a little more.

I turn into my inner cow. You know, the one with four stomachs. Somehow, I locate the other three that apparently weren't there the day before.

But this morning, I had a moment of reflection. Or maybe it was panic.

I looked in the mirror and saw someone who looked at least six months into gestation. Possibly seven. I'm not sure what the official measurement is, but my stomach was making a convincing argument.

So, I decided to behave myself.

Breakfast was going to be light. I went with a strawberry parfait, a fruit plate, decaf coffee, and tap water.

Of course, the ship wasn't going to make this easy.

I was offered pastries, bacon, toast, pancakes, and plenty of other temptations. All the things that normally make me say, "Well, it's vacation!"

But not today.

I stuck with the options that were a little better for me. No bacon mountain, no pancake tower, and no pastry collection. Just fruit, yogurt, coffee, and water.

Look at me, exercising restraint on the final day of a cruise!

I'm not sure how long this new behavior will last once I'm back home, but for today, I'm calling it a victory.

My inner cow can take the day off. Those other three stomachs will have to wait until the next cruise.

And speaking of the next cruise... January 2027 isn't that far away, is it?

The Bacon Intervention: When the Bathroom Mirror Tells You to Slow Down

Today, I had to make a difficult decision.

I had to calm down with the bacon.

If you've been following my cruise adventures aboard Royal Caribbean's Radiance of the Seas, you already know that bacon and I have developed a pretty serious relationship. Breakfast has become less about ordering a meal and more about determining just how much bacon can reasonably fit on a plate.

But apparently, there is a limit.

The Bathroom Mirror Doesn't Lie

After my shower, I got up to brush my teeth.

Now, some people brush their teeth before showering. Others do it afterward. I'm firmly in the after-shower camp. We can debate the merits of both approaches another time.

So there I was, standing in the tiny cruise ship bathroom, using my Oral-B spinning toothbrush, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

And what did I see?

Someone who looked at least six months pregnant. Maybe seven.

I stopped for a moment and thought:

"Niel, we gotta slow down."

Apparently, all those bacon breakfasts were starting to show up in places I wasn't expecting.

The Difficult Breakfast Decision

I made a difficult decision.

No Mount Everest-sized plate of bacon today.

Instead, I opted for a fruit plate and a strawberry parfait.

To drink, I had cranberry juice, decaf coffee, and a few sips of water.

Look at me, making responsible decisions!

Was it easy? Absolutely not.

Was there bacon somewhere on the ship calling my name? I'm sure of it.

But sometimes you have to recognize when it's time to change, even if that change means temporarily distancing yourself from one of life's greatest breakfast pleasures.

January 2027 Is Coming!

Another cruise is coming up in January 2027, and I have to think about the bigger picture.

I can't spend every cruise treating the breakfast buffet like an all-you-can-eat bacon championship.

There's still plenty of cruising ahead, and I'd like to enjoy it without having to negotiate with my bathroom mirror every morning.

So, for now, I'm going to exercise a little restraint.

The bacon and I aren't breaking up. We're just taking a little time apart.

Until the next breakfast buffet, bacon. Until the next breakfast buffet.

Touring Assisted Living: I Have Questions—and I’d Like to See the Menu

I’ve been scheduling visits to assisted living facilities for my mother. After two strokes and her current stay in skilled nursing, I want to help her find somewhere she feels comfortable, supported, and happy to live.

There’s a lot to ask about. A nice lobby is lovely, but my mother won’t be living next to the decorative vase by the front door.

I want to know what daily life actually looks like.

Who is available when she needs help, including overnight? How do they support her mobility and help with everyday tasks? How are medications handled? What happens if her needs change?

I also want a clear explanation of the cost. What’s included in the monthly price, and what costs extra? I’d prefer to discover the additional charges before they become a recurring surprise.

I’m also asking about activities, transportation, visitors, and how residents spend their time. Can Mom make choices about her day? Who do I contact with a concern, and how do they communicate with families?

And as I walk around, I want to pay attention to how people interact. Are staff members taking time to listen? Do residents seem comfortable asking for things? I want to picture my mother actually living there.

Then we get to the most important item on my personal tour agenda.

The food.

Yes, I have questions about staffing and care. I also have questions about the chicken.

I’d Like to Schedule a Tasting

My mother says she’s a picky eater.

Her reviews of the food at the hospitals and now the facility support that. The current place was supposed to have good food, according to the Google reviews.

Mom has apparently declined to join the consensus.

Somewhere, a glowing review of a meal is waiting for my mother to discuss with the author.

So I had a thought: people do tastings before weddings. Why wouldn’t I ask to taste the food before helping Mom choose somewhere she’ll eat every day?

A wedding dinner is one meal. This is a much longer commitment to somebody’s mashed potatoes.

As I schedule these visits, I’ve been asking whether they can have food available for me to try—and something I can take back to Mom.

I can look at the room, ask about the services, and review the costs. But I’m not volunteering to approve six months of lunches on her behalf without bringing her a sample.

I have enough responsibilities. Becoming the defendant in Mom v. The Meatloaf does not need to be another one.

Please Don’t Make Anything Special

One place asked whether there was something special they should make.

I appreciate the offer. But I’m not asking for Hell’s Kitchen. Nobody needs to summon Gordon Ramsay or explain the emotional journey behind a carrot.

I told one place: let me know what’s on the menu. If there’s a choice, I’ll choose from that. Please don’t do anything different.

I want the true experience.

If Tuesday lunch is turkey, rice, and green beans, that’s what I want to try. I want to know what Mom can expect on an ordinary day, after the tour is over and the welcome folder has been put away.

A special meal made just for my visit wouldn’t answer that question.

I’m also interested in what happens when she doesn’t like the scheduled meal. Are there alternatives? Can she choose something simple? How much flexibility is there?

Because “she’ll eat it when she gets hungry” is not a dining plan I’m looking to purchase.

Mom Gets a Vote—and a Fork

Plenty about this process feels serious, expensive, and emotionally exhausting. Food gives us something concrete to talk about—and, hopefully, something to laugh about.

It also matters to Mom. She’s told me that clearly, and I’m listening.

She’s already dealing with a lot of change. I want her to have meals she looks forward to, choices she feels good about, and a place at the table where she feels comfortable.

I’m not expecting every dish to become her new favorite. I would, however, like lunch to have a fighting chance.

So I’ll keep scheduling visits, asking questions, and looking closely at what each facility offers.

And I’ll be asking for a sample.

The brochure can tell me about the dining experience. Mom can tell me about the potatoes.