…vacation sick leave

Up Haleakelah 2007

The phrase “relaxing vacation” is anathema for the husband! If I enjoy myself too much, I won’t want to go home, so he makes it his goal to assure that our vacations are fun-filled and action-packed—the quintessential adventure. In other words, (mine) "they’re perfectly wretched."

To me,
The trip was torture, not because of accidents, lost tickets, misplaced luggage, or poorly planned accommodations—Oh no, that could never happen because he is a vacation professional. Each detail, every moment is meticulously planned.           Nuts, T.

My idea of relaxing, Hawaii 2014

The husband tries to mitigate my mutterings, and suggests we take turns planning the vacations.

But if it were up to me, I’d show up at the airport, wait on stand-by for the first flight to any beach, and hit a clothes shop and a bookstore on the way.

He researches for months, makes detailed plans, and then collects the travel guides (our record-breaking travel guide collection is on the list of national landmarks, right below the biggest gopher mound in Arkansas). He evaluates climate and pours over the atlas—the silent holder of every vacation secret—all while surfing the net to get the best deal. For him, anticipation is the best part of the trip. Our vacations are purposeful and deliberate—yes, orchestrated miseries.

His idea of relaxation, rapelling waterfalls
Maui, HI 2014

To me
This is the last time I talk him into a beach vacation. I try to bask, and we para-sail. I want to beach-comb, he wants to sand-sprint, I want to meander through shops, while he bargains, deals, and brainstorms, then I’m exhausted and ready for a vacation! T.

I could be just as happy sitting at home with a good book while he took the children on vacation! I want to relax!

Reality Bite: My idea of a vacation includes healthful sanatoriums and several months at Bath, or in the bath.  After vacationing with him, people take sick leave.    Ah, but that's another story.  

…quizzical enjoyment

Vacation preparation is part of the torture. If I'm going to visit the very edge of desolation I must have every modern convenience. When you think about gathering all the gear don't your brain cells feel the burn?

Finally, after a decade of feeling the pack-up dread, the only organizer bone in my body—the one deep inside my pinkie—made another rare appearance and dared me to walk on the wild side in the husbands type-A toe shoes. "I will join him in his meticulous planning!" I toddled.

And so I compiled a CCC, comprehensive computerized camping list.[1] From that list, I packed a permanent grub box so we could dash off—spur of the moment, whenever the feral urge struck.

To me,
I’m sitting here peacefully contemplating my dirty hands and four fingernails broken off below the quick. I’m watching the children race around near an open fire with sharp sticks, axes and knives and I don’t care. I’m neither medicated nor blind (although my depth perception is a little off due to a misdirected spurt of kerosene).

I’m filthy, and I reek of fire, but all of this reminds me that camping is another experience that fits the vacation criteria. Do I hear the echo of the theme from the movie, Deliverance?

However, the fact that we live in tornado country, is reason enough to require that the box serve a dual purpose as our family emergency preparedness survival box. I’ve dipped into it to save me during many emergencies throughout the year—seeking a can opener or flashlight during a power outage, or scavenging MREs (military for Meals Ready to Eat, a.k.a. Mystical Recycled Earwax), for an unexpected dinner party.

So now when we go camping, the family can spend the trip gazing longingly into the depleted box and speaking of it with fond memories.

Reality Bite: There is no greater anguish than a faultless recollection of past perfection.[2]

[1] Say that three times fast.

[2] Me, again, brilliant me. Unless I’ve forgotten that I heard it already somewhere else first …

…essentials

When the husband yodels the camping call, if the children are feeling energetic, they tie down the technology hog, and make it regurgitate the original “CCC” list. Then they dash through the house to retrieve the misplaced gear and refill the box.

Although, some trips—okay, most trips,--they don’t. Then we camp survivor-style. Survival camping requires only the basics: pointy sticks, sharp knives and fire.

The only other necessity for the perfect camping experience is the addition of water. Within the first five minutes of the trip, all the clothing has to be dragged out, doused and hung out on poison ivy clothes vines, just waiting to be rained upon.

Reality Bite: On the bright side, survival camping doesn’t require coordinating shoes

…outfitted

Even fully outfitted, our camping vacations are no Camp-In-Style magazine cover. There is no R.V. with satellite T.V. or even a pop-up trailer. I have to form alliances to get a spot in the tent and even then I don’t get to sleep in a bed. I have to conspire and connive to win the coveted full-length mattress pad.

Our equipment is all the backpacking variety, which according to the advertisements is different than regular camping gear. Unfortunately, the cheap cherub in me can’t bear to purchase all things for each of the husband’s hobbies, so I suffer because backpacking equipment is virtually weightless, but essentially worthless.

Hikers don’t care what they sleep upon or what they eat. They are deprivation seekers,[1] whose ultimate goal is complete and absolute misery. They hike twenty miles of tight little lines on a geologic map in search of the elusive “greater challenge.”

To me,
On our last trip, his idea of a dainty stroll down to the river took a detour off the trail and we ended up fording the raging torrent with the four-year old perched on Daddy’s shoulders while we struggled without a machete through bramble and thicket, trying to retrace our path back to civilized camping. Vote me off, T.

After putting myself through that kind of survival ordeal, I see why the target audience for backpacking is the bold and the brave and I admit, I’m married to it.

Reality Bite: All in the guise of promoting a little marriage survival.

[1] Another nice word for masochists.

…from dust to dust

I’d add dirt, bugs and ashes to every home cooked meal if they would eat it like they do camp food. Within minutes of our arrival, even the finicky one is wolfing down raw hotdogs and slurping marshmallow out of an inch-thick shell of ash. Maybe they worry that they’ll starve (with good reason).

We rarely see any animals, (thank goodness most of our forays are into areas where the natural wildlife has been decimated) so we spend most days at the water’s edge, practicing geo-biology (a biological study of geology), which involves finding rocks that look like animals and repatriating them into their natural habitat, the water.

I don’t worry about fishing for anything, because I wouldn’t want to hook any of the native species. Heaven knows what I’d do if we caught one. If anything can thrive in the outflow of today’s pollutants it would have to be trapped and muzzled before it was rendered edible.

Reality Bite: Survival Rule #1: If it doesn’t bite you first…

…divine nature

So I’m lounging here in the hammock, waking myself periodically to adjust the body’s slip and slant. (One end is tied lower than the other, but I’m too content to care). I’m reeking of campfire and while sucking the marshmallow off my elbow I’m musing… “Why is it that life is so complex?” And more importantly, “Why do I enjoy this so much?”

Dear me,
Our extended family camping trip went relatively well. We did run into a few animals in the form of bike jockeys wearing tight little outfits, which were spitting and hissing about our campsite.

I would have thought that camping in the meadow would be their complaint, but our setting up seven tents in the middle of the parking lot was the bug that crept up their shorts.

Admittedly, it could have been the diapers and cribs that set them off too. There were juice boxes and food that we had flung to the feral children scattered about and when they were told that we don’t usually clean up until we’ve finished trashing a joint, they were rather peeved.

I told them to take their cute little selves off, or I would have to swat them off with the husband’s sierra card. T.

So, here I sway gently, contented, calm and peaceful, admiring nature and the quiet harmony of my surroundings… the girl scouts yodeling in the camp showers, the dogs baying across the tent spaces, the garbeling of a Spanish ham radio station, the gunshots in the distance. The only city sounds missing are the sirens. The children pinging windshields with pebbles flung from slingshots down at the creek should fix that.

Ah, this is the Life.

Dear me,
The sister’s cruise vacation sounds wonderful—every aspect, from the food to the entertainment. I look forward to hearing about a “real” vacation and seeing photos of the satiated couple—sometime next year.
I expect that is how long it will take her to dig out from beneath the glut of laundry, housecleaning and homework.
Tee hee hee, T.

Reality Bite: I am a confused study of contrasts in life, the universe and everything.

…skiing off piste

Dear me,
Remember, if it’s a misery vacation that he is planning, it inevitably includes the cold: hiking, glacier glissading, or skiing! Brrr, T

Everything about skiing is work, even shopping for gear. At the sport store, I’m exhausted after just the fitting. The salesman tells me, “These boots should fit comfortably—a little like vice-grips!” So, it only makes sense that ski boots are a necessary aspect of misery vacations!

The rapture of removing them at the end of the ski day is only equaled—in my memory, to the relief of child birth. Unfortunately, like labor, if I give it a few months, I forget the pain and there I go again.

Dear me,
Remember that our second date was skiing. I went because I was still trying to impress him, the guy that puts skiing above education (he skipped school), or the law, (he faked identification to work on the lifts at a resort) and he picked me!

For the next twenty years, only taking off three years to give birth, I have endured the torture that is his passion. As yin/yang opposites, we are the perfectly partnered pair.

I tell the daughter, “Be warned.” On a date, remember misery has long-term significance."

In spite of each new gadget invented to ease the misery of skiing, the trek to the slopes is still rife with dangers—shoulders bearing guillotine skis and ski poles that have stars of impalement at the ends. One cavalier turn and I can decapitate the whole avalanche patrol.

I make it to the slopes with a heel-toe, heel-toe, gear-toting lurch, only to wonder once I’m there, where to stick all those handy transportation gadgets—down the bibs in front, or do I hook ‘em up and let ‘em flap off my gators behind?

Skiing has its own unique verbiage to disguise its inherent wretchedness. The ski term off-piste means to glide rapturously in deep powder off trail, through snow-covered trees. When I ski off-piste, it happens accidentally, flailing frantically out of control, dodging and ducking trees, ditching skis and poles, and any sharp object that could imperil my ungainly finish.

But, most of the time, I ski “piste-off,” fighting the ski position, half bent over, leaning precariously forward, sliding and slipping while all the way screaming, and wildly zipping past signs that say slow.

To me,
The youngest tagged a tree while off-piste-ing. I volunteer to sacrifice the rest of the day and follow the child strapped on the patrol’s snow sled to the x-ray machine. It could’ve been me.
Hmmm, I’ll have to keep that idea in mind, T.

Ski promoters boast that this sport appeals to a wide range of individuals, regardless of one's proficiency level, clothing, or accessories. As long as you have buckets of money, you’re in!

These same promoters minimize the fact that skiing is the great equalizer in one other very important aspect; appearance. No face, even professionally lifted, looks good while skiing. Everybody is red faced—from windburn on a windy day, sunburn on a sunny one or frostbite from the terminal state of skiing. The typical hairstyle is either hat-head or windswept and you can easily spot a true skier by the snotty nose, raccoon goggle burn, and the stiff-legged plod.

It’s equally as easy to identify a phony—a skier that gets on the lift and skis straight down the greens directly to the lodge—because they are still able to sit comfortably—even recline and lift their feet up, read a book and drink cocoa. I admire the fact that in an emergency, they can fake a convincing injury and back it up with a most imaginative tale.

Reality Bite: That’s my kind of skier.

…precurs-ing

As I look back, I should have been clued in by our honeymoon—a prime example of his detailed torture. The sweet guy kept it a secret. In retrospect, that part was good. Had I known, I may have cancelled the wedding. An older, wiser, person would have realized that it was portend of our future together.


Dear Journal:
During this fun-filled week, I swear we have traversed four states and hiked across a national park that spans two nations. I packed for sunshine, beaches and warmth, yet just moments ago I was standing in knee-deep snow, short-sleeved and shivering having a memorial photo taken for posterity.
Our hotel is five-star; tour buses stop here to view it. It’s the focal point on the front of the national park map. The reservations had to be made months in advance, and the view is breathtaking … as seen from the reservation desk, because our room has no windows. Twin beds shoved together and a bathroom boasting of the original plumbing with a vintage claw foot bathtub, tepid water and chain pull toilet aren’t my idea of a honeymoon hotel …

As I may have mentioned before, the husband doesn’t believe in relaxing vacations. He believes in maximizing whatever opportunity we’ve afforded ourselves. I’ve hiked the wilderness areas (every year as my birthday surprise). I’ve RV’d across Alaska[1]  and we annually ski the “Greatest Snow on Earth.”[2] Our vacations are designed to make me look forward to going home again. And it works.

… We can’t afford to eat; the restaurant is also five-star, and they don’t need extra dishwashers. We jaunt into “town” morning, noon and night for meals. It’s a walking trail only—the entire community is, so we share the road with flora and fauna in the merry weather. When we hike back to the hotel, we’re starved and yet must trek out again.
None of this makes much difference to me because I’ve scheduled my first migraine ever to hit this week. On the upside, my soul-mate doesn’t have to go animal watching to view the habitat of a bear. The new Mrs. Terina Dee.

This whole vacation situation is a result of two things: my inability to say no to him and our mutual aversion to divorce. It may also be my attitude. If I acted like I was having fun, the sadistic thrill would end and he would probably quit taking me.

Reality bite: I should be grateful. When he vacations with the “boys,” most of them schedule the next week off as sick leave.

[1] For future reference: When Alaska boasts of “shorts and tanks weather in June,” they mean for Alaskans. The rest of us, from the lower forty-eight, still wear layers, layers, and more layers. Bring rain gear, Alaska is 90% ice and the rest of it is falling water. T.

[2] Utah Ski Association ad campaign. *&^$%#!

...consumption

To me,
A house of order, a house of peace … Is that even attainable in my day and age? Today, I exceeded the recommended weight limit, broke the law of averages and worst of all, I’ve ignored the daily recommendations of fiber—all of which promise safety, reliability and a healthier colon. What next? T.

When I sit down to write, I get instant, immediate relief like that antacid commercial, (but unmedicated.) I just relax in my chair in a lotus position and chant my little two or three syllable M&M’s--mommy mantra[1] (anything that alludes to the promise of grown children), and I feel an immediate release as I sink into the oblivion of writing.

These mantras are trite phrases that I can repeat over and over in moments of stress to calm myself and return to reality. I use the tried and true--phrases like, “Life’s not fair, ” “I told you so,” “I’m the Mom that’s why,” and although my newest one is lengthy, it’s become one of my new personal favorites, “Life doesn’t have to make sense and therefore neither do I.”

It’s reassuring to find that in times of extreme duress, these perfect comebacks are creamy, yet satisfying and they don’t melt all over your hands.

To Me:
Is it relief or exhaustion I’m feeling? Who knows, and who cares. Whichever it is, it works. I chant and everyone thinks I’m a swami or a salami? T.

The added relaxation of writing pushes my stress level to maximum and reminds me that for complete rejuvenation, I must spend a moment of each day meditating in total comfort and reflection—seeking inspiration and pondering the beauties and purpose of life.

Another stress relieving technique—aromatherapy— comes very highly recommended. The process involves lighting a candle, sprinkling fragrant pillow potpourri and smoothing on lotions and potions to release tension and increase redolent reflection.[2] If I had time to do all that, would I be stressed?

Dear me,
I’m combining calming yoga positions with other activities. Downward dog works well while toilet brushing, and I sit in lotus while I slide about dusting the floor with my bottom.
However, writing while in sun salutation is too much of a challenge, and after accidentally testing a selection of yoga positions, I find I sleep best in corpse. Striving to keep the knickers from twisting, T.

I’m driven by the race toward greater efficiency. I must multitask, or I waste time …but with yoga? Am I missing the point?

[1] All M&M’s are not candy coated, although chocolate still holds the #1 place when I’m desperate for self-meds.
[2] Certainly more pleasantly scented than Chapter 11’s opening. Wait for it. It’s not worth skipping ahead.

…snooze

Most relaxation techniques make me snort—because if I find a moment of calm around here, I’m snoring. Any moment of peaceful introspection is interrupted by a nap. If I relax, I nod off. The head bobble isn’t caused by narcolepsy; but by life. I look forward to carpools, because I can sleep at the red lights—if I pay the children to wake me when the light turns green.

My volunteer opportunities of choice are bake sales and ticket-taking because those venues provide convenient on-site napping facilities. The thread-count on most linen table cloths is higher than my nicest sheets and in a pinch I can slip under the table and steal a snooze between customers.

If waiting in any line is license to nod off and snore, imagine the deadly nature of sitting at a computer typing. After the hands nod off and turn to dead weights, I’m forced to edit out page after page of endless letter a’s and j’s. If I compound the problem with soothing scents of candles or potpourri, I could lose entire days slumbering beneath the desk on my trash can pillow.

The family seems to think that the cause for my drowse is boredom, not exhaustion, so when I slide under the edge of the family’s patience, they salvage me from between the bed and wall (where I’ve slipped while in the process of making it) and announce that they have an idea! We’re going on vacation.

To me,
Admit it, vacations are really not a break from work, just a change of venue.[1] Double yuck, T.

Reality Bite: Rescue me from relaxation.

[1] Somebody brilliant said that one! Okay, it was me.