It Ain't Easy, Livin' Like a Gypsy

Especially when confined by the restraints of money and obligations and responsibilities.

Nope, it ain't easy at all.

And I am indeed a gypsy in my soul. I've mentioned this before. Once, or twice, or a hundred-million times...

I am restless.

I need to be somewhere - other.

My children are in school. My husband has a career. I even have a couple jobs now myself. We have friends here, a house; all the makings of a home. Home is good, right? Home is what we strive for. So why am I so restless?

Perhaps it's as simple as us not having any vacations planned this year.

Perhaps it's because I've lived here longer than I've lived anywhere. I've lived here almost as many years as I lived in my childhood home. After I left that home, I never lasted more than three years in one location. Sometimes it was just a move to a new apartment, but always there was a move, a change, a shift. And always there was travel. When there was no money for an actual vacation there were friends who had migrated to different places, and I was never adverse to crashing on a sofa.

My house has the feel of something unfinished. It's like I've never actually settled in here and made it my own. I don't completely want to. The world is my home; this place I live now is just a house. I have no energy for it. I have no love for it. I wish I did. I give it just about nothing and it gives me just about the same in return. I envy people with beautiful homes - homes that reflect who they are. I have a house. God, I hope my house doesn't reflect who I am. I think I'm afraid that if I actually loved a place I lived, I'd never want to leave it.

And I always want to leave.

I don't want to leave my husband or kids - I don't want anyone, least of all them to think that. Billy Joel said it better than I ever could in his 1973 song, You're My Home:

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own, but that's alright my love 'cause you're my home.

He even refers to "the crazy gypsy in my soul" in that song. Oh, Billy, you know me better than I know myself. Well, Billy Joel circa the mid-seventies/early eighties knew me better than I knew myself. Then he married that Uptown Girl and we were no longer really on the same track anymore. I think he went changin' to try to please her, I don't know. And look how THAT turned out.

But I've digressed.

Yes, my family is my home, and I want them around me, but I want them around me somewhere - other.

I am so over - here.

I just finished reading The Geography of Bliss by Eric Weiner. In this book, he visits ten countries in search of geographical bliss. One of the many conclusions he came to - and one that really resonated with me - was that there is no one perfect place to live, although there might be a perfect place for any given individual to live. Some people and places click - they fit. Some people fit in different places at different times. I believe that is me. When I think of the places I'm happiest, I'm almost certain I wouldn't be happy there if I stayed a decade or so. Maybe I use places up, I don't know.

I do know that I am restless.

I laughed right out loud when Mr. Weiner stated:

As any poet (or blogger) knows, misery expressed is misery reduced.

Indeed. And I am not miserable. Now that the sun is back and I'm on a more positive job track, I'm downright content, if not full-on happy.

No, I am not miserable.

But I am restless.

Perhaps restlessness expressed is restlessness reduced.

I'll let you know.

Mother Nature Can Be Like That

This Thursday's Trip down Memory Lane takes us back to one of my favorite eras. The era in which I rocked a bikini. Booya.

One summer, we planned to spend three weeks at the beach. I was very excited about this. This was gonna be my year. It was the first year I really filled out my bikini in any sort of respectable way, and my intent was to take full advantage of that.

The first week it was pretty rainy and overcast. Not perfect beach weather. No worries. It was the first week and we still had two more to go. We’d just do indoor things. Shopping, game rooms, movies. Restaurants. We generally spread these things out over the course of a vacation, but Mother Nature can be a little controlling like that.

Near the end of that first rainy week we went out for seafood. My parents aren’t particularly fond of seafood, but it’s my favorite, so they always took us out for some at least once when we were by the shore. The seafood, in other words, was a sort of rare treat. For me.

A few hours later I didn’t feel so well.

“You just ate too much.”

A few hours later still I had sweats and chills and unmentionable – indescribable things were going on in my belly. If I’d eaten too much that would no longer be a problem, as I was pretty sure there was nothing left in my stomach after a couple hours on the little camper porta-potty with a bucket between my knees.

My parents exchanged worried looks.

This was not a child who had over-indulged.

This was a child who needed to go to the ER.

I’m not sure what I looked like just then – I couldn’t lift my head from the bucket long enough to see myself in the mirror – but I could see what my parents looked like. And they didn’t look good.

I’m sure it will come as no great surprise to anyone that the diagnosis was food poisoning. Or that the prescription was hydration. And time.

Mother Nature can be a little nasty like that.

Week two of our beach vacation opened with bright sunshine. It found me too weak to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush independently. My mother stayed with me that first day, while everyone else suited up and headed for the beach. The next day she was still willing to stay, but doing so was sort of tinged with martyrdom. The third day brought a little full-out resentment. The fourth, one of the other parents we were camping with offered to stay with me. She wanted to clean her camper anyway, so didn’t really want to go to the beach. It would be no trouble. Really.

I’m not sure, but I think my mom may have kissed her full on the lips. If she didn’t, I bet she wanted to.

The next day I made it to the beach. I was still a little weak, but no worries. We still had a few more days.

The very next day I got my period.

And my awesome new UNWORN bikini was white.

You have got to be kidding me with this.

Mother Nature can be a real bitch like that.

Randomness and a Winner

I heard you missed me, I'm back. I brought my pencil - er - netbook. Give me somethin' to write on...

I'm looking forward to visiting with everyone this week, which is really the only thing I'm looking forward to upon returning home. Away = Good; Home = Suck. But hey! Time for the interwebs! So it's not all bad.

First order of business - a winner of the pay it forward giveaway has been drawn. A couple days later than I promised, but I wanted to include pics of the drawing to keep it on the up and up and, as I mentioned, for some reason neither Tom nor I can figure out, I can't download pictures on the road, even though I have all the same equipment with me. He actually used that as a selling point when I was so bummed about coming home, "But when you get home, you can download your pics!" Always look on the bright side of life. (this is the part where I whistle...)

So without further ado:
We decided to do the drawing on the boardwalk in front of the casino, since a drawing is SORT of like a gamble, even though you don't really have anything to lose. Also because we were in Atlantic City so we could.

We put everyone's name on a slip of paper, but then couldn't decide what to draw it from. Pink was along for the ride, so we put her to use. Practical AND beautiful - is there anything that owl can't do? Lea is pretty cute, too.

A wider view of the boardwalk.

Turn around 180 degrees to this.

Pick a good one, Liv!

Savant is a wiener! (I always suspected as much) Congrats, Savant! I'll send you an email soon to clear up the deets.

And in birthday news, today is Tom's birthday. He got to spend it driving from Atlantic City to Uh-hi-uh. Try not to be jealous of his amazing good fortune. At this moment, we are sitting still in traffic somewhere in West Virginia. See? Everything about going home blows.

If you look in the mirror and don't like what you see, you'll find out firsthand what it's like to be me. (yeah, my angsty teen and tween are into My Chemical Romance. What can I say? It's a good lyric.) So I've written about weight and weight issues before (sigh). This weekend we went to Tom's HS reunion. I was nervous because I so hate the way I look and I didn't want it to reflect badly on him. I spent weeks trying to convince myself it didn't matter, but it always does. I can't tell you how many times I thought about bagging it. But go I did. I was so nervous. Meeting people has been scary for me ever since I gained the weight (before I put it on, meeting people was my favorite favorite). But I went and I quickly downed some liquid courage and before long it didn't matter if I was cute or not because I was having so much fun. Switched from vodka to rum and found myself doing the Time Warp (again). Next morning a lot of people had posted pics on Facebook and I was all, "Oh my SHIT I'm fat!" (Also - drunk doesn't look as good as it feels. Frack.) But you know what? The bottom line is that I DID have fun, a LOT of fun, actually, and if anyone judged me OR Tom because of it, I didn't know about it. (And I usually do know or at least suspect - there's a certain paranoia that comes along with hating how one looks.) Maybe I'm the one who needs to become less judgmental. If I'd let my insecurities keep me in I would've missed a really good time.

I just spent two weeks in Eastern PA and South Jersey and didn't even make an ATTEMPT to hook up with any of the people I TRULY MISS because I am so embarrassed about how I look. How freakin' dumb was that? Cut off my nose to spite my (ridiculously round) face.

Workin' on accepting who and what I am. Baby steps, baby steps.

Well, back to the grind. In as much as my life of leisure can be considered a grind. The laundry will wait, unpacking will wait, groceries will wait - I wanna see The Time Traveler's Wife. (Maybe that explains all the time jumps in this post. Am I home? Am I at the beach? Am I on the road in West Virginia? - yep, that's it. Time travel. I'm all of those places and more.) And download a bunch of pictures. I wonder why nothing ever gets done around here? Weird.

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

It's Thursday! Ready for your Trip down Memory Lane?



We've all seen the signs.

Huge signs, one every mile or so.

Florida Citrus Fruit! Free Samples! Souvenirs! The Largest Selection of _____! Discount Fireworks! Lowest Prices! 13 Foot Alligators! Live Bears! Last Chance for _______!

In my travels, the queen mother of these roadside tourist attractions has always been and will always be: South of the Border. Traveling south along route I-95 in North Carolina you see your first sign for South of the Border over 175 miles north of the attraction. You know this, of course, because each sign helpfully announces just how far you'll have to travel before you reach this most wondrous of destinations.

135 miles to South of the Border.

75 miles to South of the Border.

Only 11 more miles to South of the Border.

At the beginning, you only encounter signs every ten miles or so. As you get closer, the signs are only a mile apart. Closer yet and they seem to be right on top of one another. All of the signs feature an amazingly politically incorrect stereotype of a Mexican man named Pedro. We know this, because the text on every sign begins with, "Pedro says..."

Pedro says: Keep America green! Bring money!
Pedro says: You never sausage a place! (You're always a wiener at Pedro's)
Pedro says: Our honeymoon suites are heir conditioned!

When I was young and traveling south on route I-95 every summer en route to Myrtle Beach, the South of the Border signs were a great way to mark our progress. They were a double-edged sword for my parents, though. While they eliminated the constant barrage of "are we there yet?" (you always know where you are in Pedro's territory), they inspired instead a new litany, guaranteed to make parents long for "are we there yet?". That litany, of course, consisted of variations on a theme:

Can we stop at South of the Border?
Why can't we stop at South of the Border?
You think everything is junk! How can you know it's tacky and junky if you've never even been there?
Please?
PLEASE?
Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaepleasepleasepleaseplease!!!

Pedro says: Keep yelling, kids! (They'll stop!)

Year after year my parents sighed and stuck firmly to their guns.

Pedro had guns. Well, fireworks, anyway. Just sayin'.

Pedro says: Pedro's fireworks! Does yours?

I can't swear to this, but they may have just inserted ear plugs at the first sign alerting us that we were, indeed, approaching South of the Border.

One year, I will never know why, they caved. Not only were we going to STOP at South of the Border, but we were going to CAMP there for the night.

Oh bliss! Oh rapture unforeseen!

As we took the exit - the one right before

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

I was filled with anticipation. Years of wonder were about to be satisfied. Where would I start? Pedro's Beachwear? Pedro's Arcade? Pedro's Dirty Old Man Shop? (Mom probably wouldn't like that, but she'd never know!) Oh, how is a girl to decide? Oh Pedro, you magnificent bastard! How I've longed for this moment!

As we pulled in between the legs of a giant Pedro statue, I could tell we were in for a night of pure class. There were large statues of Pedro everywhere, as well as statues of animals and various inanimate objects. There's a sombrero tower, for Pete's - er - Pedro's sake. Statues big enough to climb on. Statues you KNEW you'd look great next to in a picture.

Pedro says: Take a picture, it'll last longer

It was after dark when we pulled in and, to my distinct disappointment, many of the shops and activities were already closed. Even more disappointing were the ones that were open. I was young, and I was naive, but I still knew junk when I saw it. Miles and miles of junk.

Just like my parents had always said.

Damn! Why did they always have to be so RIGHT?

I had a taco. It was mediocre at best. Damn, damn, damn. They'd been right again.

Pedro says: Chili today, hot tamale!

You know what else they were right about? Making that stop. In future years the pleading ceased completely. We still used the signs to track our progress, but we no longer wanted to listen to anything Pedro had to say.

Stupid Pedro.

Smart parents.

Pedro says: You just missed South of the Border!

How much further to the beach?

Are we close?

How close?

Talk To Ya Later

It's Thursday, so it must be time for a trip down Memory Lane...

Recently we received the records for our teen daughters phone usage during a little vacation to Florida. In two weeks, she spent 3337 minutes talking to her boyfriend and sent 1021 texts to her buddies. I tried to work up righteous anger, but I couldn't.

To do so would've been hypocritical.

To do so would've been a denial of the misspent hours of my own youth.

I, too, spent more time missing my friends than appreciating my surroundings on family vacations - particularly when they extended longer than a week (the proven measure of time that a teen girl can comfortably tolerate separation from her peeps).

In the summer of 1978 I was almost sixteen. My friends were the most important people in the world and our constantly shifting romances were the most important events.

This was the summer my parents decided to take us on a tour through the northern United States with a few jaunts into southern Canada.

This sounds like a beautiful way to pass the summer, no?

At the time, this sounded a lot like the seventh level of hell.

In 1978, of course, cell phones existed only in science fiction. Long distance calls were expensive. To hear my parents tell it, very, very, very ridiculously expensive. They were never made lightly. They were doled out carefully, like a precious commodity. Most of them were made to relatives at home to check on the house and the extended family. The purpose for these calls was assuredly more report than rapport.

Every time I would pass a wall of pay phones I would slow down and gaze at them longingly. They represented passage from this cowboy hell to the socialization I was missing and craving at home. So close and yet so far.

Then, one day, during a visit to a tourist attraction somewhere in the Rocky Mountains, I saw my opportunity. And I seized it. An available pay phone and not a parental unit in sight. There was no time to think, I needed to act quickly. I picked up the receiver and followed the instructions on the phone.

"I'd like to charge this to my home number, please."

One ring.

Two rings.

Then the voice of my friend, spanning the distance, taking me away from this stupid wilderness and reporting all the small town gossip.

My eyes rolled back in my head. It was otherworldly. I was only aware of the dulcet tones of my friend's voice and the information she was sharing.

"Tammy! Lu! Hunter!"

That was weird, Cyndi almost never used my middle...

"TAMMY! LU! HUNTER!"

Oh shiiiiiiiiit.

The spell was broken.

The middle name had been invoked.

My mother looked like a cartoon character does right before steam starts shooting from its ears.

"I gotta go..."

Sadness about the disconnect mingled with fear of retribution.

I mentioned that we were somewhere in the Rockies. We were somewhere in the CANADIAN Rockies. Making this an international call. And an international incident. If long distance calls were verboten, international calls were - well - if there's a word for how off-limits they were, I don't know it.

As we walked back to the car, the vibe I got from my parents was clear. "We will continue to feed, clothe and house you because you are our responsibility but we do not intend to like being in your presence."

I acquired my first job within a week after getting home. I paid the phone bill with my first check.

An irresponsible and immature act resulted in the first truly responsible and mature decision of my young life.

Sometimes it just works out that way.

The Happiest Place on Earth

I'm going to continue giving you little stories on Thursdays until you tell me to stop. I'm trying to think of a clever little name for my story Thursdays, but I'm drawing a blank. If anyone thinks of anything, they would have my sincere appreciation! Here's another one my mom isn't aware of! I think 30 odd years later she can handle it, though. I think the statue of limitations is up. She can't ground me anymore, anyway...

I first visited Disney World in the spring of 1978, just a few years after it opened, with my marching band. This trip marked both my first flight in an airplane and my first stay in a hotel. We were camping folk, there had never been a need. I dutifully made my bed every morning, to the great amusement of my more worldly roommates.

I'm quite certain that it goes without saying that I was extremely excited. It probably also goes without saying that 'extremely excited' is understating it a bit.

Young? Check. Cute? Check. Uncharacteristically free from parental supervision? Check. This was a recipe for bliss. Just add The Mouse and enjoy liberally.

All the candy bars, magazines and light bulbs (yes, light bulbs) I'd sold to finance this trip were finally paying off. I was in Florida. In April. With my best friends. In the almost brand spankin' new self-proclaimed happiest place on earth.

There was no downside.

We explored Frontierland, Adventureland, Fantasyland and Tomorrowland thoroughly, as a pack of squeaky squealy teenaged girls. We expected wonder at every turn and we were usually not disappointed. We laughed until our sides ached, developing and nurturing inside jokes that continued to insure a giggle months after we'd returned home.

We marched in the afternoon parade and, as a part of this endeavor, were treated to a peak at backstage Disney. *shudder* We never spoke much of that. We saw characters without their heads on. They were, for the most part, excessively pimpled teenagers. It was like watching Jim Henson speak for Kermit. You know he's there, but you don't want to think about it. Very disillusioning. I shall speak of it no more.

Later that year, over the summer months, our family took another trip to Disney World with family friends. Now, having been there myself only months before, I considered myself sort of an expert on all things Disney. I didn't mind sharing my expertise. I'm a giver like that. I spent a lot of time assuring my travel companions that they needn't worry, I'd show them around. I had, if I haven't made it quite clear, a sort of inflated sense of self-importance about the whole affair.

The night before we were to head to Disney we were staying at a beach not far away. I snuck out of the camper once everyone was asleep to go to a bar. I was nearly sixteen and the drinking age in Florida at the time was eighteen. It was no problem at all to pass. It was a great bar on a pier right over the ocean. I don't remember the name of it, but I do remember that their claim to fame was their Bahama Mama. Drink three of 'em and you could write whatever you wanted on the wall. They made a damn fine Bahama Mama, I must say. At least by the standards set forth by my almost sixteen year old palate. I think I wrote something to that effect on the wall when I earned my turn with the Sharpie.


I returned to camp and no-one was the wiser.

That's not entirely true.

Dave knew.

Dave was the eldest of our friends' kids - which still put him at two years younger than me. Dave was not adverse to a little blackmail among friends.

Now anyone who's downed a couple few delicious fruity rum drinks in the course of an evening knows that the evening spent drinking them is WAY more fun than the morning spent recovering from them.

The families' plan was to be on the road early early so that we'd be at Disney when the gates opened. Not a huge problem for anyone but the drivers, since we were traveling in campers. Since the drivers had NOT snuck out to drink rum with boys the night before, it was not a problem at all.

MY problems began, as you can imagine, when I woke up. Looking good, feeling good. Dave whispered in my ear at the next rest stop, "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"And in return?"

"You wound me! I don't want anything in return! I just want you to spend the day with me at Disney. Show me the sights..."

"That's it?"

"Ride the rides with me..."

"I don't feel much like..."

"I sure would be sad if you didn't ride the rides with me. I can only hope I wouldn't let any information slip in my saddened state."

He had me by the short ones, kids. What choice did I have but to say yes?

We got to the park and developed a buddy system of sorts. My sister and Dave's sister would be buddies. Me, Dave, and his younger sister, Cass, would be buddies. Safety rules were discussed, tickets were distributed, meet up times were scheduled.

Being the senior member of my little group, as well as a self-proclaimed Disney expert, I assumed I'd be leading our little expedition. "I thought we'd start with..."

"Teacups" interrupted Dave.

"TEAcups?" I said, my eyes narrowing behind my dark shades and attempting to burn holes straight through him.

Cass started chanting, "Tea Cups! Tea Cups!" Dave joined in. Now this was just flat out playing dirty and he knew it. Cass was seven years my junior and I adored her. I could deny her nothing. Dave was not unaware of this fact. Teacups it would be.

Guess who took control of the wheel that controls the spinning in the teacups?


That was just the beginning of the price of Dave's silence.

He did what he could to torture the poor, stupid, know-it-all, hungover teen he held firmly under his thumb. But as a clear testament to the well-earned "Happiest Place on Earth" moniker, it was still a pretty darn good day.

Suck it, Dave.

Teacups indeed.

Jackalopes and Indian Frank

Last Thursday I gave you a story about my youthful travels. You said you wanted more, so here's another. A few years older, but still painfully naive...

As I recall, Frank was a boy with dirty blonde ringlets that fell well past his shoulders. He wore, through our brief acquaintance, what my friend Ellin always referred to as a dirtbag hat; leather or suede with a wide, loose brim. He spoke softly and confidently. I thought he was beautiful. I thought lots of boys were beautiful, so it wasn't a particularly grand compliment.

I met Frank while camping with our family and some friends in South Dakota. South Dakota, as you're probably aware, is home to Mt. Rushmore. Which I thought was kind of overrated. But I was fifteen that summer and pronouncing things overrated, bourgeois or simply dull was sort of my job. And I was good at it.

To my way of thinking, the best thing about Mt. Rushmore was the souvenir T-shirt that pictured the four presidents carved into a mountain and read: Even the Nicest People Get Stoned. Mom didn't think that was as appropriate for a young teen as I thought it was. Back at band camp that August, I would've been a rockstar in that ringer T. Not appropriate. Whatever. Appropriate is overrated.

South Dakota, like many of the more rustic regions of the United States, is also heavily populated by jackalopes. If you're too citified to be aware (or if you've never eaten in a large chain steakhouse), a jackalope is a hybrid between a jackrabbit and an antelope. It looks for all the world like an everyday rabbit, but with a lovely little set of antlers. They were quite ubiquitous, as evidenced by the vast availability of specimens that taxidermists had carefully preserved in various natural poses and were selling in every gift shop. Mounted heads of the unfortunate horned bunnies were pretty readily available as well.


I believed in them utterly.

Why should I not?

I'd seen proof.

Who would go to such vast lengths to perpetrate a hoax? I couldn't grok the motivation behind it.

So it was in this place - this land of stoned presidents and jackalopes - that I met Frank and his golden curls.

Frank was an Indian.

A Native American.

I know this because he told me.

I couldn't think of a reason a slightly older teenaged boy might lie to a slightly younger teenaged girl who was hoping to catch a glimpse of a jackalope in it's natural habitat before heading back to her suburban home.

No reason at all.

Nope.

Not a one.

I listened to his tales about his life and his people in wide-eyed wonder, fascinated. I asked him questions and he provided quick answers for every one of them.

He was dreamy.

And so exotic.

I believed every word he said like it was the gospel itself.

Naive? Well - um - yeah.

Stupid? I wouldn't be so quick with that call. I got to spend several evenings in the company of a beautiful blonde Native American with bountiful curls and a million stories.

How many people get to say THAT?

The Spirit of St. Louis

Buoyed by your kind comments on some of my nostalgic vacation posts, I decided to do a series of them to collect for my parents for Christmas. The following is one of them. Let me know if you'd like to see more, or if these are really the sort of thing that only a parent could love...


In preparation for a trip to the Smithsonian Institute one year my mother, like any good mother, told my sister and I about some of the things we'd see when we got there. In child development circles we call that 'scripting' but, like many of the things we feel the need to label and discuss as though they're lofty philosophical/psychological ideas, it's really just common sense.

Anyhoo.

As she mentioned some of the things we were likely to encounter, one thing stuck out boldly from the rest: The Spirit of St. Louis.

Now I wasn't sure who St. Louis was, but I wasn't all that concerned about it with the prospect of actually encountering his SPIRIT in my near future.

I asked all sorts of questions about this spirit with just enough ambiguity that my mother was able to believe we were on the same page.

"How did they get the Spirit of St. Louis in the museum in the first place?

"How in the world do they get it to stay there?"

"We'll be able to see the actual Spirit of St. Louis? Not just a picture?"

The morning we headed to the museum I was beside myself. I could hardly eat from the excitement.

My parents were, no doubt, pleased that I was so excited about visiting a museum. They were probably also a little perplexed by my sudden and passionate interest in aviation.

As we entered the Air and Space Museum I got my first twinge of nervousness. I was still excited, but suddenly my excitement was tempered with just a little bit of fear. This WAS a restless apparition we were talking about, here. What if it chose today to go rogue?

We entered a huge open room with old airplanes suspended from the high ceiling.

"There it is." my mom said, pointing to I sure as heck didn't know what.

"What? There what is?"

"The Spirit of St. Louis."

Holy buckets, had I missed it? Had it zoomed right past me without so much as sending a chill down my spine to alert me to it's presence?

"Where?" I asked rather desperately, eyes darting wildly around the room trying to pin down the poltergeist.

"There." she said, coming down to my level and helping me to focus on - an airplane?


Then I noticed the lettering on the side of the plane. 'The Spirit of St. Louis'. I realized my error immediately and three thoughts formed in quick succession:

"How could I have been so stupid?" was the first.

"I mustn't ever let them know what I was really thinking." was the second.

"Dang. I'm not gonna see a ghost." was the third, final, and most devastating of all.

Wash Me

We are staying on a small island just off Marco Island in south Florida. Goodland, where we're staying, is a little fishing village with a post office and 4 bar/restaurants. That's about it. To get to anything else we have to go through Marco.

Today we went shopping in Naples. Off Goodland, through Marco, to Naples.

Now Marco is quite an affluent area. When we went swimming at a pool there yesterday, we did not use a trash can. We used a rubbish bin. This cracked us up, for some reason, and we spent a good deal of the rest of the day saying "Oh, rubbish!" in our best fa-fa-fa voices and our most affected accents.

On our way back to the island after our shopping trip today, someone's lawn sprinkler hit us just as we were entering Marco. My niece, Shelby, asked from the back seat, "What was that?"

"Sprinklers, what did you think?" answered her mom.

"I thought maybe they didn't want to have to look at our dirty old car on Marco, so they were washing it for us."

Shelby is a funny little chickadee.

Shelby is 10 years old and has just started her own blog to talk about her dog and her life.

My daughter Lea, who is 13, just started a blog too. It is chock full of teen angst, as you would expect.

Stop by and give them some love, if you've got the time. And if you know any other young bloggers who might be interested in following, I'm pretty sure they'd follow back.

(I am fully aware that it's positively shameless to use this forum for promoting two of my favorite girls, but shame is overrated. If you do visit them, read Shelby's older posts and scroll on through for Lea's first post... just sayin')

Yes!

I had decided before we left for this vacation that I was going to attempt to say yes more during these two weeks. Not yes to buying things, necessarily. Because how many souvenir stand trinkets does one really need? (hint - the answer rhymes with pun and starts with an 'n') Yes, instead, to increasingly rare requests for me or my time. Not "when I finish this row" (I left my knitting needles at home! Those of you who know me IRL know this is like saying "I left my index finger at home") Not "when I finish this chapter" (that one's been tougher, 'cause I sure as shootin' didn't leave my books at home!"), just, "yes".

Today we were all feeling like we needed a break from the rather harsh rays on the beach, so my sister and I decided to take the girls to the pool.

What a great decision that turned out to be.

It was a beautiful pool - large, immaculately maintained, beautifully landscaped.

We had it all to ourselves.

Seriously, ya'll. Traveling off-season rocks so hard.

And I had a lot of opportunities to say yes.

My girls are not too old, apparently, to play "look what I can do".

And I really looked.

I watched their feet flail around while they were under the water and knew that in their minds they were performing feats as graceful as any Olympic diver. I told them they were wonderful. I meant it.

"Did you see me Mom?"

"Yes!"

"Do you want to play a game?"

"Yes!"

My sister and I both played the pool games they made up. My sister - who NEVER gets her hair wet (her mother's daughter) was splashing and allowing herself to be splashed. She indulged in a little "look what I can do", too.

Awesome.

I found myself diving low just to do it - not to swim a lap, not to get to the side, just because it feels really good. And it DOES make you feel graceful! And LIGHT! For a big girl like me, that is an almost inexplicably wonderful feeling. I FLOATED! Stiff as a board, light as a feather...

When I got out, my fingers were wrinkled.

When's the last time you JUST PLAYED in the pool until your fingers were wrinkled?

"Can I pick you up again, Mom?"

"Yes!"

"Holding you like this is fun."

"Yes!"

Oh, hell yes.

J-J-Jaded

'My beach', growing up, was Myrtle Beach, SC. With the exception of the two times we crossed the country, we went to Myrtle Beach every summer in my memory until I was eighteen.

Prior to that - prior to what I can actually remember - I summered on the beaches of New Hampshire where my dad went to grad school. I'm told I felt quite at home there. I have no cause to doubt that information.

During my mad running away from home trying to find myself years I visited many fine beaches in Texas and Florida and up and down the east and gulf coasts. I didn't make any of them my own, but I loved them all.

When I settled in the eastern PA/south Jersey region, I claimed the Jersey and Maryland shores as my own. I spent as much time there as I could, drawing something vital from the salt air by day and the boardwalk by night.

I love the beach.

So I moved to Ohio.

Yeah, I don't know. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

A couple years ago my sister introduced me to her father-in-laws place just off Marco Island in southwestern Florida. My sister and her husband have a boat and use it to get to small uninhabited island beaches.

With all those beach going years under my belt, I have never seen anything like it.

The first time she took me I was completely awestruck.

The shells are insane.

The privacy and quiet and freedom are something I've never known on a beach before.

The water temperature is perfect.

It truly is a paradise on earth.

This is the first time my family has been here.

I could not wait for my kids to experience these beaches.

Don't get me wrong - they loved it. They had a great time. They ran, they played, they swam, they shelled. It was a great day at the beach.

But they weren't impressed. They most assuredly weren't awestruck.

The things that bring delight and wonder to my middle-aged soul were viewed very matter-of-factly by my children.

Do you think kids in general are just jaded? Or do you think they just expect wonderful things to the point of taking them for granted?

I remember traveling with my own parents and having my mom get all excited about something we were going to see or do and giving it a big build up. When we finally got there, more often than not, my sister and I would say something on the order of, "That's cool, I guess.", shrug, and look for something to play.

We were certainly not jaded.

We hadn't seen it all.

But we had no reason to believe there shouldn't be wonder all around us. We enjoyed it - as my children enjoyed their day on the pristine isolated beach - but we weren't amazed.

Expecting wonder.

Jaded, as I've implied? Unappreciative, as my mom expressed?

Or just the opposite?

On the Road Again

Howdy Hi from the open road. I'm writing today from my sisters camper. We're going 65 m.p.h. down the PA turnpike as I write. We are in a decent sized motor home, pulling a car behind us. We were our own mini-convoy. You got a copy on me? Come on.

So I'm typing away. My laptop is connected to a wireless router which uses an air card. Liv is listening to CD's and drawing illustrations for a story she's working on. Lea is sleeping off the last of the Dramamine. Shelby is reading us jokes from a joke book. Wendy has just cleaned up after lunch and is headed to the back bedroom to read. Tom and Mark are taking turns driving and sleeping. When Lea wakes up, they'll probably watch a movie.

I used the bathroom while the vehicle was moving. Awesome. I kept thinking about that lady I saw on the Today show last week who was using the bathroom in an airplane when they hit some turbulence and she hit the roof or something and was paralyzed. I was pretty sure that wasn't gonna happen in a camper, but I peed fast anyway, just to be safe.

As I came out of the bathroom, I glanced back at my sister, sound asleep in her queen-sized bed with her book beside her. It was hard not to remember traveling with her when we were the wee ones.

(Scene blurs, lines squiggle and fade, indicating that it's time for the flashback sequence.)

I've mentioned before that my dad was a teacher and my mom was a SAHM. In the summer of 1970 they decided it would be super-fun to spend the full summer traveling across the country in a little car pulling a travel trailer with a 7 year old and a 5 year old.

Super-fun.

It goes without saying that said car and camper did not have anything as luxurious or frivolous as air conditioning. We rolled down the windows. Manually. It goes without saying that there were no DVD's or CD's or iPods. There was an AM radio and we all listened to the same thing. Should I try to do some more? Twenty-five or six to four... We played license plate bingo and we counted cows. At 7 and 5 we knew every state capital. These were good ways to pass the time. Another good way to pass the time when you're 7 and 5 and confined in the back seat of a small car is to fight and pick.

"She touched me."

"Her foot is on my side."

"MAKE HER STOP LOOKING AT ME!"

And, of course, the requisite:

"Are we there yet?"

We all survived to tell the tale. Wendy and I had perpetually bruised wrists that whole summer from my mom holding on to us a little too tightly as we shared campgrounds and state parks with what she called "hippies, weirdos and druggies".

But we all survived, and were better for the experience.

Coming out of my flashback I look at out three girls. Books, snacks, CD's, DVD's, iPods, phones, games, computers... they have it so good!

And then I heard it.

"I'm bored."

"Are we there yet?"

Are you freakin' kidding me?

Drugs Can Hurt You, Man

In the late 70's/early 80's I smoked a little pot. In the late 80's/early 90's I snorted my fair share of coke. Ok, maybe my fair share and a little bit of your share, too. Every now and then my share, your share, and your Aunt Fannie's share, too. And Aunt Fannie likes her some blow. Just sayin', By the mid 90's my only remaining vice was liquor. And the occasional M&M. And love. Addicted to love, baby. Might as well face it.

Somewhere along the line, though (line. heh.) I lost my tolerance for drugs of any sort. Last spring I broke my arm and couldn't tolerate any of the pain meds that were prescribed. Those first two weeks on nothing by aceteminaphine were rough, let me tell you, but it was all I could handle.

Today I took two dramamines. We were going to be traveling in my sisters motor home and the last time I'd ridden in it for any distance I had motion sickness something awful. I've always been prone to motion sickness. I don't get it every time, but I do get it often. Those of you who experience it know that it doesn't end when the ride does. It ruins your whole day.

So to fend off potential motion sickness, I took two dramamine. This is on the high end of the recommended dosage, but still within it. Half an hour later I couldn't hold my head up. Four hours later I woke up refreshed and not at all carsick. But I fully and completely crashed for four solid hours.

So I'm thinking dramamine is the bomb.

I'd given one to Lea, too, as she inherited my motion sickness gene. She crashed, too. Her re-entry into the land of the living, however, was not as smooth as mine.

At a rest stop on the turnpike, Liv comes running over to me - "Hurry up! Lea is sick and she's on the ground! Come see!" She hadn't passed out, but her vision had gone blurry, her skin became instantly clammy and she lost all her color. Her lips were completely white. It was scary. She was too weak to stand.

It passed - the worst of it, anyway - and we got her back to the camper and into bed where she slept a little more. When she felt a little better, she ate. Then she slept a little more.

She's fine, now. But when we hit the road again Sunday, no dramamine for her. (I will try to pick up some of those pressure point wrist bands for her between now and then.) Momma, of course, will be fully dosed.

Once in the late 80's/early 90's - when I was transitioning from one drug of preference to the next (and therefore dabbling a bit in both) - I was at a party. This one guy was stoned on who knows what. He fell down the stairs. As I passed him, his face was squashed on the floor and his body was spread out full-length up the stairs. He opened one eye as I passed and said, "drugs can hurt you, man." Then he closed his eye and crashed, in an inverted position on a staircase.

True dat, my brother. True dat.

Back to the Future

Wildwood, New Jersey is a beach town populated by Victorian houses in pastel hues, an old fashioned boardwalk with several entertainment piers, and motels with names like: Oceanic, Sea and Shell, Blue Palm and Aquarius; many with futuristic logos from the past. They are neither fancy nor elegant, but they are undeniably special. These are the sort of unique places that you just know families return to year after year; possibly generation after generation.

Our motel, the Isle of Palms, had its name displayed in a huge casually elegant font in colors reminiscent of sand at sunrise on the shower curtain. The whole thing smacked of stepping back in time. I kept expecting Lucy and Ethel to step out of the next room in their bathing costumes. Yeah. This place inspired me to say things like "bathing costumes".


It's the same feeling I get when I pass a bar - no - a lounge - with a big neon martini glass on its sign and retro graphics. I always feel like a cocktail there would have an air of sophistication that knockin' a couple back at my local watering hole could never attain. I'm equally certain that that would not be so, so I never go into those bars. I don't want to shatter the illusion. Believing a place like that could still exist makes me happy.


Being at the beach makes me happy.

Being with my dear friend (since Jr. High, thank you very much) makes me very happy indeed.

Me and Ellin on the boardwalk. Honest to God, I didn't notice how similar our ensembles were that day until I posted this picture. Good Lord. I suppose it's true what they say: Great minds think alike. Our minds have been achieving greatness together for well over 30 years. Maybe that explains it.

Technology Bites

Let me start by saying that I am hardly one of those people who goes through their life treating their cell phone like it is another appendage - possibly one more important even than the starter kit with which we were born.

I've had one forever, of course. The first one was a big expense and a big decision. This is fitting, as it was also a big-assed phone. I kept it for only the most dire of emergencies and my friends were all cautioned to never use it to contact me with frivolities. Those minutes weren't free, you know!

I was a little in awe of it. To have the ability to call people from wherever I might be - even on the road (as long as I was in a zone covered by my plan) - bordered on the nearly unbelievable.

We're living in the future, baby! Anything can happen now!

As technology improved I more or less kept up. I upgraded my phone every couple years. I always viewed them as a nice convenience but nothing more. I was still conservative with my usage, relying on it more for outgoing calls, with incoming calls being rare enough to make me jump when they came through.

I didn't know my number and had to look it up when anyone asked. I've watched my daughter become completely attached to hers. I watched my husband develop a love/hate relationship with his. I maintained an air of detachment about mine.

The only exception was when I traveled without my family. I became a texting machine on par with my thirteen year old daughter when I traveled. Well, maybe that's overstating it a bit. But I text a LOT on vacation.

My most recent phone has internet as well, and I have found myself slightly more reliant upon that. I don't have it mastered. My skills with the stylus and the keyboard are not such that I can do everything my phone is capable of. I update FaceBook and Twitter. I read email (though I have a hard time responding to it). The sound of a message coming through no longer takes me by surprise. But it still makes me jump! I want to know what's going on!

Many of you know that I went out of town for a long weekend this past weekend. On the second day of my vacation, my phone died. Just totally flat-lined. It was fully charged, but everything went black. The panic I felt over this was unnerving. It pulled my plug. I was disconnected. I was suddenly and unexpectedly disconnected from EVERYthing. I was angry, I was upset, but I was also somehow - scared. The world was going on without me and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it. Things could happen and I wouldn't know!

I became ultra-aware of everyone else's cell phones. I passed a guy with one of those notepads and I nearly hyperventilated. I was in serious communication withdrawal.

I picked my phone up every hour or two to see if it had miraculously returned to me. Maybe the whole thing had just been a bad dream. Once, it actually sparked up. The joy and hope I experienced in that brief flash of artificial light! But alas, it was extinguished before I could even check messages.

I called the hubs from my friends phone and he said, when in doubt, reboot. Nothing. He called her phone the next morning and told me to take the battery out and pop it back in. I did so. The phone? She was revived. I bet you were getting a little nervous there!!! I know I was!!!

When I arrived home, just a couple hours ago, the first thing I did was rush to my laptop and put my head on its cool, sweet keys. I love you. I'm sorry I left you behind. Let's never part again. (Don't be too concerned, my family was still at school/work - if they were here I PROBABLY would have greeted them first...)

It took no small amount of time to catch up on my blog reading and I apologize if my comments were a little on the lazy side.

It was good to be away, and it's good to be back!

The Grass is Always Greener With a Sugar High

I really need a vacation.

Now if you've been with me for a while, you know I had a quick mini-vaca to the Cleve just a week ago. It was snowy, so it didn't count. Not for full credit, anyway. I also had a vacation to Myrtle Beach in February and one to Goodland in January.

That's a lot of vacations! I am one lucky little chickadee!

Except I want more.

More! More! More! More! More!

(Lucky for me, I'm headed to Wildwood in two weeks. That should tide me over for a little bit. Get it? Tide? Oh, Lord I need a vacation...)

Y'know how they say when you're dieting (the one four letter word I hate to use! You won't be likely to see it here again, and I apologize to anyone I may have offended by using it now!) and they say to not use sugar substitutes because they stimulate your craving for sweets? And how eating sweets stimulates your craving for sweets? So you can be okay without sweets, maybe, but once you get the ball rolling, all bets are off.

More! More! More! More! More!

Your Easter candy is all gone already, too, right?

Ahem.

We were talking about vactions.

And how I need one.

I have friends who go on vacation all the time. They make my little list above look like child's play. That was a terrible analogy. THEY'RE the ones who get to play... I'm the one who is BORED, BORED, BORED!!! I'm the one who is in O-HI-O for Pete's sake.

I have friends who never go on vacation. They don't bitch about it nearly as much as I do. That sugar analogy coming into play again.

mmmmmmm - sugar......

I was chatting with a friend this morning. A friend who takes, I think, a pretty normal amount of vacations. She likes to go, like me, though. So she probably doesn't think she takes enough.

Anyway.

She was saying how my life was interesting and hers was boring and I begged to differ because I think hers is terribly interesting and I know full and damn well good how boring mine is. We decided that what makes EVERYONE'S LIFE BUT OUR OWN seem more interesting is simply that it's not ours.

I remember when Lea was a toddler. Bedtime was such a struggle and Tom and I would laugh and say she probably thinks that's when all the fun stuff happens. You don't do anything interesting when I'm up, surely I must be missing happy party time when you put me to bed. Because no-one could REALLY be this boring and continue to exist. Alas, she was wrong. Happy party time was just a continuation of the same dull stuff we did when she was awake.

Is it too early for me to start packing for that next vacation?

Beach Baby

My father was a high school teacher and my mother was a stay at home mom, so when I was growing up the whole family had the whole summer off. How sweet is that? It gets sweeter. Pretty much every summer of my life, growing up, with very few exceptions, we spent three or four weeks in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I have such happy memories of my summers at the beach.

Since retiring, my parents have been going to Myrtle Beach every winter. For a week, then two, then a month, then two, next year they'll be there a full three months. They've always wanted to recreate those family vacations, but my sister and I have kids and there's school and jobs and blah blah blah and it just isn't so easy for us to get away in the middle of the winter.

A couple months ago, my sister told me she and her family were going to drive down in their motor home over President's Day weekend. I expressed jealousy. She said, "come along". I said my kids would die of jealousy. She said, "bring 'em". And I did.

My parents, my mother in particular, were very happy that we'd finally all be together at "our" beach again. I was just happy to see the beach in February. Which is not my favorite. February, that is, not the beach. The beach is totally my favorite.

Myrtle Beach has changed a lot since I was there last (25 years ago or so! Yikes!). I was hard pressed to recognize anything. It was a little bittersweet. In the last 25 years it has become very commercial. By the end of our long weekend I was longing for a meal in a restaurant that was not attached to a gift shop.

Liv Shelby and I going into the Hard Rock

I gave some money to the Hard Rock Cafe. Because I always do. Because I am a sucker. We had an awesome Hard Rock experience, though. I went with my daughters and my niece. We weren't going for a meal, just to spend money and browse. So we got there at 10:00 am when the gift shop was open and the restaurant wasn't. The girl in the gift shop said we were free to poke around. So we did. We had the run of the whole place. We were able to look at all of the memorabilia without feeling like we were interrupting anyone's meal. It was awesome. I touched Joe Perry's guitar. Oh yes I did. And, to the delight of my young charges, I squeeeed right out loud like the squealy fangirl that I am.

Liv and Shelby (with Pink!) in front of the Hard Rock

We also gave some money to the KISS Coffeehouse, because you never know when Gene Simmons is gonna run out of money. I don't want to be the one responsible if they can't afford to indulge Shannon Tweed's next whim. Also, Tom was in the KISS Army, and he was the only one not with us on this trip. It was the obvious place to pick up some overpriced souvenirs for him. Also, it was fun, in a completely silly sort of way.

Liv and Shelby (with Pink again!) in front of the KISS Coffeehouse. Who's a rock star?

Thank goodness for the Gay Dolphin. Now THIS was something I recognized. A landmark from my youth. And it had not changed at all. I swear, I think some of the merchandise may have even been the same stuff that was there then. It was tacky and cheap and a little dirty and ridiculously comforting.


I witnessed every sunrise, only this time I didn't watch them alone. We had a beautiful view right from our condo window, and I enjoyed that, but better than that were the mornings when the kids wanted to go down and watch the sun rise from the beach. It was so awesome to watch the little ones running free on the empty beach and picking up shells while the eldest took the time to be introspective.

Lea, Shelby and Liv for our first beach sunrise

Liv collecting shells

Lea thinking deep thoughts in shallow water

Another reason my mother was so excited about our visit is that it gave us the opportunity to celebrate her birthday with her for the first time in many many years. Her birthday and my aunts birthday fall pretty close together, so they always celebrate at Myrtle Beach. Although our visit was a little early, we got them a cake and had a little surprise celebration in my sisters camper. They were so happy. It made the whole trip worthwhile.

My mom and my aunt - the birthday girls

Elsie (my BIL's mom), my mom, my aunt, Shelby, Lea and Liv - (birthday) party on, dudes!

A big highlight of the trip for me was that I got to spend some real quality one on one time with my mother and with each of my daughters. That's something we don't tend to make enough time for, and it was really quite wonderful.


I think if we can swing it, I'd like to do it again. I think I'd actually like that a lot.

Morning, Sunshine

Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy

Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry

Sunshine on the water looks so lovely

Sunshine, almost all the time, makes me high.

If I had a day, that I could give you,

I'd give to you a day just like today.

If I had a song that I could sing for you,
I'd sing a song that made you feel this way.

*Sincere apologies to any of my rocker friends who I have disillusioned by demonstrating my absolute recall of John Denver lyrics. Just wait till I pull out my mad Barry Manilow quoting skillz...

(Dis)Comfort Food

I went out to dinner with my parents tonight. As many of you know, I am currently on vacation in Myrtle Beach with my daughters, my parents, and my sister's family. It has been going - as well as can be expected under the circumstances. The circumstances are something for another time and another post, I promise I won't keep you hanging, but for right this tired night, I just want to tell you about dinner.

From the time we told our parents we'd be coming to Myrtle Beach, they've been excited about taking us to "the cafeteria". They love "the cafeteria" (sorry about the overuse of the quotes - I'm sure "the cafeteria" has an actual name, but they never use it, so it's skipped right out of my conscious memory...). From the time we told them we were coming, my sister has been saying, "I'm not going to that damn cafeteria". Me? My parents are footing the bill for my condo this week. They were also paying for dinner. And it meant a lot to them. Jeez, it's one meal. Suck it up, Buttercup.

My sister, you see, had made this same trip five years ago, and had gone to "the cafeteria" then. She vowed to never repeat the experience. I thought she was being a little selfish and unreasonable. I repeat: One meal. Suck it up.

Turns out she had a pretty good point. If I come to visit my snowbird parents next year or some other year in the future, I will have a very hard time mustering up enough "suck it up" to get me through another night at "the cafeteria".

First of all, I probably don't have to tell you that my niece and I were the youngest folks there by quite a lot. This is not a familiar situation for me - I am almost ALWAYS the oldest everywhere I go. It felt almost - good. At first.

I probably also don't have to tell you that this whole scenario took place around 4:30 pm.

I probably don't have to tell you what sort of fare was offered up, either. Every comfort food known to man, beginning with a variety of jello salads and ending with a nice array of pies. In the middle there was chicken pot pie and fried chicken and roast beef and liver and meatloaf and mashed potatoes and gravy... you get the idea.

I didn't expect it to be the best food in the world, and it wasn't, but neither was it the worst.

I somehow don't think it was the food that made my sister swear it off.

My parents knew everyone who worked there on a first name basis. However my father, in an effort to indicate to the cashier that he would be paying for four tonight rather than his usual two, sort of hissed and snapped at her to get her attention. That sounds a little uglier than it actually was, but it wasn't exactly pretty.

Then we got to our table. Both my father and my aunt had taken a large handful of straws - way more than would ever be used by the eight people at our table. They explained to me that they do this every time - so they'll always have straws in the car. I cringed a little. Then my aunt opened her pocketbook (I know, I know - but it's such an awesome word. And might actually be applicable here) and dumped in two handfuls of Sweet 'n Low packets. For her morning coffees for the week. At this point I'm trying to disappear under the table. My mom ate dessert first because, to finish the platitude, life is uncertain.

We carried our own trays to the table, but there were servers who kept our glasses full (we had these teeny tiny little itty bitty little teeny tiny little water glasses - like juice glasses - only smaller - glorified shot glasses, actually) and brought us boxes for our leftovers as well as extra flatware and napkins - they were very helpful without being intrusive. (to the best of my knowledge, no flatware or napkins left the premises in any of my family members pockets or pocketbooks - but I won't swear to it...)

When the time came to leave, my father put $2 on the table. The other gentleman who was with us did the same. I reached for my wallet, as did two of the other ladies. My parents insisted that we put them away. That it had been taken car of. $4. For eight not exactly low-maintenance people.

I HOPE I don't have to tell you I snuck some money on the table as I walked out. With my head bowed and my tail between my legs.

I bet if my sister could have seen me at that moment, she would have laughed and laughed...

Baby, You Can Drive My Car

But I don't want to drive yours, if it's all the same to you.

My husband and I have a running joke. He calls me a "car chick", which I'm totally not, (not that there's anything wrong with being one, I'm just not) because I tend to gasp a little bit when I encounter old muscle cars. (gasping occurred, also, when we got an up close and personal look at the new Dodge Challenger, too, but I digress) I like looking at these cars, but I can only assume that a true "car chick" would also want to drive one - maybe even know what's what under the hood. I am only interested in the aesthetics. I couldn't car less about what's under the hood if I tried really hard to care less. And I am waaaayyy more interested in being a passenger than in being a driver. I drive because it's what one has to do to get from point A to point B. I get absolutely no pleasure from it.

Sometimes I full on hate it.

Last week was one of those times.

A little back story: The girls (my daughters and my niece) had gone to Western Pennsylvania to spend a week with their grandparents. From there, my parents were taking them out Eastern Pennsylvania, to visit my aunt, where Tom and I were going to join them mid-week, spend a few days, then bring them home. We warned all three girls that we would all five be coming home in my mid-size car - not the motor home my BIL took them to my parent's in; not the van my parents took them to my aunt's in - my mid-size. They needed to pack accordingly.

When the morning came for them to head out east, my eldest calls me crying because she knows her guitar won't fit and she'll have to leave it till next time (not a tragedy - next time is in 3 weeks, and there are a couple few other guitars around the house). She is crying and carrying on in the hormonally charged end of the world way only a 12 year old girl could manage. Then my niece starts crying, too, because the last time she rode in my car for any distance she got car sick. The obvious association was "Aunt Tammy's car makes me puke". She called her mother and insisted that she let Tom and I borrow her SUV. My sister had no problem with this. The girls were happy. All was well.

Except for two little things.

First, my car gets about 28 MPG and my sister's SUV gets about 17 at best. Perhaps you haven't noticed, but gas? she ain't cheap. So this immediately makes a huge difference in our budget.

Second, for some reason I had told Tom ahead of time I'd share the driving with him. I knew he was really tired and thought it would be nice. We hadn't agreed on a 50/50 split, but I offered to take the middle leg of the journey - about 2 of the 8 total hours on the road - not a terribly generous offer, but more than I'd ever offered before. He happily accepted the opportunity for a little road nap.

I made the offer when I still thought we were taking my car.

My turn was supposed to begin as we got on the PA turnpike. I took the wheel of my sisters car. It's much bigger than mine. Not, you know, the wheel, but... anyway... From the moment I was handed the keys, my body went into full-on muscle awareness. I was tense from head to toe. From my hands - holding on to 11:00 and 2:00 with a death grip - to my fully engaged abs. This is total body driving. I don't really have a good explanation for why I was so tense and upset, but I was. I woke Tom at one point because I was entering a tunnel and I couldn't find the headlights. Yes, I'm that much of a pain in the ass. When I turned the car back over to Tom at the end of my shift I actually had to do a few stretches to cool down before getting back in the passenger seat where I belong.

Tom drove all the way home.