Tag: vacations

A Naked Treasure Hunt and Aqua-Viking

The continuing saga of our vacation. Here’s a link to Part One.

The morning we were leaving, all the luggage bags were on the floor at the back door and the neighbours were getting out their lawn chairs and spiked coffee. I was determined to cheat them out of the usual gong show and sing-along this time and I was about to find out if I succeeded.

The Viking selected the bags he wanted to load first and I trotted behind him, carrying the other two bags. I stopped well short of the bike and gently put down the bags. I was careful to avoid The Viking Stink Eye that happens when I get too close to luggage. While he called on his Gods to bless his packing, I went back in the house to dig out the jackets and helmets, cleaned the coffee pot, made sure the garbage and compost bucket were empty, changed the message on the answering machine, watered the plants, and put on my boots. Then I played Solitaire until he showed up sweaty and panting from all the packing. He looked like he’d been in a fist fight.

Our destination: Vernon, BC. We were managing to leave two full days earlier than we had anticipated, so we booked a hotel for the days before the cabin reservation kicked in. The Viking had scrolled through hundreds of hotels in the Vernon area until he found what he wanted – reasonably priced rooms and a pool. A POOL! Because not only is he a control freak about packing, he also has a water fetish.

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I don’t understand what it is with him and water. He’s like AquaViking! For me, a hotel with a pool is like going to Hawaii for a root canal. Sure, it’s great to be in Hawaii, but…well…you get my point. A pool means a bathing suit and it’s impossible to find a bathing suit I’m willing to wear in public. Apparently, the swimming costumes I am willing to wear went out of fashion in 1910.

It turned out that putting on my bathing suit wasn’t an issue after all. By the time we reached Vernon, the temperature had soared to over 30°C (86°F) and we were both melting in our big jackets and jeans. Our melting intensified while we reverse-VooDoo-ed all the packing and carried it to our room. Just so you know – The Viking allows me to help with unpacking the bike. Sure, he’s all…

“Be careful….ooooh….no! you have to….just a minute….watch out!….you can’t do that…..STOP!…for fucksake!” but he wore himself out once I had successfully unloaded a bag without breaking the bike into a million pieces.

I started peeling off clothes before the room door was completely closed. At that moment I really didn’t care what I looked like in a bathing suit if the pool could stop the sweating. Of course, it took quite a while to find the bathing suits because someone didn’t make a luggage map. It was sort of like a Naked Treasure Hunt, but I had to be careful with my nipples because the air conditioning was on ‘high’, and my boobs aren’t twenty anymore. My mood improved dramatically when we found that the pool was deserted, though.

The second thing I don’t understand about water: what are you supposed to do with yourself once you’re wet and no longer sweating? If I were a surfer or a water polo enthusiast, I would know exactly what to do in the water, but 1). The pool was too small for a surfboard and 2). Water polo usually has more than two people and we didn’t have a ball. So, I paddle around for a couple of minutes and then what? I have watched The Viking very carefully over the years to see exactly what he does in the water that he loves so much and as far as I can tell, he doesn’t do a damned thing. He just stands around. There wasn’t even something interesting on the wall except for a life preserver which seems a little redundant when the pool is only 3 meters (10 feet) by 6 meters (20 feet).

“I wonder how many times they’ve had to use that life preserver?”

“Probably never.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” End of conversation.

There was a clock on the wall, but it seemed to be mocking me. After 3 hours in the pool, I thought I could suggest we search for drinks back in the room, except the clock said we had only been there for 9 minutes.

I did notice an odd reflection on the door to the pool area. There were trees and about 5 flags, but when I looked at the windows all I could see was blue sky. I spent about 10 minutes trying to locate the source of the reflection. I even went so far as to get out of the pool and stand in front of the door, but I still couldn’t see anything. The Viking was wondering what I was doing, and he started looking too.  It was a mystery.  So, we gave up and went back to standing around doing nothing. It was probably the best time I’ve had in a body of water since my last water polo game – in 1975.

Nine hundred years later….

“Maybe we should go back to the room and have a couple of drinks.”

“Are you sure? We can stay longer if you want. I’m quite happy here.” I was already running for my towel.

“No. I’m done here.”

Drinks in the room, dinner in the hotel restaurant, and a quick tidy of the exploded luggage. I curled up to read, my head resting on The Viking’s stomach.

“Do you know that we didn’t have a single ‘incident’ today? Yes, there were a few stabby, snarky comments when we were unloading the bike and melting, but overall, it was a good day.”

“They were your stabby, snarky comments.”

“Hmmm. I think there were a couple from you.”

“Nope. All you.”

“Really? That doesn’t sound like me at all. I am the soul of kindness.”

“HA!!” His stomach catapulted my head toward the ceiling. “A little bit of sweat and you turn into The Hulk.”

“Pfft! I don’t know what you’re even talking about.”

Sand and Spit

We’re home from vacation. Sigh. Unwillingly and unhappily. Sad emoji. I was born to be filthy rich, but my ancestors didn’t put in the effort required to fund my preferred lifestyle. I shouldn’t complain because we did get more than a week of wonderfulness, but I’m going to anyway. Not here, of course, because my whining is boring, so go ahead and read on. Also, I’ll have another post about the vacation because there is just too much to tackle in one post.

We took the Goldwing, but we haven’t become very adept at packing. This is only the third time we’ve attempted a motorcycle vacation and it shows. Mostly because The Viking is a cranky control freak.

Back in the bad old days, when we packed the fifth wheel for every holiday, we had completely separate tasks that rarely over-lapped. He had nothing to do with stocking the towels, clothes and condiments. I had nothing to do with filling propane bottles and checking tire pressures. The only time we had to confer was in regard to how many times we would be eating steak and bacon (every meal) and how much beer and Baileys I needed to buy (a lot). This motorcycle packing is an entirely different beast though. It turns out that I am in charge of gathering things and The Viking is in charge of complaining about the items I’ve gathered and packing those items into the bags.

I started my ‘gathering stuff’ a couple days in advance, all the items grouped into categories, sealed in Ziplocks and labelled appropriately. I put all my clothes into a large Ziplock bag and squeezed the air out of it so it took up less space, and wrote lists of what needed to be done before we left. I brought out the custom bags that fit perfectly in the trunk and side bags of the bike and thought I had everything under control.

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Just to be clear, I did not presume to put anything in a bag. I clearly remember last year’s debacle and simply laid out the bags and piles on the kitchen table so The Viking could mumble incantations and work the intricate magic involved in his packing system. I took up position on the opposite side of the table and waited for instructions.

“Beach Towels.”

“Yes Sir!” I handed them over respectfully with a snappy salute. I folded them wrong, apparently, and there was a heavy sigh and several seconds of head shaking while he re-folded them properly and put them in the bottom of a bag. With great exaggeration for instructional purposes.

“Laptop.”

I had put the power cords in the outside pocket of the laptop bag and that was a colossal blunder.

“You can’t put the cords with the laptop because any weight on top of it…” he mimics pushing down on the laptop, “will break it.” He continues mimicking the pushing and breaking for an entire 30 seconds. Okay, he has a point. I’ll give him that.

My vacuum-packed clothes were an issue for some unknown reason. It probably wasn’t magic enough. He mumbled something about it being too wide to fit and bashed the side bag skinny-full-ly several times to make his point. “See?! It won’t fit. You have to be very careful that you don’t make the bag too wide, or the side bag cover won’t close. See?!”

I nodded enthusiastically like I had learned something new, hoping he wouldn’t carry on for another 6 minutes on the intricacies of motorcycle packing. As he dumped my clothes…..

“You only need 5 pairs of underpants.” Counting them out and handing me the remainder.

“But we’re going to be gone for 10 days.”

“You’re lucky I’m allowing you 5! You can wash them in the sink. I’ve been taking motorcycle trips for 107 years and have never packed more than 3 pairs of underpants even for a 6-month trip. And I washed them out with only one cup (250ml) of water that I recycle to make myself some coffee with nothing more than a Bic lighter and tin foil. I’m sure you can make do.”

“Should I buy travel-size laundry soap?”

“What?!! Are you crazy?!! We’ll use sand and spit.”

He dismantled my entire Ziplock system, including the Ziplock containing all the chargers for all of our electronics. He gave a Ted Talk on how a Ziplock of something takes up too much room, but individual items can be put into nooks and crannies. He explained with examples, best practices and techniques. He did make one concession for Ziplocks and that was when it came to things that might leak, like shampoo. He also gave a short lecture on where things go depending on their squishiness – hard things go here, and soft things go there. At least that’s what I think he was explaining; I had stopped listening at sand and spit because my lady parts were shrieking.

I finally walked away and left him to his dark magic. He may VooDoo everything into the bags easier but just wait until he’s looking for his toothbrush and has to unpack every damned bag to find it. That goes for tablets and phone chargers, too. He should have made a detailed luggage map with the location of every item at a bare minimum, but what do I know?

I’m not saying that I could do a better job packing the bike, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be so cranky and explain-y.

It Could Happen to Anyone!

Sigh. I don’t usually screw up this bad. I’ve honed a combination of anxiety, chronic over-planning, and self-doubt to such an advanced level that it’s rare that I forget something of such importance. Sure, the occasional toothbrush or deodorant gets missed, but they aren’t really important in the grand scheme of vacations.

In my defense, we were leaving for vacation a day earlier than the original plan because The Viking decided, and that condensed my preparations from two days into one day. That’s important because my usual pre-vacation check, check, triple check, self-doubt, check, check, second self-doubt, and a final check was cut off after just two checks, and I only had one day to run all errands and chores. Also, The Viking usually fuels up the bike the day before we leave so we just get on the bike and go first thing in the morning, but this time he decided he should mess with our scientifically proven process of vacationing and would fuel up on the way out of the city. In other words, we were throwing all caution to the wind and recklessly hoping the Vacation Gods were in our favour. They weren’t.

The first sign of the colossal clusterfuckery headed my way happened at the gas station before we ever left the city. The Viking opened his wallet to pull out the credit card to stick into the pump….

“Where the fuck is the credit card?!!!”

During one of those errands the day before, I needed the credit card, so I just stuck the card in my wallet. Had I returned the card to his wallet immediately, he would have been none the wiser, but I hadn’t and that one little thing was nothing short of a sin of biblical proportions and, trust me on this, The Viking is extremely good at pinpointing sins of biblical proportions and exactly who is to blame for those sins of biblical proportions. And, since I didn’t need my wallet on the first day, it was buried in the depths of Jolene’s over-stuffed side bags. At that point, we both decided that it was easier to just pay with cash than scatter our belongings all over the parking lot of the gas station to find my wallet. We should have known better. This is what happens when we fly by the seat of our pants, with no method to our madness. And, had The Viking fueled up Jolene the day before, he would have caught my clusterfuck. But, he didn’t. Our fate was inescapable at that point.

So, we drove four and a half hours, blissfully ignorant. We pulled into the parking lot of our pre-booked hotel and dug out my wallet.

Time.

Stopped.

Blink. Blink.

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My wallet did not contain the credit card.

The Viking grabbed my wallet out of my hands and looked for himself. No credit card. He pulled his wallet out again and nope, no credit card.

Shit.

The Viking started a curse-y stream of mutterances of doom and the ending of all our hopes and dreams forever more, while I prepared for the biblical consequences of my clusterfuck. How could I have lost the credit card?! If it wasn’t in either wallet, then it had to be in my coat pocket or still sitting on the counter at the parts store.

The Vacation Gods must have decided to give us a small bit of luck though when the hotel desk person didn’t ask to see the credit card. We had booked and paid for the room on Expedia, but usually, we are asked for the card anyway. This time they didn’t, so at least we had a bed for the night.

Six o’clock the next morning, we loaded Jolene up again and drove four and a half hours back to Calgary in sub-arctic temperatures which The Viking had tried to avoid by leaving a day early!

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I ran for my coat and…no credit card!

I ran to the car and frisked it thoroughly…no credit card!!

I must have left it on the counter at the parts store. My head was ready to explode. I don’t lose things! How could I have lost THE CREDIT CARD of all things?! The Viking was pacing.

I reached for the phone to call the parts store, and there, on the top of The Viking’s computer tower, was the credit card. I almost cried. It took me only a second to realize that I must have been sidetracked on my way to put the credit card in The Viking’s wallet. A phone call? A customer? With the panic of changed plans and the parts run and talking with the house sitter and getting more cat food and finishing laundry and customers coming at the last minute…it could happen to anyone.

So, 8 hours of driving just to get back to where we started, and then another 8 hours to go where we wanted to go and where we had a hotel room waiting for us. A 12-hour driving day. And it was fucking cold until we got back to where we started that morning.

In a post-apocalyptic clusterfuck de-brief we decided that getting a second card for me to keep in my wallet at all times would protect his card from being pinched from his wallet and the $100.00 for that second card was more than worth it.

Pickles and Lotion

One more sleep and we’re on holidays. A motorcycle holiday, no less. We have a hotel room in Trail, BC for a base and will take day trips from there.

The Viking lovingly freed Jolene from her winter clothes and checked her over for any possible concerns. He bought a new GPS since Jolene’s is making noises about retirement and wanting a pension. He also bought a dash cam. Don’t worry though, it doesn’t have a microphone in case cursing happens and an insurance adjuster or a cop needs to see footage. It just makes sense to proactively avoid offending anyone who may or may not approve an insurance claim.

I, as usual, am in charge of making lists and piles of things we need to take with us. The Viking is in charge of packing it all in bags and wedging them into Jolene’s trunk and side bags. Because he’s a control freak and doesn’t think I have the skills to pack a bag. I do, of course, but I’m not prepared to die on that hill when I can just sit back and watch him do all the work. I just offer drinks and snacks while I play Solitaire.

“How’s it going in there? Do you need a drink or a snack?” I don’t even bother getting up from the computer.

“NO! Why in the fuck do you need eight different jugs of lotion?!”

“Because I have eight different lotion requirements for my body. Face lotion, hand lotion, foot lotion, arm lotion, leg lotion, and three different lotions that overlap so no part of my old lady skin is left un-lotion-ed.” I answer over my shoulder.

“For fucksakes! You get ONE LOTION!!”

Control Freak. “Fine! But, if I pre-maturely age while we’re on vacation it’s your fault.” Heavy sigh.  “If I am forced to choose, and you are forcing me, I need the face lotion because it has sunscreen and then the hand lotion because face lotion is too expensive to use on my whole body and hand lotion doesn’t have sunscreen.”

I hear the rattling of lotion containers bouncing across the living room floor. There is muttering and cursing, but I don’t even pay attention anymore. If he wasn’t such a control freak, he wouldn’t be in this situation.

After about 10 minutes. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

I was wondering when he would get to that. He took so long I thought maybe he missed it. Or, more likely, knew immediately that I was fucking with him because he’s a control freak and just put the extra-large jar of pickles to the side without a word. The 8 jugs of lotion were on purpose, too, but he fell for that.

And, sure, I suppose I shouldn’t fuck with him when he’s in the middle of a complex and grandiose packing plan, but I can’t just let the whole control freak thing go without some sort of punishment, can I? Give him a pass and what’s next? He’ll be organizing my purse or going through the freezer and pointing out things that have been in there since 2017. Or insist on driving whenever we go some place together.

Wait…

…

…

I probably should have been on top of this way before now.

It Could Have Been Worse

It could have been worse.  Not everyone was thrilled with the camping experience, to be honest, but overall it was a good holiday.  And what were we expecting from two cats?

DAY 1

Teddy:  Thank Gawd we’ve stopped.  I need to pee.

Izzie:  That litterbox is mine and I’m not sharing.

Teddy:  So where am I supposed to go?

Izzie:  Don’t know, don’t care.

Once the trailer was leveled, we opened the door and were delighted to find there was no drama.  Teddy actually came out from under the bed almost immediately and Izzie wasn’t cursing and calling us names.  So, that went well.  We treated ourselves to several beers, directly after making it crystal clear that Teddy can use the litterbox.

DAY 2

Izzie:  It’s about time you got out of bed.  The water bowl is empty, and I can see the bottom of the food bowl.  I hope this isn’t an indication of how this debacle is going to proceed.  Also, Teddy pooped in the litter box and now I’m not going to use it.

Teddy had slept with us all night which was a little confusing because at home the bed is sacred ‘Izzie’ domain, whether she’s on it or not, and Teddy would never presume.  Could this be the beginning of a shift in power?

DAY 3

Teddy:  I’m bored.  If I can’t patrol the yard I may as well just eat.  No?  I’m disappointed, Mom.  Fine.  How about a handful of treats?

Izzie:  You’re going to get fatter.  I think I’ll just start the bullying now.

Teddy:  I’m not fat – it’s all muscle.  Just ask Slinky.

Izzie:  Your special relationship with Slinky isn’t exactly a Fight Club like mine though, is it?  So, don’t be bragging until you’ve gone 3 rounds with Baloshi.

Teddy:  If all your blood and scars are any indication, you aren’t doing all that good at winning in Fight Club, now are you?  I’m standing behind my muscles.

 

DAY 4

A precarious truce has developed.  Mostly because there is only one sofa that provides a good view outside*.  It’s so heartwarming to see them sitting side by side – if only this could last when we get home.

Izzie:  You are hogging the sofa.  Move over.

Teddy:  I’m not hogging anything.  Not a single hair is past the halfway point.

Izzie:  I didn’t say you were past the halfway point, I said you are hogging, which means you are too close to the halfway point.  Move over.

Teddy:  Nope!  I am well within my borders.

Izzie, erupting into a blizzard of slaps:  Move. Over. There!

Teddy, hitting her once on top of the head with a solid whack:  NO!

The Viking:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  Knock it off!

DAY 5

The Viking:  Teddy!!!  Your poop can’t possibly need to be buried halfway to China!  Stop digging in the litter box already!

Me:  Izzie!!  Stop digging in the litter!  We can’t hear the TV!

The Viking:  AGAIN?!  You were just in there 5 minutes ago!  Stop all the digging!

Me:  Now I know why their water bowl is always empty.

The Viking:  Look at all the litter on the floor!

Me:  It’s like Competitive Pee/Pooping!  They are going to wear out the bottom of the litterbox.

DAY 6

We had to go into town and buy a few groceries.  We left some windows open and hoped Izzie wouldn’t entertain other campers with her deafening yodels.  She can be very convincing when she screams.  We were deliriously happy when we got back and there wasn’t a crowd of people huddled around the trailer, calling PETA.

DAY 7

Me:  Where’s Teddy?  I haven’t seen him for a long time.  He’s not in our bed.

Teddy has staked out our bed as his own and is refusing to back down.  Izzie can sleep on the bed too, but as soon as she gets all bossy and angry, he kicks her off.

The Viking:  I don’t know.  Teddy!  Come here.

Me rattling the treat jug:  Teddy!

Izzie was sitting over by the litter box but as soon as she hears the treats rattling, she comes running, shouting her enthusiasm.  And then………Teddy comes out of the litter box.

Me:  For fuck’s sake, Izzie!  How long have you had him pinned inside the litterbox?!  No treats for you!!

DAY 8

I’m being lazy, laying in bed.  I’m not sleeping but not really ready to face the day just yet.  Until…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop chewing on those charging cords!

About five minutes later….

The Viking:  Izzie!!!  Stop clawing the sofa!

Not even 5 minutes later…..

The Viking:  Izzie!!  Stop slapping Teddy!

It’s obvious that Izzie needs some attention – being cooped up in the trailer day after day is starting to get to her.  We decide to pull out the harness and leash and take her outside.  Getting the harness on her is a two-person job and a bit of a rodeo but we managed.

Outside, she lays down on the outdoor rug in front of our chairs and things appear to be going well.  And then someone comes out of the laundry building about 25 meters from our site and she totally loses shit!  She bolts to the trailer door, climbs the screen all the way to the top of the door and when she runs out of room she vaults off the screen to the ground, hitting the stairs in the process.  It all happened so fast we didn’t have time to react.  I grabbed her when she hit the ground and took her inside.  She didn’t appear to be in pain, so I gave her and Teddy some treats and left her alone to recover.

Teddy:  Who’s the ‘fraidy cat now?

DAY 9

We were forced to break out the cat toys.  Izzie is becoming unruly.  Teddy just lays around, looking out the windows, napping on our bed.  He’s a fucking joy!  Izzie is the exact opposite and her Feral Side is starting to show.  We have a fishing pole toy and a wand toy.  Guess which one Teddy got?  That’s right.  Neither.  I even took Teddy into the bedroom and closed the door.  Thirty seconds later, she was outside the door shouting death threats while she was chewing on the fishing pole toy that she got away from The Viking.  Teddy couldn’t concentrate and who could blame him?  Sigh.

DAY 10

Me:  Teddy!  Quit clawing the carpet!

I forgot his cardboard scratch board at home.

Izzie, chasing him down to rain hellfire slaps on his head:  Don’t. Claw. The. Carpet. Dumbass!

Me:  Izzie!  I don’t need any help from you!!

The Viking takes Teddy to the Cat Tree and gives a thorough demonstration on how to scratch it rather than the carpet.

DAY 11

It’s totally dark.  I’m guessing somewhere around 3:00 in the morning.  The trailer is rocked by two huge thumps followed by a hair-raising, high-velocity sound that could be a torpedo launched from the living room to the bedroom.  The Viking and I bolt upright in bed, shocked out of sleep.  There are screams – most likely from Izzie because she’s a Screamer – and a long, high-pitched ‘No..No..No..No..’– probably from Teddy because somehow he has learned how to talk.  Despite getting catapulted from sleep, we both become instant cheerleaders.

The Viking:  Get her Teddy!

Me:  Slap her harder, Teddy!

The Viking:  Good boy, Teddy!  Don’t take any more of her shit!

Me:  Stop screaming Izzie – you’ve had this coming for days!

Does this make us bad Cat Parents?  Probably.  But any jury of our Cat Parent peers who have met Izzie would exonerate us in a nano-second.

DAY 12

A rainstorm rumbles by and drops a fairly substantial amount of rain.  Izzie loses her shit.  Again.  Oddly enough, Teddy is just chilling, completely unaffected by the downpour.  After giving it some thought, we decide it’s because when it’s raining at home, Teddy invariably has to shelter in place – not by choice, mind you, but because Izzie sits at the cat door refusing to let him inside – so the sound of rain pelting the vehicles and trailer is nothing new.  For Izzie though, this is her first experience of the deafening sound that heavy rain makes on the trailer roof.

She ends up under the bed.

Teddy:  ‘Fraidy Cat, again?

DAY 13

The Viking and I are pre-packing for our departure tomorrow morning.  We want to fall out of bed and be on the road in half an hour.  Teddy is suspicious and uneasy.  He doesn’t like change and keeps giving me huge, sad eyes, like he’s going to his own execution.  We reassure him but he knows something is up.  Izzie doesn’t give a shit.

DAY 14

7:00am – Zoom!  Zoom!!  Izzie is flying from the bedroom to the living room, getting impressive airtime from the stairs in the bedroom.  Zoom, zoom, zoom, zoom!!  Back and forth over and over and over again.

The Viking:  For fucksake, Izzie!!  We’re trying to get shit done, here!

 

So.  We’re home.  Both cats disappeared for hours, probably doing their rounds, sizing up the situation after two weeks gone.  The Viking and I have Vacation Hangover.

 

*There are various other places they can lay down and watch outside, but it seems the sofa is the premium observation place.

 

Where in the Hell is My Machete?!

The mad scramble for Holidays has begun.  I’m sweating buckets as I run around gathering all the things on my list.  Half way through one task though, I think of another thing that didn’t make the list so I change directions and then forget what the hell I was looking for.

I’m doing a lot of starting and stopping and swearing, if I’m honest.  Sure, I could have done most of the packing ahead of time but that just means I’m lugging suitcases from one flat surface to another because I need that surface in the meantime.  Houses really should be built with a “Packing Room” that has long flat surfaces for the luggage and shelves for organizing.  That would be helpful.

Also, cats; they get into everything and that blouse you just packed will be covered in fur when you need it.  It’s safer in the closet on hangers until the last minute.

And I can’t find my Night Vision Goggles.  Or my machete.  I probably won’t have to slash my way through a steamy jungle on our way to Arizona but you just can’t be too careful.  The Night Vision Goggles are handy to have though.  I probably put both of them in the same spot so I wouldn’t lose them but I can’t remember where that spot could be.  I hate it when that happens.

So, I don’t have much time to write a post but I wanted everyone to know that I’m not dead.  I’m on holidays.  I might not have time to write much for the next 2 weeks and it seemed like the polite thing to do to explain why.

Unless I actually die while on vacation.  That would seriously suck and no one would be worrying because I just told you I’m on vacation.

Maybe I should stop and buy a couple epi-pens in case of Killer Bees and I really need to find that fucking machete and the Night Vision Goggles.

Where the Hell is My Machete?!

The mad scramble for Holidays has begun.  I’m sweating buckets as I run around gathering all the things on my list.  Half way through one task though, I think of another thing that didn’t make the list so I change directions and then forget what the hell I was looking for.

I’m doing a lot of starting and stopping and swearing, if I’m honest.  Sure, I could have done most of the packing ahead of time but that just means I’m lugging suitcases from one flat surface to another because I need that surface in the meantime.  Houses really should be built with a “Packing Room” that has long flat surfaces for the luggage and shelves for organizing.  That would be helpful.

Also, cats; they get into everything and that blouse you just packed will be covered in fur when you need it.  It’s safer in the closet on hangers until the last minute.

And I can’t find my Night Vision Goggles.  Or my machete.  I probably won’t have to slash my way through a steamy jungle on our way to Arizona but you just can’t be too careful.  The Night Vision Goggles are handy to have though.  I probably put both of them in the same spot so I wouldn’t lose them but I can’t remember where that spot could be.  I hate it when that happens.

So, I don’t have much time to write a post but I wanted everyone to know that I’m not dead.  I’m on holidays.  I might not have time to write much for the next 2 weeks and it seemed like the polite thing to do to explain why.

Unless I actually die while on vacation.  That would seriously suck and no one would be worrying because I just told you I’m on vacation.

Maybe I should stop and buy a couple epi-pens in case of Killer Bees and I really need to find that fucking machete and the Night Vision Goggles.

 

 

VICTORY! or not

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers again, hosted by the stupendous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This time we’re using a wonderful prompt photo by Roger Bulltot.

“HA!  I told you this wasn’t the way out!”  Cheryl crowed, twerking enthusiastically in a well-rehearsed if seldom used victory dance. 

Steve rolled his eyes, studying the map.

“YeeHaw!!”  Slapping her ass and shuffling like she was riding a horse.  “Gawd, it’s great to be right once in a while!”

He traced the map with his right index finger, muttering about medieval architecture.

Cheryl was now trotting in circles chanting ‘LOOOOSER’.

Steve went closer to the wall and pulled a vine aside.  “Hey!  Here it is!” 

Cheryl stopped to stare, wilted in disappointment and let her head fall back.  “Fuuuuuuck!”

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Friday Fictioneers – Hotels and Room Service

I missed the last few Friday Fictioneers because The Viking tricked me into marrying him.  Okay….talked….me into marrying him.  So, there was that and then his brother and wife came to visit from Denmark and then a Honeymoon.  All of which kept me from getting too much time with a computer.

But I’m finally back in the swing of things so I have time for FF, hosted by the great and wonderful Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields.  And the photo prompt this week is provided by Jan Wayne Fields.

 

“What was that?”  Cheryl’s legs scissored and kicked inside the sleeping bag.  “There’s something crawling on my leg!!”

Steve rolled his eyes.  “There’s nothing crawling on your leg, Cheryl.  It’s all in your head.”

Scrambling out, sitting heavily on Steve’s stomach (Oooff!), she shook out her bag.  A beetle about an inch long plopped on her pillow.

“I knew it!!  This is why I hate camping!!  There are bugs in EVERYTHING!” 

Steve tossed the beetle outside immediately after Cheryl bolted, taking her pillow and bag to the car.

“So it’s hotels and room service forever?!” He yelled after her.

 

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Steve & Cheryl – Lost Again!

It’s been a blah week for me.  I can’t seem to get enough sleep.  Usually my pain meds knock me right out – I wouldn’t hear a bomb go off – but lately I’m waking up 2 or three times every night.  And it’s hard to be creative when I’m a zombie.

Actually, if I were a real Zombie, I could probably make a fortune in movie deals.  That’s the only kind of movie they make anymore, isn’t it?  TV series are even worse.

So, I’m glad I have Friday Fictioneers & Rochelle Wisoff-Fields to help with the creative juices.  And Sandra Cook’s photo made it easy for me. Two years ago, The Viking and I spent 7 wonderful weeks driving through Europe.  I kept a journal of our adventures which I will write out into a full Travel Book soon-ish but, in the meantime, I poached a typical moment for Friday Fictioneers.

Steve & Cheryl – Lost Again!

“For Gawdsakes, Cheryl!!  That’s our hotel!  We’re right back where we started!”

Cheryl looked from the hotel to the map.  Once, twice, three times.  “I don’t understand.  The Cathedral should be here!”

“Are you holding the map upside down?”

“No, Steve, I’m not!  It’s all these twisty streets and palazzos every second block!  And why won’t they put proper street signs up?!  How am I supposed to know where we are without street signs?!  Aaaagh!!”  She hit the map with the back of her hand and it ripped in half.

“Okay.  Calm down.  Let’s get a coffee and start again.”

Word count:  100

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