STRANGER THAN FICTION: HAVING A GREAT TIME, WISH YOU WERE HERE

My battle cry is, "Don't buy that toothpaste! We're saving for a vacation!"

At some point this summer, The Other Half and I are getting the heck out of Dodge for the first time since our honeymoon.

As you may recall, we took the Official White Trash Honeymoon to St. Louis, and wouldn't have gotten that far if it weren't for a generous wedding gift. If it weren't for that free breakfast buffet in the atrium, the whole thing would have been a bust.

But Mr. Half and I are a little older, a little wiser, and we counted our pennies so we could take a REAL trip. Of course, knocking people over the head and taking their wallets was much more effective than counting our pennies. You gotta do what you gotta do.

See, neither of us are the Little Red Hen types. We're more like the other barnyard animals who gathered around wanting the bread after all the work was done.

Unfortunately, we usually end up with no dough (ha, ha).

Not this time. I was determined to make up for the honeymoon, so we started saving last year to take a first anniversary trip.

Our first anniversary was in April. It's June. You get the picture.

We're finally to the sitting-down-and-planning stage. Thanks to a well choreographed string of mooches, we're staying in Wilmington, Del., Philadelphia and New York without paying a dime. My parents' friends who chucked me on the cheek when I was 5 and haven't seen me since are housing us.

It was easy. I just called them and said something like, "Hi. I'm Claudia's oldest daughter. You know, cute little girl, strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes? Well, I'm 26 and married now ..."

Some of the others are relatives. My great aunt is stop number one. She's in tight with the Wilmington newspaper reporter who exposed television sportscaster Ben Wright as a woman-hating chauvinist and got him fired, gaining national recognition.

My great aunt wanted to arrange for the reporter, whose first name is Valerie and whose last name I can't spell or pronounce, to have lunch with me.

Not to be ungrateful, but I'm not sure what I could learn from her over a couple of steaks at the Sizzler. I can see it now...

ME: Wow, you're great. Really great. Much more successful than I am.

VALERIE: Yeah, I guess so.

ME: Yeah.

So I weaseled my way out of that, but not out of a big family reunion luncheon at the DuPont Hotel.

In my extended family, I'm the poor Southern relation. Everyone else lives on the northeastern coast, working as doctors, lawyers and accountants. My family lives here, with a mother who (GASP!) works with the disabled and a father who (GADZOOKS!) works at a truck parts dealership.

I've seriously considered walking into the luncheon in overalls and no shoes, with a burlap sack thrown over my shoulder.

"Ya'll go ahead and eat," I'd say. "I done brought my own possum sandwiches. Got 'em right here!"

The only drawback is that my appearance would put my great aunt in her grave, so forget it.

Our trip will end in New York City, a town whose name I can't say anymore without thinking of Pace brand picante sauce. The last time I was there, I saw a man standing on the roof of a car and bashing in its windshield with a crowbar. Mom told us kids not to stare and rushed us to the other side of the street.

Wish us luck.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.