Last Friday, we took our niece on her first "sleep-over" vacation to Florida. She slept. I didn't.
Friday night, feeling a bit homesick, she decided she really, really needed to crawl into bed with Tim and myself. No problem. It was one of those extra large, California King-sized beds. There are mansions with less square footage than this thing. In fact, you need to send out a search party to see if anyone else is even in the bed with you. Which is why I'm still trying to figure out how one little seven year old could make it feel like I was trying to sleep on a postage stamp.
About two hours after we fell asleep, I had that dream. You know, the one where you are falling? Except it wasn't a dream. Her highness had somehow maneuvered me right to the edge of the mattress where I was precariously hanging on for dear life.
Rappelling the twelve feet down to the floor (oh, did I mention that the actual double-thick mattress is on top of a platform bed that you need a pole-vault and a good, strong tailwind to get up on?) I debated leaving her there and taking the middle position, but I was afraid she would continue to roll in that direction and I really didn't want to have to explain to her parents why their child looked like flat Stanley when I returned her.
I very gingerly leaned over and nudged her toward the middle. She hunkered down and snored louder. So much for plan A. I gently put one hand under her shoulder and one under her legs and rolled her over. She rolled right back. And took my pillow. There went plan B. On to plan C: I outweighed her by about six tons, and was going to have to use that to my advantage.
Clambering up onto the one-inch mattress border that she had so generously left for me, all the while wishing I had taken mountain climbing in PE instead of pistol, I simultaneously rolled her and slid in and over as far as I could. Victory! I could now lay claim to a full six inches of mattress real estate. I was ecstatic.
The only downside was that I had to stay on my back and brace myself against the bed frame so that she couldn't reclaim her space. Oh yeah. That was comfortable. Suddenly, the webbed lounge chairs out at the pool were beginning to look like a little bit of heaven.
By some miracle though, I was finally able to fall asleep again only to be woken up an hour or so later by a bad dream--hers. Yep. Nothing gets your heart pounding faster than being pulled out of a sound sleep by someone yelling in your ear, "I didn't do it!" while thrashing around like a really big, really annoyed fish in a very small net. If they ever need a back-up for the paddles on the crash cart at the local ER, I've got just the thing.
After we soothed her and got our heart rates down to two hundred beats per minute, I settled down again to find I had lost half of the space I had fought so valiantly for. Oh well. Sheer exhaustion allowed me to drift off to sleep (you have to pick your battles, I guess), but like clockwork, I awoke from yet a third dream (this one was mine. Score: me=2, my niece=1). In this one, I was Gretel and the witch had successfully coaxed me into climbing in the oven to check if it was on.
I awoke to find a fifty pound plus human heating pad pressed up against my back. Goody. Just what I needed. Something to ward off the cold, Florida night. Oh, and I was once again reduced to hanging off the edge of "our" side.
Resolving myself to the situation up top, I picked myself up out of the puddle of sweat I was lying in and slid down to give the bottom of the bed a try. I might have to deal with feet in my face, but the ceiling fan was positioned directly above the bottom of the bed, so the trade-off was worth it. Or so I thought.
Turns out those ceiling fans actually work. Who knew? Now, instead of roasting to death, I was freezing to death, and guess who was rolled up in the sheet, snug as a bug in a rug?
I decided I wasn't meant to sleep. Oh well, there was always Saturday night. Except that her loose tooth fell out and she was so excited by the prospect of the tooth fairy visiting that she didn't want to go to sleep on Saturday.
Somehow, Tim managed to sucker me into tooth fairy duty by claiming he had nothing smaller than a twenty. If I had known that would be the price of just one nights sleep, I would have let him wear the dress and wings and added another twenty of my own (actually, if there really had been a dress and wings, I would have been willing to chip in two twenties.).
10 pm rolled around, but there was no sign of the sandman. 11 pm came and went. Not one grain of sand in our lovely little niece's eyes, but the sandman sure had knocked Tim over the head with one of his larger bags. At this point, I was considering either spiking a Shirley Temple with Valium for our niece, or a large coffee with No-Doze for me.
By 11:30, she no longer seemed quite so lovely, and I was contemplating just handing her a fifty and telling her to put the tooth under her pillow when she got home and the fairy would match it.
Finally, when I checked somewhere near midnight, her head was down. Moving with a stealth that would put 007 to shame, I crept over to where she lay sleeping, reaching ever so cautiously for her pillow and...her head popped up like a jack-in-the-box.
"What're you doing?" she demanded suspiciously.
"Er. Um. Jut checking to make sure you put the tooth under your pillow. Wouldn't want the tooth fairy to have to pass by. And speaking of the tooth fairy, you know she won't come as long as you are awake." Smooth. Nice save. I patted myself on the back as I crept away.
At 12:30, I slipped back again, sure that she just had to be asleep. Personally, at that point, I could have slept hanging on the side of the bed. Heck, I could have slept dangling on a single thread, suspended over shark infested waters.
Once more, I reached for her pillow, and, just as my hand closed around the tooth...her eyes popped open. "What're you doing?" she demanded again.
Uh oh. I had used up my one and only excuse and my sleep deprived brain wasn't coming up with anything else.
"Er. Um. Uh. Hmm. Something, something, just checking," I mumbled desperately. "Gotta go."
Propping my eyelids open and swearing to myself that the next time, Time was so wearing the dress and wings, I didn't care what it cost, I waited another half hour.
This time, I whispered her name first. Then, I bumped the bed. Finally, I jiggled her pillow. She was, at last, asleep. Fighting not to collapse in a heap next to her, tooth in hand, I made the exchange and stumbled off to catch a few winks myself.
The next morning, she was up and at 'em, calling her parents to tell them that the tooth fairy had found her even in Florida. "But," I overheard her say, "it was the strangest thing. Annie was just obsessed with my pillow!"
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Florida. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Chivalry Is Dead
According to legend, Sir Walter Raleigh, upon seeing Queen Elizabeth heading for a puddle, gallantly whipped off his cloak and threw it over the puddle to keep her from getting her delicate little feet even the slightest bit damp. Where is Walt when you need him?
On a recent trip to Florida, I practically drowned and wasn't even offered so much as a Kleenex.
It all started with a trip to the grocery store on a rainy day and the foolish mistake of leaving my umbrella in the car.
Tim and I were not in the store more than two seconds when the sky opened up and let loose a torrential downpour. Watching the poor unfortunate souls still outside scurrying frantically for cover, we congratulated ourselves on being warm and dry. As we headed off down the first aisle, we snickered, thinking that by the time we were done, the rain would have stopped. After all, it never rains that hard for that long.
Wrong. Apparently, no one had ever told Mother Nature of that rule, and so , ten minutes later, it was still coming down cats and dogs.
Still sure it wouldn't last much longer, we stepped out under the overhang and huddled with the other miserable, sodden people there, killing the next five minutes or so reassuring each other that this was all going to blow over any second now.
Wrong again. If anything, it started to rain even harder. Rivers began to form in the loading lane and I think I caught a glimpse of Nessie somewhere out in the middle of the lake that had sprung up halfway down aisle three.
Reaching the end of his patience a whole five seconds later, Tim decided to make a run for it and get the car. I wished him well and reminded him that the umbrella was tucked in the door on the passenger side. I offered to hold down the fort until he could ride to my rescue.
He looked at me incredulously. Wasn't I going to go with him? Did I truly expect him to make that mad dash on his own?
Well, duh. Of course I wasn't going with him. It was raining. Did he not know after all these years that my one, unbreakable rule (okay, actually it is unbreakable rule 435) is, "Never get the hair wet unless you are within one hundred yards of a hot shower and a blow dryer"? I mean, seriously, was he new in town?
As I watched him sprint through the parking lot, dodging the great lakes somewhat successfully and the raindrops less successfully, one of the other poor unfortunates turned to me and commented wistfully about how lucky I was to have such an attentive and caring husband.
Before I could get too smug though, Tim pulled up in a great tidal wave of water, unlocked the door and gestured for me to get into the car.
Um. Did he miss the part where I told him where the umbrella was? It was at least five feet from the overhang to the car. Five feet and about five hundred gallons of cascading water. Why didn't he just ask me to swim back to the condo?
Not believing he was actually serious, I shook my head and pointed skyward.
Not believing I was actually serious, he rolled down the window and bellowed, er, gently requested, for me to get into the car.
Once again, I shook my head. I ever-so-sweetly suggested that since he was already wet, he might consider bringing me the umbrella. After all, there was no sense in both of us getting soaked, and did he not remember the hair rule?
His response to my politely and lovingly phrased request? He chucked the umbrella out the window in my general direction only to have it land about six inches from the car in what was quickly becoming the Erie Canal.
Fascinated, everyone on the sidewalk swiveled their heads back and forth like bobble-head dolls trying to see what my reaction would be.
Smiling beatifically, I crossed my arms over my chest and glared, I mean gazed, lovingly back at him, willing him to GET OUT OF THE CAR THIS INSTANT!!!
And still he sat. Check and mate is what he was thinking. Dead mate is what was running through my mind.
Finally unable to deal with the stress of the standoff any longer, a young girl threw up the hood of her sweatshirt, darted out into the monsoon, and retrieved the umbrella for me, obviously thinking to make things right and avoid a homicide. Ahh. To be that young and naive again.
Snapping open the water-logged umbrella, I threw myself into the car as quickly as possible, which means I was only half-drowned, while creating at least half a dozen scenarios involving Tim and said umbrella, none of them pretty.
Sir Walter Raleigh he isn't. But then again, I guess I'm no Queen Elizabeth.
On a recent trip to Florida, I practically drowned and wasn't even offered so much as a Kleenex.
It all started with a trip to the grocery store on a rainy day and the foolish mistake of leaving my umbrella in the car.
Tim and I were not in the store more than two seconds when the sky opened up and let loose a torrential downpour. Watching the poor unfortunate souls still outside scurrying frantically for cover, we congratulated ourselves on being warm and dry. As we headed off down the first aisle, we snickered, thinking that by the time we were done, the rain would have stopped. After all, it never rains that hard for that long.
Wrong. Apparently, no one had ever told Mother Nature of that rule, and so , ten minutes later, it was still coming down cats and dogs.
Still sure it wouldn't last much longer, we stepped out under the overhang and huddled with the other miserable, sodden people there, killing the next five minutes or so reassuring each other that this was all going to blow over any second now.
Wrong again. If anything, it started to rain even harder. Rivers began to form in the loading lane and I think I caught a glimpse of Nessie somewhere out in the middle of the lake that had sprung up halfway down aisle three.
Reaching the end of his patience a whole five seconds later, Tim decided to make a run for it and get the car. I wished him well and reminded him that the umbrella was tucked in the door on the passenger side. I offered to hold down the fort until he could ride to my rescue.
He looked at me incredulously. Wasn't I going to go with him? Did I truly expect him to make that mad dash on his own?
Well, duh. Of course I wasn't going with him. It was raining. Did he not know after all these years that my one, unbreakable rule (okay, actually it is unbreakable rule 435) is, "Never get the hair wet unless you are within one hundred yards of a hot shower and a blow dryer"? I mean, seriously, was he new in town?
As I watched him sprint through the parking lot, dodging the great lakes somewhat successfully and the raindrops less successfully, one of the other poor unfortunates turned to me and commented wistfully about how lucky I was to have such an attentive and caring husband.
Before I could get too smug though, Tim pulled up in a great tidal wave of water, unlocked the door and gestured for me to get into the car.
Um. Did he miss the part where I told him where the umbrella was? It was at least five feet from the overhang to the car. Five feet and about five hundred gallons of cascading water. Why didn't he just ask me to swim back to the condo?
Not believing he was actually serious, I shook my head and pointed skyward.
Not believing I was actually serious, he rolled down the window and bellowed, er, gently requested, for me to get into the car.
Once again, I shook my head. I ever-so-sweetly suggested that since he was already wet, he might consider bringing me the umbrella. After all, there was no sense in both of us getting soaked, and did he not remember the hair rule?
His response to my politely and lovingly phrased request? He chucked the umbrella out the window in my general direction only to have it land about six inches from the car in what was quickly becoming the Erie Canal.
Fascinated, everyone on the sidewalk swiveled their heads back and forth like bobble-head dolls trying to see what my reaction would be.
Smiling beatifically, I crossed my arms over my chest and glared, I mean gazed, lovingly back at him, willing him to GET OUT OF THE CAR THIS INSTANT!!!
And still he sat. Check and mate is what he was thinking. Dead mate is what was running through my mind.
Finally unable to deal with the stress of the standoff any longer, a young girl threw up the hood of her sweatshirt, darted out into the monsoon, and retrieved the umbrella for me, obviously thinking to make things right and avoid a homicide. Ahh. To be that young and naive again.
Snapping open the water-logged umbrella, I threw myself into the car as quickly as possible, which means I was only half-drowned, while creating at least half a dozen scenarios involving Tim and said umbrella, none of them pretty.
Sir Walter Raleigh he isn't. But then again, I guess I'm no Queen Elizabeth.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Clash of the Titans
I'll admit it. Tim and I are set in our ways.
We like certain TV shows (Today vs. GMA, Boston Legal vs. CSI anything). Newspapers (minimum of 3 daily) and the Sunday morning snorefest of political shows are, to Tim, at least as important as oxygen. Lunch and dinner? Our goal on vacation is to see how many different places we can try.
Likewise, my parents are set in their ways. They like certain TV shows (GMA vs. Today, and every hour long crime drama up to and including reruns of Matlock from about 3 pm -11pm daily --what, are they planning to start second careers as forensic scientists?). Lunch and dinner? Why go out when there is perfectly good food in the fridge. Two week old pea soup will go perfectly with the six week old bread. Or how about some yummy black bananas? Mmm mmm. Good eats.
So it should have come as no surprise that while spending ten days together at Christmas, our ways were bound to...clash a bit. And yet we never saw it coming until it was too late.
First up...TV. If Tim is home, the TV is on. That's the rule. There is no radio, ipod or book that can compete with the king of all kings in entertainment and information, the TV. It is his lifeblood. God forbid he would miss one second of the 456th version of the same news story on CNN. He watches while he eats, works on his computer, goes to sleep, wakes up, showers (yes, we even have a TV in the bathroom). TV is huge in Tim's life, a fact that, apparently, my parents haven't tumbled to after 28 years.
Christmas day, I walked into the living room only to find him on his computer being forced to listen to Christmas music from my mom's ipod. And the TV was stone cold dead (aka, off).
"She just walked in and turned the TV off," he whispered in a tone that struck a delicate balance between someone in shock and someone who was headed to a bell tower with a high-powered rifle.
Of course, that was nothing compared to a few days later when she decided to leave the TV on, but run the vacuum for forty minutes. Or the day she invited a friend's grandchildren up to sing Christmas carols.
By day ten, he was in fairly serious withdrawal and panicked that he might have missed some minute detail about any one of the dozen news stories he was following, like what somebody had for lunch right before they had come on air to be interviewed.
Then there were the newspapers. Either he or my dad would run out every morning to get at least the New York Times and the Washington Post.
While Tim eagerly hunkered down on the couch with his diet coke and precious papers (ahh, does life get any better than that?) my dad would scoop up another unread paper and proceed to read it...out loud...to Tim.
"Did you see where so and so...?" "How about this story about the guy who...?" "What do you make of this editorial?"
Tim tried to escape, once, but my father simply followed him out to the balcony and continued sharing (Actually, I think Tim forgot the whole balcony was screened in. Besides, jumping from the 4th floor probably wouldn't have killed him. With his luck, he would have just been hospitalized for several months and my dad would visit every day and read him the papers).
And finally: lunch and dinner.
My parents and I have never quite seen eye to eye on food. For example, I say if there is mold on it, it shouldn't be eaten. They think of it as a seasoning. Shrimp that has been sitting out for three or four hours probably equals a quick trip to the ER in my book, but apparently makes a great base for shrimp salad in my parents' book. Throwing caution to the wind to me means trying a new fusion restaurant, throwing caution to the wind to my parents means throwing out the 2 oz. piece of leftover steak sitting in congealed sauce that smells like a pair of dirty socks. Who are these people, and what did they do with my real parents?
And so the lunch ritual began around ten each morning: What were we going to eat for lunch? When would we eat lunch? Why go out when both the refrigerator and freezer were both full of perfectly fine food? Dear God, we didn't just go over to the store and buy more food??? So, there was no ham for sandwiches. You could scrape the sauce off the leftover one ounce of osso bucco, slice it, mix it in with the two leftover pierogies and create something better than a ham sandwich. And why go out somewhere when we could empty out the fridge by finishing off last weeks salad which was still perfectly fine if you rinsed off a few brown, slimy spots.
Let's just say that when we got back home, it was a toss-up as to which of us rushed to our empty fridge first and kissed those barren shelves. After, of course, we stopped for the papers and Tim turned the TV on.
We like certain TV shows (Today vs. GMA, Boston Legal vs. CSI anything). Newspapers (minimum of 3 daily) and the Sunday morning snorefest of political shows are, to Tim, at least as important as oxygen. Lunch and dinner? Our goal on vacation is to see how many different places we can try.
Likewise, my parents are set in their ways. They like certain TV shows (GMA vs. Today, and every hour long crime drama up to and including reruns of Matlock from about 3 pm -11pm daily --what, are they planning to start second careers as forensic scientists?). Lunch and dinner? Why go out when there is perfectly good food in the fridge. Two week old pea soup will go perfectly with the six week old bread. Or how about some yummy black bananas? Mmm mmm. Good eats.
So it should have come as no surprise that while spending ten days together at Christmas, our ways were bound to...clash a bit. And yet we never saw it coming until it was too late.
First up...TV. If Tim is home, the TV is on. That's the rule. There is no radio, ipod or book that can compete with the king of all kings in entertainment and information, the TV. It is his lifeblood. God forbid he would miss one second of the 456th version of the same news story on CNN. He watches while he eats, works on his computer, goes to sleep, wakes up, showers (yes, we even have a TV in the bathroom). TV is huge in Tim's life, a fact that, apparently, my parents haven't tumbled to after 28 years.
Christmas day, I walked into the living room only to find him on his computer being forced to listen to Christmas music from my mom's ipod. And the TV was stone cold dead (aka, off).
"She just walked in and turned the TV off," he whispered in a tone that struck a delicate balance between someone in shock and someone who was headed to a bell tower with a high-powered rifle.
Of course, that was nothing compared to a few days later when she decided to leave the TV on, but run the vacuum for forty minutes. Or the day she invited a friend's grandchildren up to sing Christmas carols.
By day ten, he was in fairly serious withdrawal and panicked that he might have missed some minute detail about any one of the dozen news stories he was following, like what somebody had for lunch right before they had come on air to be interviewed.
Then there were the newspapers. Either he or my dad would run out every morning to get at least the New York Times and the Washington Post.
While Tim eagerly hunkered down on the couch with his diet coke and precious papers (ahh, does life get any better than that?) my dad would scoop up another unread paper and proceed to read it...out loud...to Tim.
"Did you see where so and so...?" "How about this story about the guy who...?" "What do you make of this editorial?"
Tim tried to escape, once, but my father simply followed him out to the balcony and continued sharing (Actually, I think Tim forgot the whole balcony was screened in. Besides, jumping from the 4th floor probably wouldn't have killed him. With his luck, he would have just been hospitalized for several months and my dad would visit every day and read him the papers).
And finally: lunch and dinner.
My parents and I have never quite seen eye to eye on food. For example, I say if there is mold on it, it shouldn't be eaten. They think of it as a seasoning. Shrimp that has been sitting out for three or four hours probably equals a quick trip to the ER in my book, but apparently makes a great base for shrimp salad in my parents' book. Throwing caution to the wind to me means trying a new fusion restaurant, throwing caution to the wind to my parents means throwing out the 2 oz. piece of leftover steak sitting in congealed sauce that smells like a pair of dirty socks. Who are these people, and what did they do with my real parents?
And so the lunch ritual began around ten each morning: What were we going to eat for lunch? When would we eat lunch? Why go out when both the refrigerator and freezer were both full of perfectly fine food? Dear God, we didn't just go over to the store and buy more food??? So, there was no ham for sandwiches. You could scrape the sauce off the leftover one ounce of osso bucco, slice it, mix it in with the two leftover pierogies and create something better than a ham sandwich. And why go out somewhere when we could empty out the fridge by finishing off last weeks salad which was still perfectly fine if you rinsed off a few brown, slimy spots.
Let's just say that when we got back home, it was a toss-up as to which of us rushed to our empty fridge first and kissed those barren shelves. After, of course, we stopped for the papers and Tim turned the TV on.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Joys of Southern Living
People are always making jokes about all the retired people in Florida....and there is a good reason why they do.
Tim and I just spent the holidays there, and have decided that, when the time comes to retire, we will be thinking of Alaska or Canada or anyplace else as far away from Florida as we can get. Maybe Antarctica even.
First, there are issues with driving.
You would think that being retired, these people would have patience. Or at least nothing better to do than work on their anger management issues. Not so. Pull up to any light/stop sign, and before your wheels even stop turning, the guy behind you is laying on the horn like he's on his way to the ER to save lives instead of to the community cocktail hour (which, as far as I can tell, begins at 11:00 am) to have his martini. Seriously, I'm pretty sure red means stop, even in Florida. If you actually do come to a stop, and God forbid it's in the right lane where people are allowed to turn on red, the cacophony of horns behind you would wake the dead (no, I am not going to take the obvious joke here).
Conversely, time is definitely not of the essence when it comes to parking. If you manage to get behind them then, you might just as well throw the car into park and break out War and Peace.
Now, I'm not talking parallel parking, which can be tricky. I'm talking about front-end-in parking in a parking lot with a compact car in a space designed for an SUV. A toddler on a Big Wheels aiming at the garage of Barbie's dream house could do a better job.
There is the first swing where they almost plow into whoever has the misfortune to be parked in one of the adjoining spaces. Then, they jam it into reverse and aim for the car behind them. The third swing has them gunning for the car in the other adjoining space. Swings four and five are where they try to decide who will be getting screwed that day by not being able to get into their car, the driver of the car on their right, or the passenger of the car on their left.
By this time, you might as well just leave the parking lot and go home, because you've forgotten why you came in the first place.
Of course, you need to hurry home anyway because you might have missed something back at the condo, like someone taking their trash to the garbage chute or having a box delivered. Ah, the drama and excitement of community living.
For forty-some years, people in my parent's neighborhood in Pennsylvania managed to live perfectly full lives without knowing what the guy up the street was doing every five seconds. They went into the house, closed the door and were content to live vicariously through the characters on General Hospital. Not in Florida.
There is a grand obsession with the minutiae of their neighbor's lives, and like the old fashioned game of telephone, the stories flow from ear to ear with the swiftness of a raging river after a hurricane. If someone in unit 105 sneezes at 9:00am, the people in 311 are down there saying, "God bless you" by 9:05.
"Oh, Edna is away and the mailman is here. I hope he knows not to leave her mail. I'll just run down and tell him where she is, how long she is staying, the names, ages and schools of every one of her grandchildren, and the results of her last dental exam."
"Couple J- are renting their place to a new couple. Nice people. of course, they've only been here two hours, but we can tell you that he has an allergy to rare, exotic orchids grown in the Brazilian desert, and that she has always wanted to be an aerial juggler with the circus. We don't know his shoe size or her bra size for sure yet, but we're working on it."
"The K-'s are away, but they are due back any day now. They are from Minnesota. She is a doctor. They like Italian food and body surfing. They have lived here for thirty years. Did we tell you that they are away?"
Try to spend a relaxing afternoon at the pool, and you soon found yourself tag-teamed by various residents who could give the CIA lessons in interrogation techniques.
It actually got to the point where I watched one poor bugger who was visiting try to escape the tide of information by saying they had an appointment. They were literally followed down three flights of steps to their car while being inundated with the details of who was where and what they were doing and with whom. It was like watching a PBS special on predators of the Serengeti. You know the gazelle doesn't stand a chance against the hungry lion, but you root for it anyway.
After three days, between the drivers and the drama, Tim and I were feeling more and more like that poor gazelle. After seven, we were wishing we were a gazelle.
Tim and I just spent the holidays there, and have decided that, when the time comes to retire, we will be thinking of Alaska or Canada or anyplace else as far away from Florida as we can get. Maybe Antarctica even.
First, there are issues with driving.
You would think that being retired, these people would have patience. Or at least nothing better to do than work on their anger management issues. Not so. Pull up to any light/stop sign, and before your wheels even stop turning, the guy behind you is laying on the horn like he's on his way to the ER to save lives instead of to the community cocktail hour (which, as far as I can tell, begins at 11:00 am) to have his martini. Seriously, I'm pretty sure red means stop, even in Florida. If you actually do come to a stop, and God forbid it's in the right lane where people are allowed to turn on red, the cacophony of horns behind you would wake the dead (no, I am not going to take the obvious joke here).
Conversely, time is definitely not of the essence when it comes to parking. If you manage to get behind them then, you might just as well throw the car into park and break out War and Peace.
Now, I'm not talking parallel parking, which can be tricky. I'm talking about front-end-in parking in a parking lot with a compact car in a space designed for an SUV. A toddler on a Big Wheels aiming at the garage of Barbie's dream house could do a better job.
There is the first swing where they almost plow into whoever has the misfortune to be parked in one of the adjoining spaces. Then, they jam it into reverse and aim for the car behind them. The third swing has them gunning for the car in the other adjoining space. Swings four and five are where they try to decide who will be getting screwed that day by not being able to get into their car, the driver of the car on their right, or the passenger of the car on their left.
By this time, you might as well just leave the parking lot and go home, because you've forgotten why you came in the first place.
Of course, you need to hurry home anyway because you might have missed something back at the condo, like someone taking their trash to the garbage chute or having a box delivered. Ah, the drama and excitement of community living.
For forty-some years, people in my parent's neighborhood in Pennsylvania managed to live perfectly full lives without knowing what the guy up the street was doing every five seconds. They went into the house, closed the door and were content to live vicariously through the characters on General Hospital. Not in Florida.
There is a grand obsession with the minutiae of their neighbor's lives, and like the old fashioned game of telephone, the stories flow from ear to ear with the swiftness of a raging river after a hurricane. If someone in unit 105 sneezes at 9:00am, the people in 311 are down there saying, "God bless you" by 9:05.
"Oh, Edna is away and the mailman is here. I hope he knows not to leave her mail. I'll just run down and tell him where she is, how long she is staying, the names, ages and schools of every one of her grandchildren, and the results of her last dental exam."
"Couple J- are renting their place to a new couple. Nice people. of course, they've only been here two hours, but we can tell you that he has an allergy to rare, exotic orchids grown in the Brazilian desert, and that she has always wanted to be an aerial juggler with the circus. We don't know his shoe size or her bra size for sure yet, but we're working on it."
"The K-'s are away, but they are due back any day now. They are from Minnesota. She is a doctor. They like Italian food and body surfing. They have lived here for thirty years. Did we tell you that they are away?"
Try to spend a relaxing afternoon at the pool, and you soon found yourself tag-teamed by various residents who could give the CIA lessons in interrogation techniques.
It actually got to the point where I watched one poor bugger who was visiting try to escape the tide of information by saying they had an appointment. They were literally followed down three flights of steps to their car while being inundated with the details of who was where and what they were doing and with whom. It was like watching a PBS special on predators of the Serengeti. You know the gazelle doesn't stand a chance against the hungry lion, but you root for it anyway.
After three days, between the drivers and the drama, Tim and I were feeling more and more like that poor gazelle. After seven, we were wishing we were a gazelle.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Long Day's Journey Into Night
This week, I went to Florida with two friends. Just a quick trip down and back. Well, at least a quick trip down.
Coming back home though was another matter.
We arrived at our departure gate only to find that it had been changed and we had to walk to one further down the corridor.
And so the journey began. Had we known how it was going to progress, we probably would have opted to keep on walking. It would have been faster.
Within minutes, however, they started boarding. First class (not us!), zone 1, zone 2. Then, silence. Uh oh. This was not at all encouraging.
Three. Three. Call zone three. I gripped the handle of my suitcase more tightly, preparing to sprint toward the gate ahead of the unruly gaggle of chatty high-schoolers on a field trip, and the woman with the squalling child. Those kids may have been a lot younger, but I had more experience elbowing people aside. I also had a really big purse, and I wasn't afraid to use it.
Wait. There was something happening at the gate. The crowd there seemed to be getting larger instead of smaller. It almost looked like...But no. I couldn't be. And yet...Were zones 1 and 2 getting off the plane?
Yes, they were. As the ontime sign changed to delayed, there was a mad dash to occupy those oh-so-comfortable vinyl airport chairs. Securing three, we glumly slumped down and broke out the chocolate and cell phones.
A one-hour delay due to weather. Well, it was clear as a bell there so the rain must be in DC, right? Wrong. Sunshine and blue skies there too. So now they were delaying flights due to good weather? Gotta love those airlines.
One hour later, we got to repeat the whole fun-filled boarding process all over again (can't get enough of that ), and this time, they actually let everyone get on, closed the doors and took off.
The pilot filled us in on his flight plan. First, we would fly out over the ocean, then, just before we got to Europe, we would turn around, buzz a few cornfields in the midwest and finally head north. He wasn't kidding.
For the next four hours, we watched the sun set out of the left side of the plane, then the right, then the left and right again as the cast of High School Musical III, Journey to Nowhere, bopped up and down the aisles singing Happy Birthday to their own little Suzie Q eighty-seven thousand times.
Wishing I had asked for something stronger than water the one time the flight attendants had passed by, I prayed for a swift (too late) and merciful end to the torture. But it was not to be.
The pilot announced that there had indeed been a thunderstorm in DC (oh sure, because they had put it out there in the universe) and we were in a line for landing. He had even more good news too. Since we had circled Georgia and the Carolinas so long (seriously, with all this flying time, we could have been deplaning in Paris by now for a lovely meal at an outdoor cafe along the Seine and we were hovering over Georgia? ) we were running low on fuel and needed to land.
This was strictly a fuel and go stop he warned(promised?) us. We would not be deplaning. Then, provided he got clearance, we would fly right into DC (and if he didn't get clearance?)
At this point, we toyed with the idea of taking up a collection and bribing him to land anywhere close to DC if he couldn't land there. Dulles, Baltimore, even New Jersey for God's sake. Just somewhere in the northeast.
Passengers began peppering the flight crew with questions. What about connecting flights (this elicited a pitying look), how many planes were ahead of us in the line (this elicited a dismayed look), would we ever see our loved ones again, or should we look into real estate in Greensboro (this elicited the worst thing of all, an actual answer).
One crew member finally cracked and told us the crew was close to "timing out" on the number of hours they were allowed to work and if that happened...good-bye DC, hello Motel 6. I began googling hotels on my blackberry.
Fate finally smiled upon us though, and after a mere hour trapped inside a metal tube, inhaling jet fuel fumes with two hundred of our closest friends, some of which had thankfully brought along their screaming babies for a diversion, we were once again airborne.
Seven and a half hours after we began our two and a half journey, it finally ended (now I know how Gilligan felt). As we exited the aircraft past a bedraggled and surly crew, I turned on my blackberry and found that I had a message from my good friend in New Jersey asking if I wanted to hop on a plane this weekend for a fast trip down to Florida.
Really. You can't make this stuff up.
Coming back home though was another matter.
We arrived at our departure gate only to find that it had been changed and we had to walk to one further down the corridor.
And so the journey began. Had we known how it was going to progress, we probably would have opted to keep on walking. It would have been faster.
Within minutes, however, they started boarding. First class (not us!), zone 1, zone 2. Then, silence. Uh oh. This was not at all encouraging.
Three. Three. Call zone three. I gripped the handle of my suitcase more tightly, preparing to sprint toward the gate ahead of the unruly gaggle of chatty high-schoolers on a field trip, and the woman with the squalling child. Those kids may have been a lot younger, but I had more experience elbowing people aside. I also had a really big purse, and I wasn't afraid to use it.
Wait. There was something happening at the gate. The crowd there seemed to be getting larger instead of smaller. It almost looked like...But no. I couldn't be. And yet...Were zones 1 and 2 getting off the plane?
Yes, they were. As the ontime sign changed to delayed, there was a mad dash to occupy those oh-so-comfortable vinyl airport chairs. Securing three, we glumly slumped down and broke out the chocolate and cell phones.
A one-hour delay due to weather. Well, it was clear as a bell there so the rain must be in DC, right? Wrong. Sunshine and blue skies there too. So now they were delaying flights due to good weather? Gotta love those airlines.
One hour later, we got to repeat the whole fun-filled boarding process all over again (can't get enough of that ), and this time, they actually let everyone get on, closed the doors and took off.
The pilot filled us in on his flight plan. First, we would fly out over the ocean, then, just before we got to Europe, we would turn around, buzz a few cornfields in the midwest and finally head north. He wasn't kidding.
For the next four hours, we watched the sun set out of the left side of the plane, then the right, then the left and right again as the cast of High School Musical III, Journey to Nowhere, bopped up and down the aisles singing Happy Birthday to their own little Suzie Q eighty-seven thousand times.
Wishing I had asked for something stronger than water the one time the flight attendants had passed by, I prayed for a swift (too late) and merciful end to the torture. But it was not to be.
The pilot announced that there had indeed been a thunderstorm in DC (oh sure, because they had put it out there in the universe) and we were in a line for landing. He had even more good news too. Since we had circled Georgia and the Carolinas so long (seriously, with all this flying time, we could have been deplaning in Paris by now for a lovely meal at an outdoor cafe along the Seine and we were hovering over Georgia? ) we were running low on fuel and needed to land.
This was strictly a fuel and go stop he warned(promised?) us. We would not be deplaning. Then, provided he got clearance, we would fly right into DC (and if he didn't get clearance?)
At this point, we toyed with the idea of taking up a collection and bribing him to land anywhere close to DC if he couldn't land there. Dulles, Baltimore, even New Jersey for God's sake. Just somewhere in the northeast.
Passengers began peppering the flight crew with questions. What about connecting flights (this elicited a pitying look), how many planes were ahead of us in the line (this elicited a dismayed look), would we ever see our loved ones again, or should we look into real estate in Greensboro (this elicited the worst thing of all, an actual answer).
One crew member finally cracked and told us the crew was close to "timing out" on the number of hours they were allowed to work and if that happened...good-bye DC, hello Motel 6. I began googling hotels on my blackberry.
Fate finally smiled upon us though, and after a mere hour trapped inside a metal tube, inhaling jet fuel fumes with two hundred of our closest friends, some of which had thankfully brought along their screaming babies for a diversion, we were once again airborne.
Seven and a half hours after we began our two and a half journey, it finally ended (now I know how Gilligan felt). As we exited the aircraft past a bedraggled and surly crew, I turned on my blackberry and found that I had a message from my good friend in New Jersey asking if I wanted to hop on a plane this weekend for a fast trip down to Florida.
Really. You can't make this stuff up.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Waiter Approved
This week, I visited my parents in Florida where we spent our days swimming, sunning and, of course, eating. The first two we somehow managed on our own. The third activity apparently needed guidance and approval...at least according to our waiters.
The first night, we went to a restaurant specializing in fish. Our waiter, an elderly German gentleman (and by elderly, I mean 110), eventually toddled over to give orders, I mean take our orders.
My dad and I opted for a fish which the menu suggested be served broiled. "Good choice," our waiter's head bobbled vigorously like one of those dolls glued on the dashboard of a runaway car as he scribbled busily in his pad. "But you want it pan seared; it is better that way."
"Also, you want the steamed vegetables with that," he directed without so much as glancing up at us. "Now, what kind of salad do you want?"
"Um, Caesar?" I ventured hesitantly, afraid that if I made a second wrong choice, I might be rapped on the knuckles with his pen, or worse, subjected to another head wagging, and I didn't want to be responsible for his chiropractic bill.
Thankfully, I got only a brief nod of approval before he moved on to my mom. Whew!
Not one to be easily intimidated, she opted for a steak (it's a bad habit of hers and we are staging an intervention over Christmas). Ah, but our waiter was prepared for this ruse. "How do you want it done?" he queried slyly.
"Rare," came the ready reply, teamed with direct eye contact (my mom is not from New York for nothing.
Bzzzzzz. Thank you for playing. "Medium rare," he corrected, dismissing her feeble attempt to maintain control of her diet. Apparently, being German trumps being a New Yorker. "And for a side? Also steamed vegetables?"
"I'll have a side of pasta," she threw him a curve ball. "And the house salad with thousand island dressing." I held my breath and watched him from under my lashes, but her choice of salad must have mollified him because he let the whole pasta issue go without comment.
The next day at lunch, we once again needed to seek the approval of the wait staff. My mom and dad got it immediately with their sandwiches, but mine was a bit harder to come by. I had opted for a chopped salad where I got to select the ingredients from a whole case of prepared choices. Fortunately, each choice was greeted with a hearty, "Good one," by the waiter/chef. Until I got to the dressing. As he listed the choices, I hesitated a moment, contemplating which of my two favorites I felt like, the balsamic vinaigrette or the raspberry vinaigrette.
I had barely pronounced the B-sound when the waiter jumped in, finishing the thought for me.
"Balsamic is, of course, the only one you would want with this kind of salad," he decreed, already scooping up a dripping ladleful. "Good choice." Okaaaa y. And for my beverage? How about dessert? Maybe you can advise me on which table to sit at so that the salad will be presented in the best light?
Dinner that night, lunch the next day and dinner my last night there proved to be more of the same. We got mildly chastised for all ordering chicken (albeit three different kinds) at the Italian place for dinner. We got beamed at and all but patted on the heads like good little boys and girls for ordering fish and chips and shrimp cocktail. Ordering a warm salad with beets and Gorgonzola cheese brought our server to a happy place, but trying to refuse the ice cream sundae that came with the meal at Friendly's was a real downer for our server there.
My father, who hasn't eaten sweets in about fifty years, finally caved and ordered a strawberry ice cream (which he palmed off on me) just to avoid the tears which were threatening to overflow from our waitresses eyes. I have never seen anyone work harder to push a topping either. "Nuts? Sauce(she then proceeded to list all eighty-seven choices)? Fresh strawberries? Whipped cream? Crumbled cookies? Anything? Everything? " How about nothing?
Dejected, but not totally defeated, she slumped away only to return with our sundaes: one plain strawberry ice cream, the other loaded to the gills with all the toppings we had refused. "See," her baleful glance said as she put my mom's down with a flourish, "all this could have been yours, had you chosen wisely."
I'm thinking that when we go back for Christmas, we may have to eat in more. I just can't take the pressure associated with ordering a meal down there. I don't want to be responsible for that much unhappiness during the holiday season.
The first night, we went to a restaurant specializing in fish. Our waiter, an elderly German gentleman (and by elderly, I mean 110), eventually toddled over to give orders, I mean take our orders.
My dad and I opted for a fish which the menu suggested be served broiled. "Good choice," our waiter's head bobbled vigorously like one of those dolls glued on the dashboard of a runaway car as he scribbled busily in his pad. "But you want it pan seared; it is better that way."
"Also, you want the steamed vegetables with that," he directed without so much as glancing up at us. "Now, what kind of salad do you want?"
"Um, Caesar?" I ventured hesitantly, afraid that if I made a second wrong choice, I might be rapped on the knuckles with his pen, or worse, subjected to another head wagging, and I didn't want to be responsible for his chiropractic bill.
Thankfully, I got only a brief nod of approval before he moved on to my mom. Whew!
Not one to be easily intimidated, she opted for a steak (it's a bad habit of hers and we are staging an intervention over Christmas). Ah, but our waiter was prepared for this ruse. "How do you want it done?" he queried slyly.
"Rare," came the ready reply, teamed with direct eye contact (my mom is not from New York for nothing.
Bzzzzzz. Thank you for playing. "Medium rare," he corrected, dismissing her feeble attempt to maintain control of her diet. Apparently, being German trumps being a New Yorker. "And for a side? Also steamed vegetables?"
"I'll have a side of pasta," she threw him a curve ball. "And the house salad with thousand island dressing." I held my breath and watched him from under my lashes, but her choice of salad must have mollified him because he let the whole pasta issue go without comment.
The next day at lunch, we once again needed to seek the approval of the wait staff. My mom and dad got it immediately with their sandwiches, but mine was a bit harder to come by. I had opted for a chopped salad where I got to select the ingredients from a whole case of prepared choices. Fortunately, each choice was greeted with a hearty, "Good one," by the waiter/chef. Until I got to the dressing. As he listed the choices, I hesitated a moment, contemplating which of my two favorites I felt like, the balsamic vinaigrette or the raspberry vinaigrette.
I had barely pronounced the B-sound when the waiter jumped in, finishing the thought for me.
"Balsamic is, of course, the only one you would want with this kind of salad," he decreed, already scooping up a dripping ladleful. "Good choice." Okaaaa y. And for my beverage? How about dessert? Maybe you can advise me on which table to sit at so that the salad will be presented in the best light?
Dinner that night, lunch the next day and dinner my last night there proved to be more of the same. We got mildly chastised for all ordering chicken (albeit three different kinds) at the Italian place for dinner. We got beamed at and all but patted on the heads like good little boys and girls for ordering fish and chips and shrimp cocktail. Ordering a warm salad with beets and Gorgonzola cheese brought our server to a happy place, but trying to refuse the ice cream sundae that came with the meal at Friendly's was a real downer for our server there.
My father, who hasn't eaten sweets in about fifty years, finally caved and ordered a strawberry ice cream (which he palmed off on me) just to avoid the tears which were threatening to overflow from our waitresses eyes. I have never seen anyone work harder to push a topping either. "Nuts? Sauce(she then proceeded to list all eighty-seven choices)? Fresh strawberries? Whipped cream? Crumbled cookies? Anything? Everything? " How about nothing?
Dejected, but not totally defeated, she slumped away only to return with our sundaes: one plain strawberry ice cream, the other loaded to the gills with all the toppings we had refused. "See," her baleful glance said as she put my mom's down with a flourish, "all this could have been yours, had you chosen wisely."
I'm thinking that when we go back for Christmas, we may have to eat in more. I just can't take the pressure associated with ordering a meal down there. I don't want to be responsible for that much unhappiness during the holiday season.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Easter Mass
Every year when we go away for Easter, my mother insists we go to mass on Sunday. Somehow, this is always more complicated than it should be.
Year one: Vegas. Step one: find a church that offers an actual service that is not a drive-thru (this was my mother's rule; the rest of us were willing to negotiate on this point). Step two: Hope they have a mass in English that does not interfere with our feeding schedule (again, my mother. All you can eat buffet........knowing when to sit and when to stand; is there really a choice here?) Step three: getting there on time ( my mother is the maverick in the crowd; she wants to get a good spot in church, everyone else wants to get a good spot at the Treasure Island pirate show).
With all of these big issues decided, we set out for the church, which, according to the guy at the hotel, is only few blocks away. Yeah, right. And the odds are really in your favor at the casinos. Add to this the fact that every five feet there is someone handing us flyers, complete with pictures, advertising strip clubs, and we are really in a spiritual kind of place when we finally arrive at the church.
Naturally, our journey has taken us so long that by the time we arrive, the little church is jam packed, and we end up standing in the entryway along with two hundred of our closest friends in eighty degree weather. So much for step three. Fortunately, most of them brought their small children who managed to out-talk and out-cry the speaker system. We could barely hear the trumpet player, let alone the priest. So much for step two. One out of three isn't bad.
Year two: San Diego. My mother was not about to do a repeat of the previous year. She got everyone up and moving early. She insisted we take the car. She carefully selected our seats. Everything was going according to plan until.....wait. There were two churches in the same building? Were we in the right one? Where were half of the people going? Should we follow those who were leaving, or those who were staying?
Luckily, we chose to remain and have people stand in front of us, blocking any view of the priest, the altar, the entire front of the church. We also lucked out by picking the high mass and got to spend the last half hour listening to the people from the other chapel stand outside and visit with each other right next to our open door. This year, they actually did manage to drown out the trumpet player completely.
Year three: Florida. Once again, we were there early. We got seats with an unobstructed view. We were not near any open doors or windows. We could hear every word that was spoken, every note that was sung. Unfortunately, these were not positive things.
To put it kindly, the singer was not an American Idol finalist. In fact, he seemed to be from the William Hueng school of voice. There was also, as it turned out, no chance of the congregation drowning him out since about ninety percent of us were clearly visitors and and had never heard the songs before.
We had never heard the prayers or readings before either since we were attending a Malkite Church. A fact they failed to put on their sign out front, thereby luring in unsuspecting out-of-towners who think all Catholic churches are the same.
Mass began. Half of the congregation sat, half stood. Then, half knelt, half sat. Some finally gave up and just planted themselves for the duration. Others got up and stood in the back, the better to make a quick getaway. People frantically thumbed through hymnals trying to find out where we were and what we should be doing. The sign of peace was near the beginning, not the end. There were two collections and two homilies. Prayers started out sounding the same, and then halfway through, changed into something else. Confusion reigned.
Forty-five minutes later, we were back outside wondering if we had fulfilled our Easter Sunday obligation or if we should stick around for the Spanish mass or Arabic mass and see if those groups had a clue.
Maybe next year, we should find a nice Temple or Mosque to visit. The whole Catholic thing does not seem to be working for us.
Year one: Vegas. Step one: find a church that offers an actual service that is not a drive-thru (this was my mother's rule; the rest of us were willing to negotiate on this point). Step two: Hope they have a mass in English that does not interfere with our feeding schedule (again, my mother. All you can eat buffet........knowing when to sit and when to stand; is there really a choice here?) Step three: getting there on time ( my mother is the maverick in the crowd; she wants to get a good spot in church, everyone else wants to get a good spot at the Treasure Island pirate show).
With all of these big issues decided, we set out for the church, which, according to the guy at the hotel, is only few blocks away. Yeah, right. And the odds are really in your favor at the casinos. Add to this the fact that every five feet there is someone handing us flyers, complete with pictures, advertising strip clubs, and we are really in a spiritual kind of place when we finally arrive at the church.
Naturally, our journey has taken us so long that by the time we arrive, the little church is jam packed, and we end up standing in the entryway along with two hundred of our closest friends in eighty degree weather. So much for step three. Fortunately, most of them brought their small children who managed to out-talk and out-cry the speaker system. We could barely hear the trumpet player, let alone the priest. So much for step two. One out of three isn't bad.
Year two: San Diego. My mother was not about to do a repeat of the previous year. She got everyone up and moving early. She insisted we take the car. She carefully selected our seats. Everything was going according to plan until.....wait. There were two churches in the same building? Were we in the right one? Where were half of the people going? Should we follow those who were leaving, or those who were staying?
Luckily, we chose to remain and have people stand in front of us, blocking any view of the priest, the altar, the entire front of the church. We also lucked out by picking the high mass and got to spend the last half hour listening to the people from the other chapel stand outside and visit with each other right next to our open door. This year, they actually did manage to drown out the trumpet player completely.
Year three: Florida. Once again, we were there early. We got seats with an unobstructed view. We were not near any open doors or windows. We could hear every word that was spoken, every note that was sung. Unfortunately, these were not positive things.
To put it kindly, the singer was not an American Idol finalist. In fact, he seemed to be from the William Hueng school of voice. There was also, as it turned out, no chance of the congregation drowning him out since about ninety percent of us were clearly visitors and and had never heard the songs before.
We had never heard the prayers or readings before either since we were attending a Malkite Church. A fact they failed to put on their sign out front, thereby luring in unsuspecting out-of-towners who think all Catholic churches are the same.
Mass began. Half of the congregation sat, half stood. Then, half knelt, half sat. Some finally gave up and just planted themselves for the duration. Others got up and stood in the back, the better to make a quick getaway. People frantically thumbed through hymnals trying to find out where we were and what we should be doing. The sign of peace was near the beginning, not the end. There were two collections and two homilies. Prayers started out sounding the same, and then halfway through, changed into something else. Confusion reigned.
Forty-five minutes later, we were back outside wondering if we had fulfilled our Easter Sunday obligation or if we should stick around for the Spanish mass or Arabic mass and see if those groups had a clue.
Maybe next year, we should find a nice Temple or Mosque to visit. The whole Catholic thing does not seem to be working for us.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Florida Trip
Just got back from our trip to Florida, and despite my father's dire predictions, no one sat on the runway for 19 hours, got stranded in Dogpatch, had a close encounter with a bedbug, or lost their luggage. Well, okay, we did lose our luggage, but it was on the way home and it wasn't one of his bags. But one out of four isn't bad. You have to be optimistic.
Day one: We land an hour ahead of my parents and sister, which gives us just enough time to hike the twenty miles from our baggage claim area to their baggage claim area. Fortunately, I was able to multi-task during the trip, shedding my winter layers of sweaters and jacket, dragging two bags, and calling our alarm company to find out why they had dispatched the police to our home an hour earlier.
Naturally, they immediately put my fears to rest. Yes, the police had been sent and the alarm reset. Oh, I wanted to know if someone had broken in? Well, uh, probably not or the police would have notified us... or them... or something like that. Anyway, they were having a hard time hearing me on my cell, so I should call back later...or maybe I should call the police.....or something like that. Couldn't I just run home and check it out myself?
Okay, this was not good, but I was going to be optimistic. Everything was going to be fine. All of our possessions were not currently for sale on E-bay.
I was able to stay in this happy place until we went to get our rental car. Which wasn't there. Reservation? Try the other counter. No, not this counter. That one over there. Oh, yes, here is the problem. We gave the car to someone else. Don't worry, we'll give you another car. You can fit five people and all your luggage into a mini-Cooper, right?
It was definitely getting harder to be optimistic, but hey, it was snowing back home and it was 80 and sunny here. Except that it wasn't 80 in the car. It was about 40, and there was no way to shut off the airflow to the back, or even turn it down. From my seat in the middle, I could direct the air up into my face or down onto my legs, but I could not get the vents to shut. Turning the air down in front apparently resulted in sweltering conditions for everyone else, so I had a choice...get frostbite from the top down, or the bottom up. Good thing I left all that winter weather behind!
It's a short trip to the hotel though, a mere fifteen minutes, so I probably won't have to have anything amputated. Except that they are doing major construction in Miami and the bridge we want is closed, and there are so many cones and barriers and detours that it makes construction season in Pennsylvania look like a walk in the park. I have now lost all feeling in my extremities and therefore can't raise my arm to look at my watch, but this trip is definitely taking longer than 15 minutes.
Four U-turns and eight trips around the same turning circle later, we finally arrive at the hotel.
Naturally, our room isn't ready, but staying in my "winter clothes" to go have lunch and walk around South Beach doesn't seem like a bad idea. It may help me defrost faster. (Actually, after about a half hour in the Miami sun, I am not so much defrosting as melting, but the clothes do keep me from burning. Well, everywhere except for the few square inches that are exposed, which turn a lovely shade of fire engine red. Hmmm, frostbite and sunburn all within an hour of each other. Optimism is quickly becoming a thing of the past.)
Another trip back to the hotel in the rolling refrigerator. Three U-turns and only once around the turning circle. We get a room, a shower and head out for dinner. We decide to take cabs this time (yeah! I don't have to bring my coat and two sweaters). As we step out into the driveway, I discover that I should have brought my umbrella though. It is raining. Not a gentle, refreshing rain, but a downpour. Now I am having a hard time even thinking about being optimistic.
Since there are five of us, we need to take two cabs. My mother, sister and I get into the first cab, leaving Tim and my dad to catch the second one. Fifteen minutes later, Tim calls me. Where are we? They are at the restaurant already and waiting to be seated. Apparently, our driver decided to take the longest way possible. I probably should have been suspicious when I saw the sign that said "Welcome to Georgia".
Now I don't even know the word optimism. Day One of vacation is done. Tomorrow will be a better day. I'm........hopeful.
Day one: We land an hour ahead of my parents and sister, which gives us just enough time to hike the twenty miles from our baggage claim area to their baggage claim area. Fortunately, I was able to multi-task during the trip, shedding my winter layers of sweaters and jacket, dragging two bags, and calling our alarm company to find out why they had dispatched the police to our home an hour earlier.
Naturally, they immediately put my fears to rest. Yes, the police had been sent and the alarm reset. Oh, I wanted to know if someone had broken in? Well, uh, probably not or the police would have notified us... or them... or something like that. Anyway, they were having a hard time hearing me on my cell, so I should call back later...or maybe I should call the police.....or something like that. Couldn't I just run home and check it out myself?
Okay, this was not good, but I was going to be optimistic. Everything was going to be fine. All of our possessions were not currently for sale on E-bay.
I was able to stay in this happy place until we went to get our rental car. Which wasn't there. Reservation? Try the other counter. No, not this counter. That one over there. Oh, yes, here is the problem. We gave the car to someone else. Don't worry, we'll give you another car. You can fit five people and all your luggage into a mini-Cooper, right?
It was definitely getting harder to be optimistic, but hey, it was snowing back home and it was 80 and sunny here. Except that it wasn't 80 in the car. It was about 40, and there was no way to shut off the airflow to the back, or even turn it down. From my seat in the middle, I could direct the air up into my face or down onto my legs, but I could not get the vents to shut. Turning the air down in front apparently resulted in sweltering conditions for everyone else, so I had a choice...get frostbite from the top down, or the bottom up. Good thing I left all that winter weather behind!
It's a short trip to the hotel though, a mere fifteen minutes, so I probably won't have to have anything amputated. Except that they are doing major construction in Miami and the bridge we want is closed, and there are so many cones and barriers and detours that it makes construction season in Pennsylvania look like a walk in the park. I have now lost all feeling in my extremities and therefore can't raise my arm to look at my watch, but this trip is definitely taking longer than 15 minutes.
Four U-turns and eight trips around the same turning circle later, we finally arrive at the hotel.
Naturally, our room isn't ready, but staying in my "winter clothes" to go have lunch and walk around South Beach doesn't seem like a bad idea. It may help me defrost faster. (Actually, after about a half hour in the Miami sun, I am not so much defrosting as melting, but the clothes do keep me from burning. Well, everywhere except for the few square inches that are exposed, which turn a lovely shade of fire engine red. Hmmm, frostbite and sunburn all within an hour of each other. Optimism is quickly becoming a thing of the past.)
Another trip back to the hotel in the rolling refrigerator. Three U-turns and only once around the turning circle. We get a room, a shower and head out for dinner. We decide to take cabs this time (yeah! I don't have to bring my coat and two sweaters). As we step out into the driveway, I discover that I should have brought my umbrella though. It is raining. Not a gentle, refreshing rain, but a downpour. Now I am having a hard time even thinking about being optimistic.
Since there are five of us, we need to take two cabs. My mother, sister and I get into the first cab, leaving Tim and my dad to catch the second one. Fifteen minutes later, Tim calls me. Where are we? They are at the restaurant already and waiting to be seated. Apparently, our driver decided to take the longest way possible. I probably should have been suspicious when I saw the sign that said "Welcome to Georgia".
Now I don't even know the word optimism. Day One of vacation is done. Tomorrow will be a better day. I'm........hopeful.
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