This July marked my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. The fact they have managed to hang in there for that long together without ever once having yellow police tape surrounding their house is impressive to me.
They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.
To the Mall of America.
I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.
Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.
But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.
However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.
The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.
Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.
I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.
And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:
- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”
- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.
- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.
- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair
Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.
And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.
But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
We're back! And alive! And wondering if your Baba needs a job.
Lena and I made it back in one piece from our little adventure west to visit Politica in British Columbia! It was a fabulous trip and Politica was a wonderful and gracious hostess that made sure I had all the comforts of home at my finger tips.
This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.
At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.
I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.
Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.
And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.
To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.
The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.
Hmm.
No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?
No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?
No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?
That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?
How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.
Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.
This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.
At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.
I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.
Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.
And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.
To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.
The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.
Hmm.
No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?
No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?
No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?
That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?
How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.
Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Run out and buy stock in A5-35 immediately
It looks like we are going to take a family ski trip to Banff this year in February! For those of you unfamiliar, Banff is a gorgeous little resort town at the foot of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta that specializes in soaking every red cent out of anyone who visits. The town is so beautiful that you literally gasp whenever you set foot outside – every single time. The Banff area businesses take full advantage of the tourist’s wonderment because the cost of doing anything in that town is at least three times higher than doing it anywhere else. I once ordered a club sandwich and a coke at a Banff restaurant and my bill was $32.
However, we found a pretty good deal on accommodations at a little condo/resort type place about 5 miles from town and last week we confirmed our reservation. We’ll also be able to drive there from here, so all and all it shouldn't be too bad on the ol’ pocket book.
We are going to go skiing.
Me and skiing have somewhat of a sorted past. Unlike many of my friends who grew up in this country, my parents never took me anywhere so I never learned how to ski. I’m also not exactly the most naturally athletic or graceful person you’ve ever met, so at first glance skiing shouldn’t really be my thing. But, much like interior decorating and penning the next literary masterpiece, I have the desire to be good at it, but I’m not really.
I have baby pink plastic venetians hanging in my living room. And, you have clearly all read this blog.
Just call me Solieri. No, I don’t think that is entirely accurate. Solieri was good just not great. Call me Solieri’s nerdy little cousin who sucks at stuff.
The last time I went skiing in Banff was when I was sent there for a work conference about two years ago. When the conference was over, Politika flew in from Vancouver and joined me in Banff for a weekend getaway that did not include any husbands or children. Not knowing what do to with ourselves under such circumstances, we considered trying to get some of our Banff-jacked money back by hitting the bar to get hammered and dance topless for rich Japanese business men. But, good judgment and a fear of leaked facebook pictures managed to prevail and we decided to go skiing instead.
Politika can ski quite well (of course she can), and I…..I had a new jacket. So, after a lovely breakfast buffet at the hotel we loaded our stuff onto the bus and headed out to the gigantic mountain prepared and contented to strap skinny boards to our feet and hurl ourselves down the slopes at lightening speeds with little precision.
I like to take a ‘ski a little’ ‘drink a little’ approach to skiing. Since I’m not that great at it, the entire time I am on the mountain every muscle in my body is so rigid I’m bordering on rigamortis.
And don’t try talking to me because my mind is singular in its focus and determination to stay alive.
As you can appreciate that gets a little tiring, so after a few runs I like to have a beer or two. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s only 10 am.
Politika is very nice and humoured me by slumming it at the green runs now and again, but mostly she was swooshing down the quadruple black double mogul plummet-to-your-death-at-any-moment runs. Of course she was.
All in all it was a lovely day and I only had one near death experience, but I was saved by a charming and handsome Aussie who rescued me from the clutches of my extremely uncooperative ski bindings and helped me limp by tired ass down the mountain. I was seriously considering resurrecting the dancing topless plan to express my gratitude, but alas, he just wanted to continue skiing. It was a little cold out for that kind of thing anyway.
We made it back to the room alive and I think we even ventured out that night for a bite to eat. Everything was just fine until the next morning.
OH MY GOD. My legs have never, ever, ever hurt that much in my whole life. I felt like the ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ lady. I was pretty sure that while I was sleeping someone had drugged me, split my legs open and practiced tying intricate boy scout knots with my leg muscles.
For the next solid week, whenever I was confronted with a flight of stairs I would retreat and decide that wherever I was originally intending to go could live without me. My two kids who have bedrooms in the basement? They could have been hosting raves and Texas hold ‘em tournaments down there and there was nothing I could have done about it.
It was way bad.
So! Skiing again for me in February!
I’m bringing some morphine and a flask of weed-laced moonshine this time.
However, we found a pretty good deal on accommodations at a little condo/resort type place about 5 miles from town and last week we confirmed our reservation. We’ll also be able to drive there from here, so all and all it shouldn't be too bad on the ol’ pocket book.
We are going to go skiing.
Me and skiing have somewhat of a sorted past. Unlike many of my friends who grew up in this country, my parents never took me anywhere so I never learned how to ski. I’m also not exactly the most naturally athletic or graceful person you’ve ever met, so at first glance skiing shouldn’t really be my thing. But, much like interior decorating and penning the next literary masterpiece, I have the desire to be good at it, but I’m not really.
I have baby pink plastic venetians hanging in my living room. And, you have clearly all read this blog.
Just call me Solieri. No, I don’t think that is entirely accurate. Solieri was good just not great. Call me Solieri’s nerdy little cousin who sucks at stuff.
The last time I went skiing in Banff was when I was sent there for a work conference about two years ago. When the conference was over, Politika flew in from Vancouver and joined me in Banff for a weekend getaway that did not include any husbands or children. Not knowing what do to with ourselves under such circumstances, we considered trying to get some of our Banff-jacked money back by hitting the bar to get hammered and dance topless for rich Japanese business men. But, good judgment and a fear of leaked facebook pictures managed to prevail and we decided to go skiing instead.
Politika can ski quite well (of course she can), and I…..I had a new jacket. So, after a lovely breakfast buffet at the hotel we loaded our stuff onto the bus and headed out to the gigantic mountain prepared and contented to strap skinny boards to our feet and hurl ourselves down the slopes at lightening speeds with little precision.
I like to take a ‘ski a little’ ‘drink a little’ approach to skiing. Since I’m not that great at it, the entire time I am on the mountain every muscle in my body is so rigid I’m bordering on rigamortis.
And don’t try talking to me because my mind is singular in its focus and determination to stay alive.
As you can appreciate that gets a little tiring, so after a few runs I like to have a beer or two. And no, it doesn’t matter if it’s only 10 am.
Politika is very nice and humoured me by slumming it at the green runs now and again, but mostly she was swooshing down the quadruple black double mogul plummet-to-your-death-at-any-moment runs. Of course she was.
All in all it was a lovely day and I only had one near death experience, but I was saved by a charming and handsome Aussie who rescued me from the clutches of my extremely uncooperative ski bindings and helped me limp by tired ass down the mountain. I was seriously considering resurrecting the dancing topless plan to express my gratitude, but alas, he just wanted to continue skiing. It was a little cold out for that kind of thing anyway.
We made it back to the room alive and I think we even ventured out that night for a bite to eat. Everything was just fine until the next morning.
OH MY GOD. My legs have never, ever, ever hurt that much in my whole life. I felt like the ‘I’ve fallen and I can’t get up’ lady. I was pretty sure that while I was sleeping someone had drugged me, split my legs open and practiced tying intricate boy scout knots with my leg muscles.
For the next solid week, whenever I was confronted with a flight of stairs I would retreat and decide that wherever I was originally intending to go could live without me. My two kids who have bedrooms in the basement? They could have been hosting raves and Texas hold ‘em tournaments down there and there was nothing I could have done about it.
It was way bad.
So! Skiing again for me in February!
I’m bringing some morphine and a flask of weed-laced moonshine this time.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Sweatshops are totally underrated.
So, I gotta say that so far this summer has been da bomb. Exploiting my family and turning them into sweatshop workers paid off big time and the two weeks spent at the cabin were fabulous. Mother Nature was being a total fucking bitch and didn’t see fit to provide us with the best weather of all time, but we had enough warm and sunny days to get in some swimming, boating and general laziness, which was pretty much my entire agenda.
Yes, that's me. In a bathingsuit on the internet. That's as close as I'm getting and the imagine gets super grainy when you try and zoom in so don't even bother. But...doesn’t that look like a good time? It was. Doing sweet fuck all for two weeks was all I thought it would be and more. Here are a few shots of the cabin –
Nice, huh? See why I was willing to whore out my husband and children? Lakefront people!! Lakefront!!!
And, when the weather wasn’t the greatest we played board games. Just so you know, internet, you are reading the literary works of the all time World Champion of Scattergories. Notorious people starting with a K? The Klu Klux Klan! THREE points right there. Crimes starting with a W? Whaling! Can you think of a crime that starts with a W in under 60 seconds?? It’s not easy. Clearly being the current Scattergories Champion of the World proves I’m a superior thinker. I’ve already put it on my resume.
So now, today….I went back to work. Back to my cold and sterile office building with my desk in the middle of the hallway. Back to the mind-numbing buzz of the florescent lights. Back to words and phrases like ‘template’ and ‘Governance Committee’ and ‘Meeting of the Board of Directors’. Back to highlighters and staplers and paperclips and that little chime that goes off constantly alerting you to the fact that there is yet another new email. Sigh. The party’s over.
Yes, that's me. In a bathingsuit on the internet. That's as close as I'm getting and the imagine gets super grainy when you try and zoom in so don't even bother. But...doesn’t that look like a good time? It was. Doing sweet fuck all for two weeks was all I thought it would be and more. Here are a few shots of the cabin –
Nice, huh? See why I was willing to whore out my husband and children? Lakefront people!! Lakefront!!!
And, when the weather wasn’t the greatest we played board games. Just so you know, internet, you are reading the literary works of the all time World Champion of Scattergories. Notorious people starting with a K? The Klu Klux Klan! THREE points right there. Crimes starting with a W? Whaling! Can you think of a crime that starts with a W in under 60 seconds?? It’s not easy. Clearly being the current Scattergories Champion of the World proves I’m a superior thinker. I’ve already put it on my resume.
So now, today….I went back to work. Back to my cold and sterile office building with my desk in the middle of the hallway. Back to the mind-numbing buzz of the florescent lights. Back to words and phrases like ‘template’ and ‘Governance Committee’ and ‘Meeting of the Board of Directors’. Back to highlighters and staplers and paperclips and that little chime that goes off constantly alerting you to the fact that there is yet another new email. Sigh. The party’s over.
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