Showing posts with label long amusing-wannabe post. Show all posts

It was a vacation doomed from the start. You know what I mean (unless you haven’t read part one, in which case, go HERE). However, once we found our turn off to the ski resort, we thought we were home free. We were in raptures when we saw the name of the resort show up on a huge sign, then we saw the actual ski area and then more driving and more snow and driving, driving, driving . . .as it turns out, the ski lodge, (well, hotel inn thing, ah, let’s face it, it was basically a motel) was almost a mile away from the resort. So much for my sitting in the lobby by the fire watching the skiing from the window—there was no way I could leave the Big Guy in our room alone all day while I sat in some resort lounge with the Little Guy a mile away. My vision of reading and sipping hot chocolate in a glamorous location went POOF!

When we finally pulled up in front of the pokey little place, there was a sign that said we were allowed to park in front for loading and unloading only. Wha? Didn’t they realize it was snowing outside? Like, a lot? We were expected to trudge through the snow to the parking lot around the corner any time we wanted to go somewhere? (Turns out that strip of parking had to be empty b/c the snow plow came through early in the morning—important to know for later.) Well, okay, we would worry about that another time. We got all our stuff—the usual clothing, bottled water, snacks plus toys for the boys, electronic and otherwise, the huge bag of snow clothes and boots (did I say boots? B/c that would be incorrect since we left the snow boots—newly purchased for this very adventure—in a box in the garage where they were waiting to be loaded into the car) and headed in the door.

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t a good smell, either. It smelled like the place was pretty much wet all of the time (and it pretty much was). The locker area for snow paraphernalia was right in front (makes perfect sense but I’m not a skier so I wasn’t expecting it) and "wet" wasn't the worst smell that hit me. Faugh!! The lobby was a bit better. We immediately started looking around for the hotel restaurant, but guess what? There wasn’t one. As we checked in we were told there was a microwave and small fridge in our room. That was something, at least.

It wasn’t until we headed up to our room, all of us loaded up with our things (except the Big Guy who needs all of his faculties about him to keep from tripping and falling down) that we learned there was no elevator. Our room? On the third floor. The first flight of stairs, though wet, were okay, but the following flights, two for each level, were metal and each had a heavy metal door at the bottom and the top. We begged the Big Guy to open and close the doors for us but he just couldn’t seem to manage (for those who are new here, our Big Guy suffers from cerebral palsy and that’s just the beginning of his list of differences). So, after banging our way up the stairs (did I mention, six flights?), the Big Guy whining and complaining all the way, me wanting to get my hands around someone’s neck (anyone’s would do), we finally arrived in our room.

The maid was still cleaning it. Here we were, five hours later than expected, and they were still cleaning our room! It was clear it was needed. It was dirty and smelled way worse. Someone had suffered—deeply--through some kind of alien sickness and only moments ago, it would seem. The maid finished up and scurried off. As soon as she was gone, we called the lobby and asked for another room. The new room was much better (and ready which begs the question—why not put us there in the first place?) but the fridge smelled, the microwave was tiny and there was a four inch crust of snow on the inside of the window.

It was now getting close to nine and we hadn’t eaten anything but crackers and cookies since we had left the house around noon. So, The Spouse got into the car to buy TV dinners and whatever else he could find to get us through Monday morning (the next day was Sunday and though we felt okay about going down to a hotel restaurant to eat, we didn’t want to take the kids “out” to eat on the Sabbath).

Meanwhile, I turned up the heat in the room, got things unpacked and tried to tune out the whining of the Big Guy who not only needed food—after all, one has to feed a 6 foot 250 pound body on a fairly regular basis—but his “mental” medicine, as well, and he was hours overdue. (You don't want to spend the night in the same room with the Big Guy when he hasn't had his depression/anxiety/bipolar meds.) Since he can’t swallow pills, he has to have it served to him crushed in ice cream—only Dryer’s brand chocolate would do—so we had to wait until The Spouse got back from the grocery store. Once everyone was fed and medicated, I felt things would get back on track.

But I was wrong.

Until recently, The Spouse and I were so lacking in resources (read: money, energy, sanity) and so abundantly blessed with abundantly troublesome kids with abundant misdirected energy that going anywhere was pretty much beyond our means. However, we did get one or two little vacations back in what I think of as “the dark days”. In each case we would start to thinking how we really needed a break and wouldn’t it be lovely “if”? We would plan it all out, see how much money it would cost, then throw the whole thing up in the air and set it on fire. Meanwhile, some guardian angel would write it down in the book of heaven and viola!--the exact amount of money needed would magically appear and all other obstacles would be made smooth. Clearly (at least it was clear to us), each of these trips was sanctioned by the Almighty.

Then one January day we decided we would give the Middle Child the birthday wish of her heart--snow-boarding lessons. Since a six hour round trip to the nearest snowfall and back was out of the question (our then 16 year old Big Guy, with his propensity for barfing, laughing maniacally and talking non-stop at 100 decibels, was in danger of being tossed onto the road an hour into any car trip) we decided to stay the three day weekend in a lovely establishment highly recommended by a sister who said--and I quote--“It is so fun to sit there by the cozy fire and watch the skiers outside while you sip hot chocolate.”

I pictured the Big Guy upstairs in our room with cable and chow (it had worked in the past), the Little Guy playing happily with toys and books at my feet whilst I sipped said chocolate, The Spouse and the Middle Child enjoying a snow-boarding lesson somewhere within shouting distance. So, we packed the car and left around noon, smug in our cleverness at leaving after the morning rush of traffic one generally encounters going up to the snow on a Saturday morning.

True, we had to sit at the toll bridge for nearly an hour before we got through, but I still had no presentiment of disaster until we stopped at some gas station/restaurant/gift shop two hours later to use the facilities only to find that the wait for the ladies room was 45 minutes. (The wait for the men’s room was five. That’s a subject for another post, one better written, no doubt, by Shelle). So, okay, we were only an hour and forty-five minutes behind schedule. Good thing the snowboarding lesson was for Monday morning! We still had plenty of time to get to the lovely recommended establishment and play in the snow before going out to eat our nice warm dinner.

When we hit the snow, we avoided putting on our chains for as long as possible. We laughed, a bit snidely, at the folk who were pulling over at the first hint of a flake, especially the woman with the Tahoe license plates. Surely she knew how to drive in this little bit of snow! When we could avoid it no longer, we, along with everyone but the smart lady from Tahoe, pulled into a rest stop to put on the newly acquired chains, the ones The Spouse vehemently assured me he could put on himself and, despite 1,000 attempts, could not. That was when it hit me—this trip had not been sanctioned the way so many others had been. No planning it out to the penny, no throwing it up in the air, no guardian angel, no money falling from the sky . . . we wanted to go, so we went. We were doomed.

After forever in the freezing snow and forking out $10 for someone (conveniently lying in wait for rubes like us) to put on our chains, we were finally again on our way. So, we were another 45 minutes behind but we were still doing good. We pulled up behind the other cars waiting to turn off onto the road to Tahoe and waited. And waited and waited and waited. We waited for an hour before The Spouse turned off the key in the ignition, got out and went to speak with the police officers we spotted up ahead. We were told not one, but two big-rigs had jack-knifed on the road ahead and we should turn around and go home.

Go home?!?! There was no way we were going to go home! This was no day trip! We had reservations at a very nice establishment and a whole weekend planned. We made a quick call to the hotel and let them know we would be late. They said, no problem, as long as you are here by ten, it’ll be fine. (It seems all the employees went home at ten. We thought this strange but no matter—we would be there in plenty of time!)

We had “planned” to be in Tahoe by three P.M. It was now nearly five and we were driving at about two miles per hour. We wondered how an accident, even two accidents, could possibly take so long to clear up. It became dark and then darker, the kids were starving (but barf-free) and we had no idea how much longer it would take us to get to our destination. Finally, after three hours of this, The Spouse had had enough and decided he was going to pull around the clump of cars to see what in the world was holding us up. That was when we realized we had been caught behind a pack of knock-kneed California drivers crouching in the beam of light from a giant snowplow.

Once I got The Spouse calmed down and driving was once again safe, we drove the last few miles to the hotel with humiliating ease and speed (on the way home, we learned that the $10 chain-fiasco rest stop was a mere 15 minute drive from the turn off to our hotel). We made it to our destination two hours shy of our ten o’clock deadline and boy were we cold, tired and hungry! We couldn’t wait to unload the car and run down to the hotel restaurant and have something hot to eat and drink. Little did we know our troubles had just begun.

(To win a free signed copy of Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind, go HERE!)