So, into every life, a little shit must fall. I get that. I wish the shit that fell into my life were a little less literal and a little more metaphorical.
A recap of our Christmas Break.
The kids had school up until the Friday before Christmas. Fortunately, M was done with his semester, because coming up that week, I had three class parties, two houses to clean, and four people to pack for a 7 day vacation. It was kinda crazy. I will never been room mom for 2 classes again.
So. Class parties done. Check. Pack. Check. Flight to Miami from Pensacola at 6 AM on Saturday. Miraculously, check. We arrived in Miami ready to party it up with the elderly and their parents on Holland America's luxurious Eurodam for a week.
Our cruise was overwhelmingly good, but not without glitches. The weather was fantastic. Amazing. Glorious. Our cabin was great. After last year's vomit incident, we decided to go with a veranda cabin this year. We kept the door open and the ship's wake made surf sounds and I could watch the little flying fishies playing in/fleeing from the wake. First stop was Grand Turk. Meh. The weather was fine, the water fine, but we had little time to explore. I scooped up some sea glass and headed back to the ship for mojitos and sunbathing sans children.
Second stop, San Juan. It turns out S was too small to go ziplining. Also, turns out San Juan is cerrado on Christmas Day. Not complaining. They still sell Bacardi in bars there, and I helped myself.
Third stop, St. Thomas. As it turns out, I missed my calling, and when I go to St. Thomas I am reminded of this failure to seize my life's destiny. I was meant to be an 18 year old stoner girl with a cute tramp stamp and a rockin' body who was "Coast Guard Certified" to sell rum punch to tourists while steering a catamaran to a reef where their white, pasty asses could swim around for a while and look at the wildlife. M says I lack the qualifications to go back and try to recapture that missed opportunity...also, I think the "reef" where the cat anchors is much like the old submarine ride at Disneyland. When I mentioned this to some of my fellow pasty tourists, one of the men (who must be divorced, widowed by suicide or socially stunted)....(he may have had a brain injury, I hadn't considered brain injury. I hate to be insensitive.) said that I was dating myself by referencing the submarine ride since that wasn't a ride since like the 80s. And THEN I said, are you divorced? Did your wife kill herself? Are you socially incapacitated? OOOH. Wait. Do you have a brain injury? I'm sorry about your brain injury. Quick hint, FYI: you NEVER tell a woman she's dating herself. Ever. Please, tell me about the accident that rendered you unable to filter what you are saying to a strange woman. Also, how the hell do you know what the rides are at Disneyland? You're a middle aged grownup, you big loser.
Fourth stop, Half Moon Cay. This is an "island" owned by the cruise line itself. The weather was spectacular. Unfortunately, our snorkel excursion was canceled due to broken boat. Still. What a day.
We, flew back from Miami. I washed a week's worth of laundry and ironing in a few hours, put it all away and packed for a short two-nighter to Jacksonville for the Gator Bowl.
The Gator Bowl: Northwestern University (trying to win its first Bowl since 1948, despite 10 opportunities) versus Mississippi State.
The Gator Bowl is in Jacksonville, Florida. That's only a 6 1/2 hour drive from here. But Florida is hellaciously wide as well as long, and it's boring as it is long. Every three miles is a billboard commanding me to pray or to not abort my children. Which I hadn't really considered doing 'til I drove through Florida. But they're in like their 90th trimester, so it'd be pretty hard to find a doctor willing to perform the procedure at this point. So, we get to Jacksonville. Insofar as "Jacksonville" can be called "there." It's not really a city, as it is another crowded place in Florida. There is only one city in Florida, and it is Miami. The rest of mainland Florida is a protrusion of land into the Caribbean Sea that God put there to protect the rest of us from hurricanes, flooding, and other natural disasters.
Of course, we couldn't check into our hotel because the Gator Bowl parade was on. Let me try to describe the Gator Bowl parade. Imagine the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade. Now imagine it
sponsored by TJ Maxx. Like instead of floats and beauty queens, there were fire trucks and Ms. Forestry Jacksonville (I wish I were making up that last one). Also, if I were a band member, or in the color guard of Mississippi State, I would seriously start a letter writing campaign to change the LEAST FLATTERING UNIFORMS on the planet. In fact, the color guard of Mississippi State was the only part of the parade that resembled the balloons of the Macy's parade. Mississippi State alums, if you're looking for a meaningful donation, may I suggest facial waxing for the band?
After that 20 minutes 1/4 mile long of pageantry, we checked into our hotel. It was kinda crazy there. The hotel was NU's HQ's, so naturally everyone staying there is a 72 year old retired professional who's just a teensy bit unfamiliar with today's head spinning technology of key cards and Internet reservations. I suspect that next door at the Omni, MSU's HQ, things would be younger, hipper, beer-ier, and you know, more fun. They haven't been waiting more than a half-century for a bowl win.
That night, we took the kids to The Melting Pot for a family-fun New Year's Eve Dinner. Will you remind me not to do family fun things for my kids again, ever? We arrive (a bit harried, after our delayed check-in) in time for our 5:15 reservations. Yes, you read that correctly. My social anxiety prohibited me from calling for reservations, so M did it on the 30th and that's all they had so just shut up.
We sit down to discover that on New Year's, The Melting Pot has only a Prix Fixe menu. For $50 per person. Let me say that S has never in his life, cumulatively, eaten $50 worth of food. So, I ask, apologetically, if there were, by chance, a way, that maybe, there could be a kids' menu? The answer, hooray! is yes, for kids 5 and younger. "Perfect," says I. "We have one who squeaks in that category."
Yes. I lied. Yes. S is 7. But he wouldn't eat anymore than a 5 year old and it was $15 instead of $50 for food that he wasn't going to eat anyway. I know. It wasn't the right thing to do. But, you know what? I said it. I put it out there into the universe knowing that I was being dishonest.
And the universe said, "Suck it, bitch."
Well, actually S said, "But I'm SEVEN, I can't eat off the kids' menu."
Now I'm a lying cheapskate to the waiter. He must have been relieved that 18% tip was built into the prix fixe for the night. Don't I feel like the asshole.
So, I boiled meat for myself in microscopic little portions for $50 on New Year's Eve while the sun was still out. Pure magic.
But, NU in another Bowl Game. A chance for victory! To get the proverbial monkey off our backs! Go 'Cats!
We woke up to a New Year! A beautiful day, full of promise and hope. Except in Jacksonville. You could roll a bowling ball through downtown Jacksonville on New Year's Day. We walked to Jaguar Stadium. We scored on the 4th play! Hooray! We're winning! We're winning! WE WON! History be damned, Pat Fitzgerald has saved the Northwestern Wildcats! It was thrilling, exciting, and I am glad I could be there.
We made it back to Jacksonville's tourist center, "The Landing." I hope it's not the lead indicator of Jacksonville's economic health. The only people there: elated Northwestern fans looking to celebrate with a beer and watch the Rose Bowl on TV, disgruntled State fans looking to douse the loss with a beer and watch the Rose Bowl on TV, homeless people looking for a beer, and cops to separate the beer purchasers from the beer beggars. The only restaurant open is Hooters. All the shops and souvenir kiosks and Dippin' Dots stands are shuttered. In fact they might have only been cardboard facades to make it look like there were shops and kiosks and things to do there. We ate our Hooters, we watched the first quarter of football, and decided to make our way back to the hotel room with the kids who were bored of football (Shut up. I know. They're half Canadian, what do you want from me?)
That's when the fun really started.
S went to sleep at about 4:30. I dozed next to him for a while. At 6 he woke up, looked confusedly at me with unseeing eyes, and barfed all over the bed. Hooters sliders. On the bed. Liquefied.
You have never seen a white girl move so fast as me leaping off that bed.
M handles vomit in the bathroom, I bundle up the bedding and stick it in the hall. I'm on the phone to housekeeping. "We need bedding, towels, the works, STAT."
Meanwhile, vomit is really happening. E races into the bathroom to vomit (he's a bit faster since the vomit episode on the cruise last year.) It's REALLY happening. There's no windows. I crank up the A/C, in an effort to slow the molecules of stink down so they're not assaulting my nose at the speed of 74 degrees.
More vomiting. The housekeeper shows up. She's a delightful Jamaican woman who was the hotel's first soldier in a stunningly good brigade of employees who helped us. Seriously. They were awesome, given a really, really bad situation.
The housekeeper makes the bed, leaves a ton of towels, gets us all ship-shape again. The kids are really suffering. Now the explosive fluids have moved south, and poor S, in an effort to dutifully vomit into the toilet, simultaneously and inadvertently sharts on the floor. This room is ready for the Febreeze challenge.
Of course, the hotel room is the size of a postage stamp, so if you want an idea of the freshness level, go into your closet and take a semi-liquid dump on the floor. I'm struggling not to chain vomit. There's liquid coming out of 4 of the 8 major orifices in the room. Amazingly, the awesome housekeeper has sent up ginger ale, 7Up, and soda crackers for the kids. Which was just unbelievably nice considering that we just absolutely destroyed the olfactory integrity of that room for the next decade.
It's 7 PM, and we're in the midst of a shit storm. M alternately consoles one at the commode while rinsing off the other child in the tub. I'm packing. We will be leaving at first light. Before there are witnesses. What's happened in that bathroom is illegal in 7 states and violates the Geneva Convention.
The kids are up and down all night in a grotesque modern dance of writhing and excreting.
I have NEVER wanted to be home more in my life. EVER. EVER.
The wake up call the next morning is unnecessary. We're walking out the door when the phone rings. After a brief stop at the front desk to praise the awesomeness of the staff, we are in the car, on the road, out of JacksonVILE.
Almost. We got on the wrong road. But we fixed it pretty quick. NOW we're on the road. Out of JacksonVILE.
About half an hour into the long trip home, my stomach cramps. And aches. I turn over the wheel, and spend the next 2 hours moaning in the passenger seat, willing the car to teleport speed.
About 2 hours into the trip, the trip becomes a farce. I wave my hand urgently, M pulls over. I vomit. We continue on. This goes on for the remaining 4 hours. Except for a rest stop at the Florabama border. I'm just saying, if you come to a rest stop at the Florabama border, what I did there has a measurable half life. You should just drive on past it to the BP station.
How was YOUR Christmas Break?
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