Tuesday, March 29, 2011

Mr. Bubby's Wild Ride

During his brighter days, Bubby basks on the beach.
I liken the hollow hype of the week of Spring Break to that of New Year's Eve.

Sure, it's easy - desirable even - to join that parade of revelers who truly believe that THIS YEAR it's going to be different. THIS YEAR it will be memorable. And, you're sure, when looking back upon the shenanigans that will ensue, in the spirit of the excitement that was drummed up by the likes of the royal wedding of Charles to Diana and the anxious preparedness exercises required of the Y2K conversion, this was indeed the year that finally lived up to the hype.

But, in the end, it inevitably ends with you drawing a fortune out of your 401k to pay off the pre-pubescent babysitter who sat on your couch all night eating hot wings and watching Housewives of Atlanta, while you defeatedly hang up a ridiculously non-rewearable dress with a new, strategically-plopped guacamole embellishment in the back of your closet.

This entry will serve as a bulleted recap of our past week... the glories of the much anticipated Spring Break.
  • The day before setting off on our Griswold family vacation adventures, our car was returned to us from the shop with the wrong size tire, white-wall out. I had no idea of the seriousness of this error. Wrong size, I get. White-wall out... my husband made it clear he'd rather be seen riding through town in a jester hat atop a burrow than drive the car like that. (At least, now I know what I can get away with. *snicker*)
  • The nomad set off for a business meeting in the big city, and I took the opportunity to take the kids to see their grandparents for a day. Upon our return, I notice a blur of brown in my driver's side mirror. Followed by three seconds of silence... and a high-pitched, blood-curdling, wheeze-interrupted screeching of a child from the backseat. Man Down! The beloved Bubby Bear had made a run for it by way of the rear window. I watched the surreal scene unfold in my rear view mirror. Bubby rolled gingerly to a stop in the right-hand lane. For the tiniest moment I thought, "He looks so peaceful and free. Basking in the sunlight." The choking sobs and mournful repeating of "BuhBEE, BUHbee!" from the back seat only partially shook me from my daydreaming. But the white minivan that clipped Bubby's right side and sent him violently rolling onto the shoulder and nauseatingly out of sight into the ditch along the winding country highway successfully yanked me from my stupor. Hazard lights employed, and many a sheepish smile to the aggravated drivers slowly pulling around while I point to the abyss of the ditch and attempt to mouth "I'm so sorry. My daughter lost her Bubby." (as if they care... get out of the road, lady), the rescue mission was surprisingly successful. He required repeated doses of Shout Advanced and aggressive scrubbing, but the road rash he incurred, for the most part, has healed nicely. 
  • Two days before we leave for our secluded little cabin overlooking an area lake, the American Angler to which I'm wed discovered a hole in the hull of his fishing boat. Oops. 
  • Finally driving to the cabin, and an hour after entering a dry county, the angler and I realize we didn't bring the beer. (This was the low point.)
  • Our first night in the cabin welcomed us with a thunderstorm and quarter-sized hail. (The cabin was fashioned with a tin roof... so quaint).
  • Our first morning in the cabin welcomed us with temperatures below freezing, a low-lying fog that clouded the view and a general grumpiness among the troops. 
  • During our return trip to the cabin from an afternoon visit to a nearby town, winding and steep roads delivered an award-winning case of car sickness to Bubby's owner. It was during this experience that I realized my four-year old doesn't have any teeth. From the looks of what she produced, she chews absolutely nothing before swallowing. Which, in a way, was advantageous for the cleanup crew. Big chunks are easier to scoop up off of the back seat with the metal spatula provided by the cabin's kitchen. (Credit goes to the nomad for his composure, concentration and creativity during the recovery efforts.) And poor Bubby. He yet again endured a deplorable case of situational disrespect. With no washer and dryer, we could only resort to washing him with Great Value dish soap (Mountain Glade scent) and setting him in front of the fire. He held up his head, and we held our noses, as best we could. 
There were some wonderful moments bespeckled amongst the rubble. And, being in a warm loft cabin with a crackling fire, a glass of wine and the family with which you'd stick it out, regardless of the lingering, sour tinge of the smell of noodle vomit, beats your average day of scraping the hardened dishwasher soap out of the little dishwasher door that refuses to open during the wash cycle.

But, it's days like these spent with the ones you love that bring out the undiluted reality that regardless of the hype, you're gunna have your fair share of noodles thrown up all over you. It's how well you scrape them off the back seat that counts.

 Or something like that.

1 comment:

  1. This one is a prize winner! Best ever, and made me laugh out loud!


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