With apologies to The Go-Gos, vacation may be all *they* ever wanted, but for me, what I always seem to want or need is a vacation to recover from my vacation.
Take this past weekend, for example ...
We traveled to an in-law family reunion in Pennsylvania, driving out last Thursday and returning on Sunday. Now, most people who drive 1,200 miles in a roughly 96-hour period are usually being paid 50 cents a mile, eat at places like "The Choke N Puke", and register in the Denim Department at Farm and Fleet.
We, of course, did none of that. We paid for the privilege, with the Ohio Turnpike Commission soaking, I mean, asking, the most, at $13.50, to travel across their flat, I mean, fine, state. We ate homemade peanut-butter sandwiches and drank our own bottled water because there's something inherently unfair in being asked to pay $6 for a Starbucks half-caf, double-caramel, frappa-mocha-chino in the vente (and you must say it using your best Thurston Howell III voice) cup at the super-overpriced turnpike rest area.
Speaking of which: there's something inherently pretentious and just plain loco about paying $4 for the same thing here in DeKalb. "But I must have my coffee in the morning!" That's fine, but what you're drinking when you order the vente half-caf, double-caramel, frappa-mocha-chino is not, I repeat, not coffee. Okay, it's maybe 1% coffee, 85% foamy stuff (if they use real, dairy whipped cream, I would be shocked, nay, stunned), and 14% imitation caramel (imitation caramel consists of 90% high frustose/sucrose corn syrup, 8% thickening agent, and 2% caramel flavoring).
So, let's all admit it ... you Starbuckaroos out there ... you're paying $4, not for coffee, but for the "prestige" of being seen with a Starbucks cup in your hand. I love the prestige too, but I hate coffee, and have never bought anything for myself from a Starbucks. But I carry the cup proudly (I stole an empty cup and a lid from a Starbucks on the Ohio Turnpike and carry them wherever I go), and bask in the warm glow of superiority that can only come from the ability to wildly overpay for something.
Anyway, getting back to vacation ...
When we arrive, we are shuttled briefly to my sister-in-law's cabin in the woods. Her and her husband have built a nice cabin on a piece of property they own across the road from their home. It is a lovely little cabin; spacious, with running water, electricity, and full bathroom (with shower). I enjoyed staying there, and we have a standing invitation to use the cabin again the next time we go home.
My daughter, on the other hand, hated the cabin. Well, she liked the cabin. What she hated was the zero-reception on her cell phone. She practically threw herself on the floor, wailing, "But I have no cell phone service!!"
Well, the Donner Party had no food, but they ate each other to survive their ordeal. I suggested that she eat her phone in order to survive hers.
Of course, the cell phone reception belied a deeper issue ... the lack of contact with the boyfriend (and that, alone, could be a whole other post at a later date). Because nothing say, "I'm into you" like the warm glow from your BlackBerry as it displays the 100,000th "I miss you" message since you last checked your text messages; which was about 30 seconds ago.
Those of us over the age of 20 will remember a time when nothing said "I'm into you" like the warm and tender look from our significant other as we sat across from each other at a table, sharing a pizza, holding hands and getting all tongue-tied trying to find the right words to say. You know, real words, like "I love you" or, "You know, I really like you." Not fake wordz lyk "I luv u" or "Ur da shiz".
Imagine if Sir Paul McCartney were alive today (He died just after they recorded "Abbey Road". I know this to be true because I read it on Wikipedia, or maybe paulisreallydead.com, something like that). His big hit with Wings would have been:
"Ja Tink Da Peeps Done Be Ovah Trippin' Luv Songz (NTTAWWT)"
But I disgress, as the words "boyfriend" and "vacation" are about as relevant to each other as "thin" is to "Charles Barkley".
Anywhoodles, (a term my daughter introduced me to, and which I hated the minute I heard it but, doggone it, much like a Ce-Lo Green song, it's kinda catchy and it grows on you until one day, you hear "Forget You" on the radio and not only start singing along, but start yelling, "There's my MAN, CE-LO!!" You know what I'm talkin' 'bout!)
Anywhoodles, vacation went well. Tiring, but well. I snored just often enough and just loudly enough to scare away the owls, badgers, bears, wildebeasts, whatever, that lurked in the woods in the dead of night. I ate just enough food to last a couple of lifetimes, and perhaps enough hot dogs to possibly challenge that Kobyashi guy next summer at Coney Island. On second thought, I hate soggy bread, and the thought of dunking a hot dog and bun into water before eating makes my stomach turn.
I'm such a wuss.
