Monday, July 12, 2010

Houston, We Have a Problem

Turns out there's a very good reason why I should never be allowed to go away on vacation.

And that, my friends, is because I invariably have trouble with re-entry.

In fact, I think there may be a direct correlation between the level of pleasure experienced while away from the house, and the level of distress upon entering back in it.

Picture this scenario for a moment if you will. . .

When last we spoke I was at the Shore for a few days - after which I traveled up to the scenic shoreline of Connecticut for the first-ever Spin Family Reunion.  And, although Drip Dry and the Spin grandparents were able to accompany me on the journey, other members of the Spin household were allowed to remain in the Garden State without parental supervision due to previous commitments to concert tickets. . . .camping trips. . . mall employment . . . and plain-old-not-liking-their-mother-enough-to-spend-the-weekend-with-fifty-other-human-beings-who resemble-her.

So there I was. . .

Visiting a family cottage on a secluded cove. . . lodging in a waterside bed & breakfast . . . sitting dockside watching Drip Dry get thrown from a tube on the back of a boat . .  . drinking mohitos at lunchtime - fine wine at dinner. . . conversing with philosophy professors, chefs, epidemiologists, authors, and neuroscientists. .  . distributing family heirlooms. . . sharing memories of those who are no longer with us. . .  listening to my 86-year-old father and his 84-year-old brother regale us with memories of their childhood.

Yes, my friends, that was my little slice of Heaven right there on the Connecticut coast. (Let's face it, any day where I am the only one who brings down the collective I.Q. is a good day in my book)

But it wasn't long after I exited the car upon my arrival home that the re-entry problems began.

For despite the fact that I had sent out a warning signal upon crossing the state line to inform my daughters of the estimated hour of splash-down, the first thing I spied upon entering the household (smack-dab in the center of the kitchen table for all to see. . .) was  Drip Dry's prized lantern which I had allowed Ponzi to take on her camping trip - ignoring the fact that her father had expressly forbidden her (and me) to do so.

And I knew right then and there that I was in for a bumpy landing.

For the amenities and accouterments in the Spin house in no way resemble a bed and breakfast. . .  nor could I put my toes in the sand (although there was a perfect coating of downy dog hair on the floor) . . . I saw no sign of the water  (unless you count the sound of splashing in a dishwasher which had been hastily loaded and turned on) . . . the frozen "Bubba Burger" which I rustled up for dinner somehow lacked the appeal of grilled swordfish . . . and - smart as I make her out to be - conversations with the dog somehow do not provide the same level of intellectual stimulation as those which I have aforementioned . . .

So you see, it's not my fault - really - that the cursing began when it did.  For the stream of swear words that followed went something like this:  I don't care what those feckin' girls say, they had time to clean up after themselves. . . who do they think I'm am . . . a cleaning lady or something?. . .  oh nice. . . look at this. . . someone left a g-dummed glass on my wooden table . . . and that smell. . . my God. . .how the freakin' frackin' way could they stand to be in the kitchen with that smell ememinating from that stinking garbage . . . oh, and look here . . . someone cooked a gourmet pizza for themselves and left the pan and pizza cutter out on the stove. .  .well I hope she enjoyed it 'cause that's the last fecking pizza I'm buying until H-E-DOUBLE-TOOTHPICK freezes over. . .and where the holy heck did I think I was going to put these freakin' tablecloths I brought home. . . what's with those Irish and their ***#@#**#$@*  linens anyway?!?!?!?

Well I think you get the picture. . .