It is times like this when I really do wish for a Bitchy Howler Monkey Bold font. I'd write in red. It would be menacing even if kindly written. Or maybe an I Know What You Did Last Summer font. Something. Anything that would assist the mere words in conveying my enormous disappointment and my patience sputtering to a stall. And that my ability to control my temper is circling the drain. Is it possible to sound shrill in an email?
I send Wally an email and take a practical but decidedly pissy tone. Suggest that he seriously shake a tail feather this week, make appearances in my home early and often and finish the job before Friday. I note that my kids will be home the following week with no babysitter - they will have no reason to leave the house and no ability to leave the property. He will be in their way and they in his. Conjure up the mental image of multiple trips to the refrigerator and interruptions to prepare frozen pizzas. In my teeny tiny square kitchen.
Send. And now I need to get serious about the house.
Get Trinket settled. I am leaving for Scott's house and will be gone until Monday evening. She needs new kitty litter, fresh bowls of food, refilled glasses and bowls of water and a few new toys to distract her.
The kids need to unpack and I need to separate their laundry. They need to separate what stays and what goes to Lars. I hate that they have to do this.
The cooler needs to be emptied and extra stuff that Scott can use (and I will not) needs to be placed in a bag for my drive. And placed by the door so I don't forget it and leave it to turn to penicillin before I return.
I mow the lawn. Yank as much of the effing Morning Glory off of its victims and put in a can and then place it in a sunny spot out back so it can dry before Tuesday so none of my garbage men herniate a disk pulling the can from the curb. I weed whack until the spool of twine conveniently runs out.
Make one last lunch for me and the kids, talk and laugh and soak in their sweetness before I have to kiss each of them one last time before we pile into the car so I can return them to Lars.
I shower. Make myself fabulous, snuggle the cat, give the kids each a smooch and a squeeze. I am barely breathing as I drive to Lars' house.
The kids are excited to see the dogs. They are anxious to show Lars their vacation loot. I mirror their enthusiasm on the outside. I am shriveling on the inside.
I've immersed myself in them this week and now it is over. Clearly they have learned to survive the ever swinging pendulum that is our custody agreement with far more grace than I. After all of these years it is still such a tearing away to have them depart for his house.
I wave and smile brightly. I pull away from the curb as they turn to walk away. They do not ever see my lip begin to quiver.
I have 90 minutes on the road to Scott's. I will surely finish my boo hooing by then and be ready to embrace the other wonderful third of the life I could never have imagined. I am so lucky. Why doesn't it always feel that way?
Friday, August 31, 2012
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Houston, We've Got a Problem
I don't really understand.
I understand some things.
I understand that he has several projects at one time. He and his crew are spread out accomplishing various things at different times.
I understand that some things are subbed out and he is at the mercy of their availability.
I understand that my little job has become a money pit and he is now probably in the red and not terribly enthused about finishing it at his own expense.
I also understand that I have spent an astonishing amount of money by anyone's standards to update this kitchen, and it has been like chewing off my own hand from the start.
What I don't understand is how he walks into Charlotte's house with his ponytailed head held high instead of with his tail between his legs when she is acutely aware of what is happening (or not happening) at my house, and he is toiling away on a project at her house.
Granted, her project is zippy and new and hasn't had its first full on disaster yet.
I have had an electrical debacle, dry wall issues, ants, The Amateur Tile Show, damaged materials, played the Who's Going To Get The Faucet game, interior layout issues on par with those faced by NASA, and a healthy debate about whether or not the effing door gets painted. (Of course it gets painted. It is French Vanilla and the entire rest of the trim is Architectural White. The blind can see that that is Just All Wrong).
Charlotte and Jack had a water problem that ruined their beautiful family room, and immediately took the lemons, squeezed them into a glass, dropped in a few ice cubes and ladled in the Jack Daniels. They are not just fixing the family room, they are adding a wet bar and television and redesigning the whole space. (I predict a Super Bowl party...)
Chances are, since the Wally Charlotte sees has a portfolio on her house and projects, when I get random emails and have to ask for things he's committed to and not done), and since the Wally she sees will arrive day or night as if summoned by Bat Phone and I can't even nail down when or if he'll be showing up at all on most days, and the Wally she gets would never leave a blob of white silicon on her plum ceiling, or walk away leaving a door unpainted for weeks because he didn't know if it should be painted and didn't think to call or text while the brush was still in his hand and the paint can open, or leave her without a working sink for three weeks forcing her to eat high fat convenience store meals and ruining her girlish figure, Charlotte and Jack will not have any noticeable disasters.
Because her Wally will never let a SNAFU get her attention.
But my SNAFU has my attention. And now I need to get his.
I understand some things.
I understand that he has several projects at one time. He and his crew are spread out accomplishing various things at different times.
I understand that some things are subbed out and he is at the mercy of their availability.
I understand that my little job has become a money pit and he is now probably in the red and not terribly enthused about finishing it at his own expense.
I also understand that I have spent an astonishing amount of money by anyone's standards to update this kitchen, and it has been like chewing off my own hand from the start.
What I don't understand is how he walks into Charlotte's house with his ponytailed head held high instead of with his tail between his legs when she is acutely aware of what is happening (or not happening) at my house, and he is toiling away on a project at her house.
Granted, her project is zippy and new and hasn't had its first full on disaster yet.
I have had an electrical debacle, dry wall issues, ants, The Amateur Tile Show, damaged materials, played the Who's Going To Get The Faucet game, interior layout issues on par with those faced by NASA, and a healthy debate about whether or not the effing door gets painted. (Of course it gets painted. It is French Vanilla and the entire rest of the trim is Architectural White. The blind can see that that is Just All Wrong).
Charlotte and Jack had a water problem that ruined their beautiful family room, and immediately took the lemons, squeezed them into a glass, dropped in a few ice cubes and ladled in the Jack Daniels. They are not just fixing the family room, they are adding a wet bar and television and redesigning the whole space. (I predict a Super Bowl party...)
Chances are, since the Wally Charlotte sees has a portfolio on her house and projects, when I get random emails and have to ask for things he's committed to and not done), and since the Wally she sees will arrive day or night as if summoned by Bat Phone and I can't even nail down when or if he'll be showing up at all on most days, and the Wally she gets would never leave a blob of white silicon on her plum ceiling, or walk away leaving a door unpainted for weeks because he didn't know if it should be painted and didn't think to call or text while the brush was still in his hand and the paint can open, or leave her without a working sink for three weeks forcing her to eat high fat convenience store meals and ruining her girlish figure, Charlotte and Jack will not have any noticeable disasters.
Because her Wally will never let a SNAFU get her attention.
But my SNAFU has my attention. And now I need to get his.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Home, Sweat Home (Yes, Sweat)
The return to reality is always a little harsh. Even if you are not returning immediately to work.
The custody arrangement Lars and I reluctantly agreed to (when the maniacal Special Master insanely suggested that we both go find apartments and rotate weeks in the house with the kids) is a Friday to Friday arrangement. So we return routinely from vacations on Fridays - allowing for a little decompression and reacclimation before being forcibly returned to the world of screaming voice mails and overly long, pissy emails, and stacks of God Only Knows What covering the surface of the desk that no one but you can possibly manage to deal with.
We pack the car. We chase down the cat (also reluctant to leave) and stuff her against her will into the carrier. We make the drive home. Traffic is light. We are in front of the house in no time.
It is hotter than fried Hell.
My lawn looks like 1313 Mockingbird Lane's.
My shrubs have turned into Jurassic Park.
Other People's recyclables have taken flight and blown down the street to take up residence in my yard.
My neighbor's predatory Morning Glory has spread all over my bushes and trees and is actively choking them. And has the nerve to be cheerfully blooming.
Someone has delivered the paper all week. I don't get the paper delivered. Yet five soggy editions are pasted to the steps.
I sit behind the wheel of the car for a moment trying to find a thought to dwell on that would make me rally to the task of unpacking the car and entering the house. Thoughts of mowing and weeding and pounds of mail squeeze out all the good ones.
But then I have it! My kitchen! I had emailed Wally before I'd gone. Told him we'd be away and so would the cat, so have at it! Work day and night! Work the weekends if you want. Make yourself at home. Hell, sleep over so you get an early start. My house is your house! Rock on.
Of course all of this was code for "My little 5 day project has now turned into 50 days, so your math is a little off. I will maturely keep my inner howler monkey from tearing your face off if you would just be so kind as to finish the damn job so I can stop making coffee and toast in my living room. I will stay out of your way and give you time to focus. Take whatever pill helps you concentrate and get cracking. Please. For the love of all the is holy. Finish. My. Kitchen."
Surely. For sure. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's wrapped up the job and I have noting but a gleaming new kitchen, a crisp, unwrinkled final bill, and my returned house key awaiting me. Those, and the welcoming smell of fresh paint.
I practically fly from the car.
I grab a suitcase and the cat and bark some unpacking orders at the kids. They look at me like I've gone mad on the way home. I turn to Hil. "The kitchen! Let's go see!" And then suddenly she and Pat are hot footing around grabbing what they can and bounding up the front steps.
I fumble with the lock (the locksmith I got when J. went sailing over the edge of reason put new locks on all the doors but this one is upside down and makes me insane) but finally fling the door open.
I spring the cat from her portable jail and spring into the kitchen, trying not to look before I get there. The kids are on my heels.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing has changed.
While we were on vacation, evidently Wally was too. My kitchen is in exactly the same state as when we left. Right down to the note I'd left Wally still taped to the door.
Let the ranting begin.
The custody arrangement Lars and I reluctantly agreed to (when the maniacal Special Master insanely suggested that we both go find apartments and rotate weeks in the house with the kids) is a Friday to Friday arrangement. So we return routinely from vacations on Fridays - allowing for a little decompression and reacclimation before being forcibly returned to the world of screaming voice mails and overly long, pissy emails, and stacks of God Only Knows What covering the surface of the desk that no one but you can possibly manage to deal with.
We pack the car. We chase down the cat (also reluctant to leave) and stuff her against her will into the carrier. We make the drive home. Traffic is light. We are in front of the house in no time.
It is hotter than fried Hell.
My lawn looks like 1313 Mockingbird Lane's.
My shrubs have turned into Jurassic Park.
Other People's recyclables have taken flight and blown down the street to take up residence in my yard.
My neighbor's predatory Morning Glory has spread all over my bushes and trees and is actively choking them. And has the nerve to be cheerfully blooming.
Someone has delivered the paper all week. I don't get the paper delivered. Yet five soggy editions are pasted to the steps.
I sit behind the wheel of the car for a moment trying to find a thought to dwell on that would make me rally to the task of unpacking the car and entering the house. Thoughts of mowing and weeding and pounds of mail squeeze out all the good ones.
But then I have it! My kitchen! I had emailed Wally before I'd gone. Told him we'd be away and so would the cat, so have at it! Work day and night! Work the weekends if you want. Make yourself at home. Hell, sleep over so you get an early start. My house is your house! Rock on.
Of course all of this was code for "My little 5 day project has now turned into 50 days, so your math is a little off. I will maturely keep my inner howler monkey from tearing your face off if you would just be so kind as to finish the damn job so I can stop making coffee and toast in my living room. I will stay out of your way and give you time to focus. Take whatever pill helps you concentrate and get cracking. Please. For the love of all the is holy. Finish. My. Kitchen."
Surely. For sure. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that he's wrapped up the job and I have noting but a gleaming new kitchen, a crisp, unwrinkled final bill, and my returned house key awaiting me. Those, and the welcoming smell of fresh paint.
I practically fly from the car.
I grab a suitcase and the cat and bark some unpacking orders at the kids. They look at me like I've gone mad on the way home. I turn to Hil. "The kitchen! Let's go see!" And then suddenly she and Pat are hot footing around grabbing what they can and bounding up the front steps.
I fumble with the lock (the locksmith I got when J. went sailing over the edge of reason put new locks on all the doors but this one is upside down and makes me insane) but finally fling the door open.
I spring the cat from her portable jail and spring into the kitchen, trying not to look before I get there. The kids are on my heels.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing has changed.
While we were on vacation, evidently Wally was too. My kitchen is in exactly the same state as when we left. Right down to the note I'd left Wally still taped to the door.
Let the ranting begin.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Please Hold While We Restart Your Life
The next few days are more business than pleasure. School shopping. Packing to leave. Cleaning up after ourselves so Charlotte and Jack are not sorry they invited us.
On the morning we are to leave, Hil is sad. Sad that our time in this magical place has again come to an end. Sad that our time together is over. Sad that they need to return to Lars' house to clean the house themselves in preparation for her party.
I tell her I am sad, too. That I will miss her and Pat terribly. That I wish our vacation could go on forever. That I wish we could return to the cottage week after week, soaking up the magic of the place. Putting fires in the fireplace. Swinging on the porch swings. Sharing stories and board games on the porch.
Hil seems genuinely sad for me. I tell her not to be. I have a consolation prize. I have Scott to look forward to.
"What is a "consolation prize?" she asks.
I tell her it is a prize for playing the game. Not the jackpot but something to make you feel better when you've lost the big prize. A nice parting gift, as they say. Like when you don't win the new car but they give you some movie tickets.
Hil walks away satisfied with the answer. But later, when she's pulled the sheets from her bed so that I can dress it again, she says, "Mom, I don't think Scott is a consolation prize." She is very serious.
"No?" I say. "Why not."
"He's a really good prize," she says. And he is. He's makes leaving them liveable. I look forward to time with him instead of dreading time without the kids.
I smile at her and tell her that he is of course, a very good prize, really a jackpot himself, but nothing is better than time with her and Pat. The only thing I can think of that could be a bigger jackpot would be all of us together like we had been earlier in the week.
She smiles. "Yep. That would be the really big prize. The lottery."
And truth be told, that would be, but that is a long way off. I am bound to my cute little home town by a custody agreement and a money-grubbing, taker ex-husband. Any move I'd make to an address even one foot outside of the township we reside in would precipitate a most unpleasant trip to court to have the children removed from my home to Lars' home on a full time basis, with cha-ching! a bigger child support payment with which to line Lars' wallet and subsidize his fast-food, movie, alcohol and drug habits. How nice for everyone.
And Scott, however amenable to a move to my house, would not forcibly uproot his girls against their will. It had not gone over well when their mother had done it. And no one wants to send another clear and resonating message that the love of one's life might at any time make you consider compromising your commitments to your kids and make decisions that aren't necessarily wildly appealing to them. And honestly, who needs the drama? Besides, I'd forever feel guilty. About the girls and about asking Scott to leave the beach town he clearly loves. Bad karma. We'd move in together and somebody would instantly get hit by a bus.
So I am patient. I enjoy my life and try not to wish it away. I smile politely when someone brightly but naively refers to "all that 'me' time" as something delightful. I clean my house and mow my lawn. Wake up, go to work, go to bed. All the while putting one foot obediently in front of the other. But "me" time is something I have no shortage of.
I always have something to look forward to, but really, when I am not with the kids, and not with Scott, my life really is on hold. But I try to enjoy the nice background music until they return.
On the morning we are to leave, Hil is sad. Sad that our time in this magical place has again come to an end. Sad that our time together is over. Sad that they need to return to Lars' house to clean the house themselves in preparation for her party.
I tell her I am sad, too. That I will miss her and Pat terribly. That I wish our vacation could go on forever. That I wish we could return to the cottage week after week, soaking up the magic of the place. Putting fires in the fireplace. Swinging on the porch swings. Sharing stories and board games on the porch.
Hil seems genuinely sad for me. I tell her not to be. I have a consolation prize. I have Scott to look forward to.
"What is a "consolation prize?" she asks.
I tell her it is a prize for playing the game. Not the jackpot but something to make you feel better when you've lost the big prize. A nice parting gift, as they say. Like when you don't win the new car but they give you some movie tickets.
Hil walks away satisfied with the answer. But later, when she's pulled the sheets from her bed so that I can dress it again, she says, "Mom, I don't think Scott is a consolation prize." She is very serious.
"No?" I say. "Why not."
"He's a really good prize," she says. And he is. He's makes leaving them liveable. I look forward to time with him instead of dreading time without the kids.
I smile at her and tell her that he is of course, a very good prize, really a jackpot himself, but nothing is better than time with her and Pat. The only thing I can think of that could be a bigger jackpot would be all of us together like we had been earlier in the week.
She smiles. "Yep. That would be the really big prize. The lottery."
And truth be told, that would be, but that is a long way off. I am bound to my cute little home town by a custody agreement and a money-grubbing, taker ex-husband. Any move I'd make to an address even one foot outside of the township we reside in would precipitate a most unpleasant trip to court to have the children removed from my home to Lars' home on a full time basis, with cha-ching! a bigger child support payment with which to line Lars' wallet and subsidize his fast-food, movie, alcohol and drug habits. How nice for everyone.
And Scott, however amenable to a move to my house, would not forcibly uproot his girls against their will. It had not gone over well when their mother had done it. And no one wants to send another clear and resonating message that the love of one's life might at any time make you consider compromising your commitments to your kids and make decisions that aren't necessarily wildly appealing to them. And honestly, who needs the drama? Besides, I'd forever feel guilty. About the girls and about asking Scott to leave the beach town he clearly loves. Bad karma. We'd move in together and somebody would instantly get hit by a bus.
So I am patient. I enjoy my life and try not to wish it away. I smile politely when someone brightly but naively refers to "all that 'me' time" as something delightful. I clean my house and mow my lawn. Wake up, go to work, go to bed. All the while putting one foot obediently in front of the other. But "me" time is something I have no shortage of.
I always have something to look forward to, but really, when I am not with the kids, and not with Scott, my life really is on hold. But I try to enjoy the nice background music until they return.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Even the Sun Sets in Paradise
The kids and I finish the day with rides on the Wild Mouse, dinner, a show that fancies itself the next Glee, and a little bit of shopping. I also throw in a few hairy eyeball glares at line jumpers who are old enough to know better, just to round out the experience.
At the end of the day, as they are closing down rides, locking pools, turning on lights and announcing when the park will close, the kids and I make our way to the exit. Thankfully we had found great parking not far from the gate.
What wasn't so great was the fact that the nearest exit had been closed and we had to make a giant loop around the park like we had when we'd arrived. Only now it is dark, I am tired, my eyes weary. I have no idea where I am going.
I think we've already established what fun that is for me and the people who have the misfortune of being in the car with me.
After meandering through town for 10 minutes and deciding that the compass in my car is telling me I've left the state, I ask Pat to commandeer the GPS on my phone. It does not talk, but at least he can read the directions to me and tell me if the little blue dot wavers from its path on the way to the little red blinking dot.
I already have the darn thing programmed with Charlotte and Jack's addresses. God only knows where I'll be when I need to make my way there like a homing pigeon because of some social crisis.
Pat pushes the button and we try to figure out how to read the darn thing. It is harder than it looks. Pat is convinced I need to go straight. I am convinced I need to make a left. The GPS is not sure.
While we are chatting, Hil's phone rings. It is Lars. It is the third time in an hour that he's called. I can only begin to guess at how many times he's harassed Pat while we've been separated in the park. I decide not to ask. He will never learn to let the kids enjoy life without him. It's almost as if he's afraid they'll enjoy it too much, so he has to reach out and piss all over anything fun that they do. Some poeple are just assholes.
And as if he needed to remind us of that fact, I can tell from Hil's side of the conversation that he is grilling her. He evidently can hear Pat's voice and must be wondering who is in the car with us. I can hear her getting impatient. She is repeating, "It's just us, Dad. Me and Mom and Pat." And then explaining, "Pat is reading the directions to her. That's who you hear."
I have been divorced for six years. Why on Earth does he need to know who is in the car with us, and why is it a matter of even the remotest curiosity?
I want to screech at him. I wish Scott were in the car so I could hand him the phone and he could tell him to scratch his ass and leave me alone. I wish Hil would say something like, "What is your hangup, Dad? It doesn't matter if we have a whole bus load of people crammed in the damn car! Mom is in charge, not you! Learn to live with it!"
But really I am sure he is trying to figure out if Scott or Scott and his girls are on vacation with us. Like it is any of his business to even let the thought flicker through his atrophied little brain.
- We are divorced. I can date, marry, and certainly vacation with anyone I damn please. It is just that much better that it is someone as handsome and flawless when compared with Lars.
- And, ahem, Lars, you are getting married to Liza, Part Deux. You have no right to be jealous if that is what you are, or judgemental. And I don't recall you asking my opinion before Liza moved in with her yoga mat and fat little dog, so my vacation should not even make the list of things to question.
- My life is my life to lead. If I want to have scores of men in and out of it, so be it. You should be so lucky.
- We were at an amusement park, not a beer festival. No one has been irresponsibly exposed to anything that will scar them for life (well maybe that one rollercoaster is a question mark for now.)
The nerve of him just galls me. The fact that he asks the children to be his moles makes me want to twist his testicles off. I actually day dream about setting his hair on fire.
But Pat is telling me to turn into a corn field and I need to focus. Hil manages to end the conversation without much further badgering.
We make our way home, and into the showers. I text Scott to let him know we are safe at home and the cat has not escaped and I have secretly imagined 10 different ways to bludgeon Lars on the way home and why. I pour a G&T and place a few more puzzle peices in place before kissing my tired babies goodnight and climbing into bed.
Tomorrow we will rise and shine and venture out to the outlets to go back to school shopping. It is part of the winding down of vacation with thoughts of returning to school. The vacation is ending. The summer is ending. As they say, even the sun sets in Paradise.
At the end of the day, as they are closing down rides, locking pools, turning on lights and announcing when the park will close, the kids and I make our way to the exit. Thankfully we had found great parking not far from the gate.
What wasn't so great was the fact that the nearest exit had been closed and we had to make a giant loop around the park like we had when we'd arrived. Only now it is dark, I am tired, my eyes weary. I have no idea where I am going.
I think we've already established what fun that is for me and the people who have the misfortune of being in the car with me.
After meandering through town for 10 minutes and deciding that the compass in my car is telling me I've left the state, I ask Pat to commandeer the GPS on my phone. It does not talk, but at least he can read the directions to me and tell me if the little blue dot wavers from its path on the way to the little red blinking dot.
I already have the darn thing programmed with Charlotte and Jack's addresses. God only knows where I'll be when I need to make my way there like a homing pigeon because of some social crisis.
Pat pushes the button and we try to figure out how to read the darn thing. It is harder than it looks. Pat is convinced I need to go straight. I am convinced I need to make a left. The GPS is not sure.
While we are chatting, Hil's phone rings. It is Lars. It is the third time in an hour that he's called. I can only begin to guess at how many times he's harassed Pat while we've been separated in the park. I decide not to ask. He will never learn to let the kids enjoy life without him. It's almost as if he's afraid they'll enjoy it too much, so he has to reach out and piss all over anything fun that they do. Some poeple are just assholes.
And as if he needed to remind us of that fact, I can tell from Hil's side of the conversation that he is grilling her. He evidently can hear Pat's voice and must be wondering who is in the car with us. I can hear her getting impatient. She is repeating, "It's just us, Dad. Me and Mom and Pat." And then explaining, "Pat is reading the directions to her. That's who you hear."
I have been divorced for six years. Why on Earth does he need to know who is in the car with us, and why is it a matter of even the remotest curiosity?
I want to screech at him. I wish Scott were in the car so I could hand him the phone and he could tell him to scratch his ass and leave me alone. I wish Hil would say something like, "What is your hangup, Dad? It doesn't matter if we have a whole bus load of people crammed in the damn car! Mom is in charge, not you! Learn to live with it!"
But really I am sure he is trying to figure out if Scott or Scott and his girls are on vacation with us. Like it is any of his business to even let the thought flicker through his atrophied little brain.
- We are divorced. I can date, marry, and certainly vacation with anyone I damn please. It is just that much better that it is someone as handsome and flawless when compared with Lars.
- And, ahem, Lars, you are getting married to Liza, Part Deux. You have no right to be jealous if that is what you are, or judgemental. And I don't recall you asking my opinion before Liza moved in with her yoga mat and fat little dog, so my vacation should not even make the list of things to question.
- My life is my life to lead. If I want to have scores of men in and out of it, so be it. You should be so lucky.
- We were at an amusement park, not a beer festival. No one has been irresponsibly exposed to anything that will scar them for life (well maybe that one rollercoaster is a question mark for now.)
The nerve of him just galls me. The fact that he asks the children to be his moles makes me want to twist his testicles off. I actually day dream about setting his hair on fire.
But Pat is telling me to turn into a corn field and I need to focus. Hil manages to end the conversation without much further badgering.
We make our way home, and into the showers. I text Scott to let him know we are safe at home and the cat has not escaped and I have secretly imagined 10 different ways to bludgeon Lars on the way home and why. I pour a G&T and place a few more puzzle peices in place before kissing my tired babies goodnight and climbing into bed.
Tomorrow we will rise and shine and venture out to the outlets to go back to school shopping. It is part of the winding down of vacation with thoughts of returning to school. The vacation is ending. The summer is ending. As they say, even the sun sets in Paradise.
Friday, August 24, 2012
The Shrill of It All
The latest roller coaster has warning signs all over. Do not board if you are not tall enough, not feeling well, suffer from emotional disorders, have heart trouble, might be pregnant, have taken an erectile dysfunction drug, suffer from hysterical fits, have TMJ, plates in your head, had a lung collapse recently, suffer from migraines, are a little bit hungry, have pigeon toes, a weak chin, didn't sleep well last night, or have issues with your mother, or bad credit.
It is amazing how long the line is.
Seriously. It even warns you that the contents of your pockets, no matter how deep the pocket, will be separated from you by the G-force and will be irretrievably lost, probably clunk someone on the head rendering them unconscious, and BTW, the park is not responsible for your damn iPhone.
Hil and I wait in line and try to guess at what the coaster is like from the faces of the riders walking limply from the ride. It is hard to tell. Some seem exhilarated. Some are pale and shaking. Some are laughing and high-five-ing.
We look at the photo booth at the pictures snapped at the perfect spot in the monstrous first drop. The people all seem to be doing the customary screaming their heads off. But there is something odd.
The riders are seated in rows of four, and in every picture, the people on the ends of the rows seem, well, crooked. Limp. Like floppy little babies strapped too loosely into car seats by neurotic mothers who do not want to squish them, even though a little moderate squishing would save their lives in a car crash.
It makes me wonder. But only for a few minutes.
Soon, Hil and I are in the warm up circle. Next to board. She is panicking.
I ask her what she is afraid of. What is the worst that could happen?
She replies, very earnestly, that we could die.
Concealing my laughter I explain that at least a thousand people have ridden this very ride just today, and so far no one has left on a stretcher or in a body bag, so odds are, we won't either.
We board. She panics that I am on the end and not in the middle with her. But it is the way the seating works. She freaks out momentarily when I leave the seat to take our shoes to be stored while we ride, at the suggestion of the ride attendant. She is suddenly convinced that something awful is about to happen to our feet. I tell her there is nothing to worry about, at least she has a floor under her feet. Being on the end, my feet are dangling. I have to admit it is a little unnerving.
And she is panicking that she can't secure her lap bar. Frantic that the ride will take off and she'll be on the loose. No such luck, the same attendant who helped me ditch our shoes has made sure that she is safe in her moorings.
Good thing. The lap bar is the only thing restraining you in the seat. Your upper body is left to thrash and flail at the whims of the ride.
And then we are off. A 26 feet per second rise, followed by a forceful 75 mph astonishingly steep straight drop that twists sharply at the bottom to rise dramatically at the end only to corkscrew Earthward before flying high into a loop.
Hil is screaming things that can't be repeated in polite company. I am trying to remain in my seat. I am not so much thrilled by the thrill ride as I am driven to survive it. It is like being in a bad car accident.
It finally screeches to a halt. Hil is sobbing. I feel like I have been beaten about the head and torso. Neither of us is walking very steadily.
We descend the stairs together. I am holding Hil close and convincing her that she did actually live and is not actually injured (though I am not sure the same can be said for me). We stop at the photo booth and immediately burst into laughter.
We will not be purchasing this photo either. In the picture, snapped at precisely the right moment, Hil is contorting her face in horror movie fashion. You can almost hear the screaming.
I am probably screaming too, but you'd never know.
Being on the end, feet dangling, and nothing to stabilize myself, the force of the drop and the sharp turn had evidently thrashed me wildly to one side. Only my legs and torso are in the picture. My shoulders and entire head are outside of the frame. I am headless. It is hilarious.
Hil is laughing through tears. I think we'll survive long enough to tell the tale to Pat. We decide what we need is dinner, and maybe something gooey for dessert before we decide how to close out the evening. We will be here from gate open to gate closed, and I want the kids to soak in every moment.
It is amazing how long the line is.
Seriously. It even warns you that the contents of your pockets, no matter how deep the pocket, will be separated from you by the G-force and will be irretrievably lost, probably clunk someone on the head rendering them unconscious, and BTW, the park is not responsible for your damn iPhone.
Hil and I wait in line and try to guess at what the coaster is like from the faces of the riders walking limply from the ride. It is hard to tell. Some seem exhilarated. Some are pale and shaking. Some are laughing and high-five-ing.
We look at the photo booth at the pictures snapped at the perfect spot in the monstrous first drop. The people all seem to be doing the customary screaming their heads off. But there is something odd.
The riders are seated in rows of four, and in every picture, the people on the ends of the rows seem, well, crooked. Limp. Like floppy little babies strapped too loosely into car seats by neurotic mothers who do not want to squish them, even though a little moderate squishing would save their lives in a car crash.
It makes me wonder. But only for a few minutes.
Soon, Hil and I are in the warm up circle. Next to board. She is panicking.
I ask her what she is afraid of. What is the worst that could happen?
She replies, very earnestly, that we could die.
Concealing my laughter I explain that at least a thousand people have ridden this very ride just today, and so far no one has left on a stretcher or in a body bag, so odds are, we won't either.
We board. She panics that I am on the end and not in the middle with her. But it is the way the seating works. She freaks out momentarily when I leave the seat to take our shoes to be stored while we ride, at the suggestion of the ride attendant. She is suddenly convinced that something awful is about to happen to our feet. I tell her there is nothing to worry about, at least she has a floor under her feet. Being on the end, my feet are dangling. I have to admit it is a little unnerving.
And she is panicking that she can't secure her lap bar. Frantic that the ride will take off and she'll be on the loose. No such luck, the same attendant who helped me ditch our shoes has made sure that she is safe in her moorings.
Good thing. The lap bar is the only thing restraining you in the seat. Your upper body is left to thrash and flail at the whims of the ride.
And then we are off. A 26 feet per second rise, followed by a forceful 75 mph astonishingly steep straight drop that twists sharply at the bottom to rise dramatically at the end only to corkscrew Earthward before flying high into a loop.
Hil is screaming things that can't be repeated in polite company. I am trying to remain in my seat. I am not so much thrilled by the thrill ride as I am driven to survive it. It is like being in a bad car accident.
It finally screeches to a halt. Hil is sobbing. I feel like I have been beaten about the head and torso. Neither of us is walking very steadily.
We descend the stairs together. I am holding Hil close and convincing her that she did actually live and is not actually injured (though I am not sure the same can be said for me). We stop at the photo booth and immediately burst into laughter.
We will not be purchasing this photo either. In the picture, snapped at precisely the right moment, Hil is contorting her face in horror movie fashion. You can almost hear the screaming.
I am probably screaming too, but you'd never know.
Being on the end, feet dangling, and nothing to stabilize myself, the force of the drop and the sharp turn had evidently thrashed me wildly to one side. Only my legs and torso are in the picture. My shoulders and entire head are outside of the frame. I am headless. It is hilarious.
Hil is laughing through tears. I think we'll survive long enough to tell the tale to Pat. We decide what we need is dinner, and maybe something gooey for dessert before we decide how to close out the evening. We will be here from gate open to gate closed, and I want the kids to soak in every moment.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Shake, Rattle and Roll
After battling the socially obtuse chair stealer at the Wave Pool, the kids and I made our way to the Over Priced Locker area to get our dry clothes. Time to ditch the flip flops and bathing suits in favor of real clothes for serious fun.
This is where our little family of three struggles. Hil is a daredevil thrill seeking roller coaster rider and Pat is not about to risk life and limb and get the crap scared out of him and try to call it "fun." I will go on anything Hil will, and rather enjoy the thrill rides, in spite of having a wicked case of vertigo. But we have to split up. And that makes me panic.
There are a few rides we will go on together. The Sky Lift, which does not exactly thrill anyone but saves you lots of walking from one side of the park to the other. The Old Fashion Race Way - where the Model Ts and the Speedsters race at speeds that would not threaten to give you whip lash even if you ran into something, like a squirrel. The Falcon, which flings you on your side as it spins you around and around and raises you high on a post swinging in the breeze making you think you are going to jettison off across the food court rooftop any minute. It is not kind to my vertigo but if I manage to stay focused only on the tail feathers of falcon in front of me, I will not lose my bearings. Or my overpriced lunch.
Oddly, none of the other rides that fling you about at neck breaking speeds really tamper with my sense of direction and uprightness, which is always a possibility with vertigo. The rides that really activate it are not really rides at all. What makes me practically fall down to the point of being led by the hand by my children like a little old lady is the rotating floor you step on to to board your boat for the Log Flume. People must think I am insane.
But beyond these rides, my children have no intersecting interests to speak of. Pat wants to play arcade games and try to win a giant stuffed SpongeBob. Hil wants to get scared to the point of tears on thrill rides. I just want to make everyone happy to have come and not have to call an Amber alert because we get separated for too long.
So I am torn. Hil can't ride by herself. And Pat doesn't exactly love the idea of spending time alone at the arcade while we wait in line at the Big Attractions. One more plight of the single parent family. At least this one is only about compromises at the damn amusement park.
So we compromise. Spend some time in each other's camps. Take a walk through the zoo section together. I leave Pat for a bit with his cell phone and return to him immediately after the dizzying thrill ride with Hil.
After getting Pat settled at the arcade with money and a few games he is jonesing to play, Hil and I take off for the high speed, steep drop coaster we ventured on last year when she was first tall enough to board. They take a photo of your car at the scariest part of the drop, when you are most likely to be screaming and contorting your face. We'd wanted to buy our picture last year, but two obnoxious girls traveling with their father had made an obscene gesture at the camera and the park has a strict rule about printing those pictures. Those girls had ruined it for everyone in our car. I remember seeing them later and hissing at them (it had been a long day....)
Today we go to board and the wait is not too long. We'd been told an hour, it was 28 minutes. We get the middle car, second set of seats. We are all set. Lady luck is being good to us. We'll be back with Pat in no time.
The climb is nervewracking. The drop is heart stopping. The twists and turns and upside down plummets are disorienting. It is a blast.
When it is all over, Hil and I race to the photo booth. Even as we descend the stairs on wobbly legs I am pulling out my money. We search the board and find our photo.
There I am screaming my head off.
And I presume Hil is too. But we'll never know.
Because the nice gentleman in front of Hil, riding with his daughter too, rode the whole ride proudly extending his arms over his head. And at the moment the picture was snapped, his extended hand was squarely in front of Hil's pretty face. If not for her unmistakably platinum curls, I'd never know it was her.
She's disappointed, but we laugh about it on our way to check in with Pat and make our way to the Big Ride. The newest. The latest and greatest. Already a legend in its first season. Rumored to leave riders in tears if not in traction.
I feel like I am heading to a gun fight with the odds against me.
This is where our little family of three struggles. Hil is a daredevil thrill seeking roller coaster rider and Pat is not about to risk life and limb and get the crap scared out of him and try to call it "fun." I will go on anything Hil will, and rather enjoy the thrill rides, in spite of having a wicked case of vertigo. But we have to split up. And that makes me panic.
There are a few rides we will go on together. The Sky Lift, which does not exactly thrill anyone but saves you lots of walking from one side of the park to the other. The Old Fashion Race Way - where the Model Ts and the Speedsters race at speeds that would not threaten to give you whip lash even if you ran into something, like a squirrel. The Falcon, which flings you on your side as it spins you around and around and raises you high on a post swinging in the breeze making you think you are going to jettison off across the food court rooftop any minute. It is not kind to my vertigo but if I manage to stay focused only on the tail feathers of falcon in front of me, I will not lose my bearings. Or my overpriced lunch.
Oddly, none of the other rides that fling you about at neck breaking speeds really tamper with my sense of direction and uprightness, which is always a possibility with vertigo. The rides that really activate it are not really rides at all. What makes me practically fall down to the point of being led by the hand by my children like a little old lady is the rotating floor you step on to to board your boat for the Log Flume. People must think I am insane.
But beyond these rides, my children have no intersecting interests to speak of. Pat wants to play arcade games and try to win a giant stuffed SpongeBob. Hil wants to get scared to the point of tears on thrill rides. I just want to make everyone happy to have come and not have to call an Amber alert because we get separated for too long.
So I am torn. Hil can't ride by herself. And Pat doesn't exactly love the idea of spending time alone at the arcade while we wait in line at the Big Attractions. One more plight of the single parent family. At least this one is only about compromises at the damn amusement park.
So we compromise. Spend some time in each other's camps. Take a walk through the zoo section together. I leave Pat for a bit with his cell phone and return to him immediately after the dizzying thrill ride with Hil.
After getting Pat settled at the arcade with money and a few games he is jonesing to play, Hil and I take off for the high speed, steep drop coaster we ventured on last year when she was first tall enough to board. They take a photo of your car at the scariest part of the drop, when you are most likely to be screaming and contorting your face. We'd wanted to buy our picture last year, but two obnoxious girls traveling with their father had made an obscene gesture at the camera and the park has a strict rule about printing those pictures. Those girls had ruined it for everyone in our car. I remember seeing them later and hissing at them (it had been a long day....)
Today we go to board and the wait is not too long. We'd been told an hour, it was 28 minutes. We get the middle car, second set of seats. We are all set. Lady luck is being good to us. We'll be back with Pat in no time.
The climb is nervewracking. The drop is heart stopping. The twists and turns and upside down plummets are disorienting. It is a blast.
When it is all over, Hil and I race to the photo booth. Even as we descend the stairs on wobbly legs I am pulling out my money. We search the board and find our photo.
There I am screaming my head off.
And I presume Hil is too. But we'll never know.
Because the nice gentleman in front of Hil, riding with his daughter too, rode the whole ride proudly extending his arms over his head. And at the moment the picture was snapped, his extended hand was squarely in front of Hil's pretty face. If not for her unmistakably platinum curls, I'd never know it was her.
She's disappointed, but we laugh about it on our way to check in with Pat and make our way to the Big Ride. The newest. The latest and greatest. Already a legend in its first season. Rumored to leave riders in tears if not in traction.
I feel like I am heading to a gun fight with the odds against me.
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