Dear GPS (a.k.a. Bitch),
This relationship isn't working. Today you had me running around in circles. I knew the path I was on was right, yet I doubted my own judgment and followed your direction. I can't help but feel disappointed.
It's not just that. Every time I go my own way -- and you don't agree with what I'm doing -- I feel like you mock me. You scream the same thing over and over, trying to get me to turn around and follow you. Can I never do anything right in your eyes?
Tonight was the last straw. I just don't understand why you would tell me to go the wrong way down a one-way-street. I listened to you. I followed you. You led me astray.
I'm afraid you're trying to kill me.
I hate to tell you this way, but I'm leaving you for Map. We've been sneaking around behind your back for a while now. I think we're made for each other. Map makes me feel more confident, and has NEVER let me down like you have. I'm taking the girls with me, but am sure they'll want to see you again soon.
I won't lie -- I still have feelings for you. Maybe down the road we can work things out. But you need to get your shit together. I'm not putting up with this nonsense anymore.
Yours truly,
Amy
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Packing ... Unpacking ... Packing
A brief post to demonstrate the ridiculousness of the load we're carrying. It's in cupcake format as a tribute to the deliciousness at Hey, Cupcake in Austin.
Step One ... The wrapper, otherwise known as a Toyota Rav4:
Step Two ... The Cake, red velvet in honor of Texas:
Step Three ... The frosting, but just so you know -- there's nothing SWEET about carrying this crap back and forth from car to hotel every day! I won't even mention the stuff in the back seat.
Now that we're packed, a look at the weather report from aforementioned Hey, Cupcake:
Step One ... The wrapper, otherwise known as a Toyota Rav4:
Step Two ... The Cake, red velvet in honor of Texas:
Step Three ... The frosting, but just so you know -- there's nothing SWEET about carrying this crap back and forth from car to hotel every day! I won't even mention the stuff in the back seat.
Now that we're packed, a look at the weather report from aforementioned Hey, Cupcake:
Monday, August 31, 2009
A Day of Follies
The elevator on our floor wasn't working last night. That meant Grandma had to hoof it down the stairs from another elevator on this split-floor building. It's still not working this morning. That means another trip for her UP the stairs, as well as Mom and I with all the luggage. Have I mentioned how much luggage we have? What's really irritating is that I specifically requested an accessible room. Thankfully, we're only an hour late shipping out.
As we're getting on the road, the GPS tells us to go right when the sign for 10 West toward Baton Rouge is on the left. Never trust a GPS. I had to beat this particular system into submission on Day One, and I can tell you -- it wasn't pretty. Eventually, I made her my bitch. But I've not had the opportunity to straightened her out yet this morning.
So Grandma tells me, "She's your bitch, you slap her!"
My sweet little white-haired ever-shrinking angelic grandmother just said the word "bitch". I am dumbfounded. She just looks so ... innocent. Then Mom points out that she's also encouraging violence. It's all so out of character. The old lady is laughing maniacally at herself.
Five minutes later we're passing a big cemetery on the right and both the girls marvel at how big it is. I say it's just because it's above ground, but then see and point out another cemetery to our left. Mom looks ... with the car. We narrowly escape death, and I find it ironic that Grandma is now saying a quick prayer of thanks with the same mouth she swore out of minutes ago.
It's 8:00 am. Too early for a bloody mary?
We get into a political discussion. This is the arena in which our viewpoints literally duel to the death. They have very strong opinions about President Obama, health care, and the topic of discussion now -- immigration. I'll spare you the details, but leave you with the spin off of this conversation. Grandma says she has no desire to leave the USA because she lives in a great country. I love this country, too, though believe people who travel are more in tune with reality. They see the world through a different lens. Mom travels, too, but has no desire to see the colorful and culturally rich places I want to go, like Morocco and Thailand.
Still, we do both like travel -- and it's a good thing to share in common. Mom says we're like George. I say, Costanza? Frankly not seeing the correlation. She means George Bailey from "It's a Wonderful Life". She says he wanted to see the world. Ok ...I'll buy that. I want stamps in my passport like he wanted stickers on his luggage from around the world. I love that movie. I watched it on my first dtae with my boyfriend, Eric. He's trying to lasso the moon for me in the form of building the website. It's great, isn't it?
After a quick potty break, I get back in the car and Grandma says she needs to register a complaint. Mom flipped her off. She said she was only helping her by pointing out every little speck of bug guts she was missing as she cleaned the window. We pull back onto the road and Mom is yelling at other drivers in minutes. I think we all need a nap.
We drive about two hours out of our way to see the town of New Iberia so my Mom can see where the books she adores by author James Lee Burke are set. It's total back country Louisiana. Small towns ... farmers plowing fields ... cows dotting the roadside. I imagine it's what travel was like fifty years ago before highways made scenic drives a thing of the past. We pass a few donkeys laying down in a field. My Mom wonders if it means it will rain. Grandmas says it means they're just tired.
At 12:52, we hit out first 1,00 miles. A few hundred later, we roll into Round Rock where my Mom's friend Bunny lives. We're crashing at her place tonight. She's darling and has the cutests coon dogs you ever did see. And three cats.
Did I mention how allergic I am to cats?
We're grateful for the place to stay, so I load up on allergy meds and we head into Austin for dinner at Stubb's. Fried okra, braised beef, ribs and mac'n'cheese. This place is famous for being a hang out for rising stars like Joe Ely, Willie Nelson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Muddy Waters and Johnny Cash. Click here to check out the story on NPR that inspired this waypoint.
We're too tired to actually go out, and I'm unsure that much is going on Monday night. There's also no cupcake places open (they are a staple here), so we head back to the ranch. So it sounds hokey -- but it IS a ranch-style house.
Before dinner, Mom realizes she has a credit card missing. She cancels it. She finds it.
As I get undressed, I realize I've lost an earring. I cancel caring and go to sleep.
As we're getting on the road, the GPS tells us to go right when the sign for 10 West toward Baton Rouge is on the left. Never trust a GPS. I had to beat this particular system into submission on Day One, and I can tell you -- it wasn't pretty. Eventually, I made her my bitch. But I've not had the opportunity to straightened her out yet this morning.
So Grandma tells me, "She's your bitch, you slap her!"
My sweet little white-haired ever-shrinking angelic grandmother just said the word "bitch". I am dumbfounded. She just looks so ... innocent. Then Mom points out that she's also encouraging violence. It's all so out of character. The old lady is laughing maniacally at herself.
Five minutes later we're passing a big cemetery on the right and both the girls marvel at how big it is. I say it's just because it's above ground, but then see and point out another cemetery to our left. Mom looks ... with the car. We narrowly escape death, and I find it ironic that Grandma is now saying a quick prayer of thanks with the same mouth she swore out of minutes ago.
It's 8:00 am. Too early for a bloody mary?
We get into a political discussion. This is the arena in which our viewpoints literally duel to the death. They have very strong opinions about President Obama, health care, and the topic of discussion now -- immigration. I'll spare you the details, but leave you with the spin off of this conversation. Grandma says she has no desire to leave the USA because she lives in a great country. I love this country, too, though believe people who travel are more in tune with reality. They see the world through a different lens. Mom travels, too, but has no desire to see the colorful and culturally rich places I want to go, like Morocco and Thailand.
Still, we do both like travel -- and it's a good thing to share in common. Mom says we're like George. I say, Costanza? Frankly not seeing the correlation. She means George Bailey from "It's a Wonderful Life". She says he wanted to see the world. Ok ...I'll buy that. I want stamps in my passport like he wanted stickers on his luggage from around the world. I love that movie. I watched it on my first dtae with my boyfriend, Eric. He's trying to lasso the moon for me in the form of building the website. It's great, isn't it?
After a quick potty break, I get back in the car and Grandma says she needs to register a complaint. Mom flipped her off. She said she was only helping her by pointing out every little speck of bug guts she was missing as she cleaned the window. We pull back onto the road and Mom is yelling at other drivers in minutes. I think we all need a nap.
We drive about two hours out of our way to see the town of New Iberia so my Mom can see where the books she adores by author James Lee Burke are set. It's total back country Louisiana. Small towns ... farmers plowing fields ... cows dotting the roadside. I imagine it's what travel was like fifty years ago before highways made scenic drives a thing of the past. We pass a few donkeys laying down in a field. My Mom wonders if it means it will rain. Grandmas says it means they're just tired.
At 12:52, we hit out first 1,00 miles. A few hundred later, we roll into Round Rock where my Mom's friend Bunny lives. We're crashing at her place tonight. She's darling and has the cutests coon dogs you ever did see. And three cats.
Did I mention how allergic I am to cats?
We're grateful for the place to stay, so I load up on allergy meds and we head into Austin for dinner at Stubb's. Fried okra, braised beef, ribs and mac'n'cheese. This place is famous for being a hang out for rising stars like Joe Ely, Willie Nelson, Stevie Ray Vaughn, Muddy Waters and Johnny Cash. Click here to check out the story on NPR that inspired this waypoint.
We're too tired to actually go out, and I'm unsure that much is going on Monday night. There's also no cupcake places open (they are a staple here), so we head back to the ranch. So it sounds hokey -- but it IS a ranch-style house.
Before dinner, Mom realizes she has a credit card missing. She cancels it. She finds it.
As I get undressed, I realize I've lost an earring. I cancel caring and go to sleep.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Stormy New Orleans
There's thunder and lightening tonight in the Big Easy. Fitting, given the serious and reflective nature of the day. Sorry ... not many laughs for you tonight.
Another carb-loading episode this morning for breakfast. Why do these hotel chains think offering you up a choice of waffles, bagels, cereal, English muffins, toast, oatmeal and danish is a good idea? It makes me want to go back upstairs and take a nap, even though I know housekeeping wants me out so they can make their rounds. At least this place adds greasy sausages and microwaved eggs to the options.
There's also another small problem. Why in the world don't these hotels have fans in the bathrooms? Do they think patrons don't poo on vacation? Three women trapped in Cajun country with red beans and rice on the menu ... is a recipe for disaster. I pat myself on the back for packing Febreeze.
On to our day. Our first stop is the World War Two Museum. I have a closet obsession with WWII history. That ... and documentaries. WWII documentaries are a particular bonus. Our visit to the museum is particularly special as my grandfather was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He died a few years back, and this is something he would have really loved. Grandma regales us with stories about how they met during the war as pen pals, and about what it was like for him in the South Pacific, and her in nursing school. Her eyes get red as she relives memories I can only imagine.
I knew Grandpa was a company clerk during the war in the 25th Armory Division (he later moved to the 24th and became an MP). I knew he never fired a weapon. But today I learn something new. I learn HOW he got the office job that probably saved his life, while he and my grandmother's friends died. As they were assigning details, the guys were asked if anyone could type. My grandfather stepped forward. He couldn't even put paper in the machine, let alone type. I wonder if this makes him a coward. Or maybe it's genius. Then I recognize it's the same opportunistic nature his granddaughter inherited.
I also inherited his hunt-and-peck typing skills. This entire blog, and my life, really -- one key at a time.
The next step is a city tour with Javier Cuellar (our driver and GM of Dixie Tours) and Chris San Marco (our tour guide). I can't say enough about these guys -- they are hands-down THE company to tour with in New Orleans. Just lovely, lovely people. They really went out of their way to make sure we got a thorough tour and plenty of photo-ops. Chris teased us, but answered every question we threw at him.
We run through the French Quarter, looking at the infamous balconies jutting out over the streets and galleries jutting out over the banquette (that one's for you, Chris!) We see the balcony where Elvis sang in the movie King Creole (see pic).
We head to the 9th Ward, the area devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Chris was living in St. Bernard Parish when Katrina hit, in the home he and his wife raised their family in for forty years. On August 29th, a 23-foot wall of water washed their lives away.
It took a month for the water to recede enough for Chris and his wife to return. When they did, all they could do was sit in the car and cry. When they fled, they left behind everything. When they returned -- very little remained. Lost in muck a foot high on the floors of their family home ... were their memories. Their childhood pictures. Their wedding pictures. Photos of their kids growing up. The things that make life -- life -- gone.
And much of life in this place remains absent, save slabs of concrete where houses containing other people's pictures used to be. Can you imagine your neighborhood, full of life and vibrancy one day. Vacant the next. A sense of community, and then nothing. No friendly neighbors waving across the fence. No kids playing in the backyard. No smells from summer barbecues. Just silence. Like a graveyard. I find this point driven home by the photos I've taken today. Steps that lead to nowhere, looking sadly like a grave marker for a life that used to be.
Chris says he and Javier could do two tours a day seven days a week before Katrina, and still turn business away. Post-Katrina, this is the first tour he's done in 15 days. Most people think the French Quarter and other touristy areas of New Orleans were also ravaged by water, but it's a false assumption. These areas suffered storm damage, but nothing as devastating as the effects of the loss of tourism.
Come to New Orleans. Eat beignet. Drink bloody mary's. Drive around with Chris and Javier. It's the best thing you can do to help.
And a sneaky way to help yourself with a visit to this fabulous city.
Another carb-loading episode this morning for breakfast. Why do these hotel chains think offering you up a choice of waffles, bagels, cereal, English muffins, toast, oatmeal and danish is a good idea? It makes me want to go back upstairs and take a nap, even though I know housekeeping wants me out so they can make their rounds. At least this place adds greasy sausages and microwaved eggs to the options.
There's also another small problem. Why in the world don't these hotels have fans in the bathrooms? Do they think patrons don't poo on vacation? Three women trapped in Cajun country with red beans and rice on the menu ... is a recipe for disaster. I pat myself on the back for packing Febreeze.
On to our day. Our first stop is the World War Two Museum. I have a closet obsession with WWII history. That ... and documentaries. WWII documentaries are a particular bonus. Our visit to the museum is particularly special as my grandfather was at Pearl Harbor when it was bombed. He died a few years back, and this is something he would have really loved. Grandma regales us with stories about how they met during the war as pen pals, and about what it was like for him in the South Pacific, and her in nursing school. Her eyes get red as she relives memories I can only imagine.
I knew Grandpa was a company clerk during the war in the 25th Armory Division (he later moved to the 24th and became an MP). I knew he never fired a weapon. But today I learn something new. I learn HOW he got the office job that probably saved his life, while he and my grandmother's friends died. As they were assigning details, the guys were asked if anyone could type. My grandfather stepped forward. He couldn't even put paper in the machine, let alone type. I wonder if this makes him a coward. Or maybe it's genius. Then I recognize it's the same opportunistic nature his granddaughter inherited.
I also inherited his hunt-and-peck typing skills. This entire blog, and my life, really -- one key at a time.
The next step is a city tour with Javier Cuellar (our driver and GM of Dixie Tours) and Chris San Marco (our tour guide). I can't say enough about these guys -- they are hands-down THE company to tour with in New Orleans. Just lovely, lovely people. They really went out of their way to make sure we got a thorough tour and plenty of photo-ops. Chris teased us, but answered every question we threw at him.We run through the French Quarter, looking at the infamous balconies jutting out over the streets and galleries jutting out over the banquette (that one's for you, Chris!) We see the balcony where Elvis sang in the movie King Creole (see pic).
We head to the 9th Ward, the area devastated by Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Chris was living in St. Bernard Parish when Katrina hit, in the home he and his wife raised their family in for forty years. On August 29th, a 23-foot wall of water washed their lives away.
It took a month for the water to recede enough for Chris and his wife to return. When they did, all they could do was sit in the car and cry. When they fled, they left behind everything. When they returned -- very little remained. Lost in muck a foot high on the floors of their family home ... were their memories. Their childhood pictures. Their wedding pictures. Photos of their kids growing up. The things that make life -- life -- gone.
And much of life in this place remains absent, save slabs of concrete where houses containing other people's pictures used to be. Can you imagine your neighborhood, full of life and vibrancy one day. Vacant the next. A sense of community, and then nothing. No friendly neighbors waving across the fence. No kids playing in the backyard. No smells from summer barbecues. Just silence. Like a graveyard. I find this point driven home by the photos I've taken today. Steps that lead to nowhere, looking sadly like a grave marker for a life that used to be.Chris says he and Javier could do two tours a day seven days a week before Katrina, and still turn business away. Post-Katrina, this is the first tour he's done in 15 days. Most people think the French Quarter and other touristy areas of New Orleans were also ravaged by water, but it's a false assumption. These areas suffered storm damage, but nothing as devastating as the effects of the loss of tourism.
Come to New Orleans. Eat beignet. Drink bloody mary's. Drive around with Chris and Javier. It's the best thing you can do to help.
And a sneaky way to help yourself with a visit to this fabulous city.
Mom Saves My Ass ... Mr. O's Special Sauce & The Michael Freeman Experience
Mom Saves My AssWe arrive in Slidell for our Honey Island Swamp Tour. I've talked to Paul on the phone who tells me he's been doing this for 27 years. He's cute. I meet him and a very business-like Paul Jr. when we arrive. As soon as we lay down our $23 each for the 2-hour tour, we're shooed down to the loading dock by Captain Charlie.
A few minutes later we're zipping down the Pearl River hunting alligators. Our fearless leader warns us to keep our body parts away from the sides of the boat as we approach the first of two fat gators. I'm preoccupied considering the environmental ramifications of Charlie feeding these big scaly monsters marshmallows and hot dogs. But the beasts are actually jumping out of the water for a taste of unmentionable pig parts -- so who am I to judge?
Sally is the big gator that's finally on our side of the boat, munching on marshmallows. While I'm happily snapping pictures, she's circling ... looking for treats. I'm not paying attention. I lean back -- against the railing. Mom's yelling at me. Charlie's looking nervous. I look from them to the huge gator eying my butt. Sure, it's a very tasty looking morsel -- if I do say so myself. And certainly more substantial than wieners and raw smores.
I sit down.
Mr. O's Special Sauce
It's a quick drive from Slidell into New Orleans. We take a long long walk around the French Quarter, stopping to eat biegnet (pronounced behn-yay) and drink cafe au lait at Cafe Du Monde. Mother of God, my mouth has died and gone to heaven. Grandma is eating powdered sugar by the spoonful, and spilling enough of it across her bosom to make her look like a sloppy coke head. This may just be the best $10 we spend on the trip.
BEFORE
AFTER
As Mom stops to shop at Chicos, we walk on. She doesn't want to spend enough to avoid bugs in the bed ... but she's got a twenty or two for a new outfit. Eeesh. I realize it's 5:00 somewhere ... and I need a drink. Hello, blood mary. Get this -- you can buy a drink here and WALK AROUND. I might relocate. God bless America ... and the girl that made me this drink. I swear -- it's the best damn bloody mary I've ever tasted. I actually walk back to where I bought it to thank her for making my life miserable. I'll never find it's equal.
Which I am completely convinced of a half hour later as mom and I grab two more to sip while we're relaxing in the pool. It's not as good -- sorry, Bartender John. But he does give us great tips on other places to hit later.
We head to Olivier's for dinner. Sadly, there are three other diners in this beautiful third-generation restaurant. Our three generations want authentic creole. The sad part is -- I'm not sure what that tastes like -- thoughI'm unconvinced Emeril would have been impressed with my crawfish ettouffe. The crawfish were sublime, but overall -- it wasn't that flavorful.
Was WAS tasty, however, was the salad dressing. I just about lick my plate trying to figure out what the hell it's made of. I'm told it's a Cajun Garlic Herb Vinaigrette. Blah blah blah. I want to know what's IN Mr. O's special sauce.
That just sounds wrong.
The Michael Freeman Experience
Talk about sauce ... or SAUCED. We head to Bourbon Street to catch a little blues at the Funky Pirate. Big Al Carson is playing. All I can say this large man lives up to his name and reputation (thanks for the tip, John) . The acoustics are terrible, and sadly Grandma's hearing aids can't keep up with the squealing from Big Al's equipment, so we move on.
As we're walking down the street, littered with drunk people, a curious things happens. Enter Michael Freeman. Out of nowhere, this young kid runs up and asks us to take a picture with us. Must be something about this old lady -- dressed in all black like she's heading to a funeral -- on Bourbon Street. I'm mean, the woman looks good in black -- but she's hobbling a bit after walking so much and we're a sight, I am sure.
I digress. Michael Freeman is very enthusiastic. I am sure he must be drunk, though the girls are eating it up. I tell him and his friends about the book and he goes crazy. I ask him to send us the pictures, but nobody has a pen and I am out of our business cards. I run into the closest place I can find to jot down our email address.
I'm gone less than five minutes.
When I come back, Michael Freeman has an arm around both of them and Grandma is wearing like eight strands of Mardi Gras beads. Do you know what you have to do to get Mardi Gras beads in New Orleans? As I explain it to her, she pulls her shirt away from her body and peers inside. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but I'm SURE it's time to get back to the hotel.
It's like Grandmas Gone Wild.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Air Conditioning Works
I didn't mention that in an attempt to save money, we've booked a room that has one queen bed. I was hoping I could charm our way into two doubles, but we end up with a King. And guess who's the monkey in the middle?
Me.
Apparently, overnight, the air conditioner decides to work overtime. I wake up a few times go cold I think I'm numb. Grandma is perched precariously on my right, and mom snoozes to my left with a pillow from home. Finally, I can't take it anymore. My options are cuddling to the right and possibly knocking the old lady to the floor, or snuggling to mommy dearest. I choose left. She doesn't protest, and I'm a bit warmer.
But not warm enough. I jump up to go to the bathroom and turn the arctic demon down before I jump back in bed. When I come back, I tell Grandma I'm frozen -- and that literally breaks the ice (sorry ... couldn't resist). Suddenly, it's cozy. We're huddled together in a mass in the middle of the bed, as Mom tells us about having a dream of being up North with no coat or shoes. We're laughing so hard we can't go back to sleep.
Welcome to day two.
Me.
Apparently, overnight, the air conditioner decides to work overtime. I wake up a few times go cold I think I'm numb. Grandma is perched precariously on my right, and mom snoozes to my left with a pillow from home. Finally, I can't take it anymore. My options are cuddling to the right and possibly knocking the old lady to the floor, or snuggling to mommy dearest. I choose left. She doesn't protest, and I'm a bit warmer.
But not warm enough. I jump up to go to the bathroom and turn the arctic demon down before I jump back in bed. When I come back, I tell Grandma I'm frozen -- and that literally breaks the ice (sorry ... couldn't resist). Suddenly, it's cozy. We're huddled together in a mass in the middle of the bed, as Mom tells us about having a dream of being up North with no coat or shoes. We're laughing so hard we can't go back to sleep.
Welcome to day two.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Where's Grandma?
It's five minutes into the trip, and we've already lost Grandma.
She was following us so we could drop her car off ... and now she's AWOL. Her cell phone is going right to voicemail. TO make matters worse, we're an hour behind schedule. My other BFF, Heidi, is en route from Orlando with her little ones to meet us at Weeki Watchee.
And that's not the half of it. As if being late and losing Grandma weren't bad enough ... when I went to plug the battery into my fancy new camera this morning -- it doesn't fit. I realize the bastards at Nikon have made the battery slightly smaller, so the extra ones I've brought from my last Nikon are too big. Sadly, I didn't have the foresight to actually charge the battery that came WITH the camera.
Still, we're excited ... and finally on the road! My brother calls to pray for our safety. A prayer issued over Mom's Blackberry. He repeats the words heavenly, lord and father so many times, I begin to wonder if there's a correlation between frequency of usage and the amount of safety we get in return. Or maybe God just has ADHD and needs to be refocused often? Regardless, I appreciate the sentiment and a safe trip would be ideal.
I'm calling on God myself for patience over the next hour as I watch cars passing us steadily on the left. I remind Mom that the speed of traffic is a perfectly acceptable way to travel. In spite, we arrive in the nick of time. Surrounded by gleaming white statues of mermaids, I marvel that this place has been around for more than 60 years. For us, it's stop number one on project Mermaids to Graceland. Ironically, Graceland -- or Elvis -- is actually one of the most famous guests the park has ever had. I feel almost famous when the nice lady at customer service desk allows me to plug in the battery for the camera at her post. Even she's excited about our trip.
It's only then that I notice that the size of the memory card has also changed. I now have six cards for the old Nikon, and not a damn one for the new camera.
Heavenly. Lord. Father.
Weeki Watchee is just as tacky fabulous as I expected it would be. I've always wanted to come here. There's something magical -- no matter what your age -- about dancing underwater mermaids. I'm as entertained watching Heidi's four-year-old experience the show as I am by the main event itself. But I think she might be more taken with the giant seashell sculpture outside than the frolicking girls with air hoses. I'll admit that the best part of the show are the turtles that seem to dive bomb the mermaids at every opportunity. They shoo them away like they're sea flies. It's hysterical. Really ... they are very determined turtles. I think they like the bubbles.
I'd like some bubbles right now ... in the bottom of a beer bottle. It's about 12 hours later and we've driven 600 miles today. We're in Mobile, Alabama, in a Days Inn near the airport. The room is hot as hades and smells like old socks. Grandma pulled back the bed covers and yelped. A bug crawled out and scurried across the floor. The other room they offered us smelled worse.
Lord. That's all I've got.
She was following us so we could drop her car off ... and now she's AWOL. Her cell phone is going right to voicemail. TO make matters worse, we're an hour behind schedule. My other BFF, Heidi, is en route from Orlando with her little ones to meet us at Weeki Watchee.
And that's not the half of it. As if being late and losing Grandma weren't bad enough ... when I went to plug the battery into my fancy new camera this morning -- it doesn't fit. I realize the bastards at Nikon have made the battery slightly smaller, so the extra ones I've brought from my last Nikon are too big. Sadly, I didn't have the foresight to actually charge the battery that came WITH the camera.
Still, we're excited ... and finally on the road! My brother calls to pray for our safety. A prayer issued over Mom's Blackberry. He repeats the words heavenly, lord and father so many times, I begin to wonder if there's a correlation between frequency of usage and the amount of safety we get in return. Or maybe God just has ADHD and needs to be refocused often? Regardless, I appreciate the sentiment and a safe trip would be ideal.
I'm calling on God myself for patience over the next hour as I watch cars passing us steadily on the left. I remind Mom that the speed of traffic is a perfectly acceptable way to travel. In spite, we arrive in the nick of time. Surrounded by gleaming white statues of mermaids, I marvel that this place has been around for more than 60 years. For us, it's stop number one on project Mermaids to Graceland. Ironically, Graceland -- or Elvis -- is actually one of the most famous guests the park has ever had. I feel almost famous when the nice lady at customer service desk allows me to plug in the battery for the camera at her post. Even she's excited about our trip.
It's only then that I notice that the size of the memory card has also changed. I now have six cards for the old Nikon, and not a damn one for the new camera.
Heavenly. Lord. Father.
Weeki Watchee is just as tacky fabulous as I expected it would be. I've always wanted to come here. There's something magical -- no matter what your age -- about dancing underwater mermaids. I'm as entertained watching Heidi's four-year-old experience the show as I am by the main event itself. But I think she might be more taken with the giant seashell sculpture outside than the frolicking girls with air hoses. I'll admit that the best part of the show are the turtles that seem to dive bomb the mermaids at every opportunity. They shoo them away like they're sea flies. It's hysterical. Really ... they are very determined turtles. I think they like the bubbles.I'd like some bubbles right now ... in the bottom of a beer bottle. It's about 12 hours later and we've driven 600 miles today. We're in Mobile, Alabama, in a Days Inn near the airport. The room is hot as hades and smells like old socks. Grandma pulled back the bed covers and yelped. A bug crawled out and scurried across the floor. The other room they offered us smelled worse.
Lord. That's all I've got.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
