Did you ever notice how exhausted you feel once you board your plane to whatever #vacation spot you've chosen? There's a simple reason: Over the past 10 days you've been hard at work prepping for the Big Trip. If you, like me, are leaving a #spouse at home to babysit or rake the leaves, then you've had to shop for food so he won't starve and you had to call all your friends to make sure they will be available should an earthquake strike and the cell phones lose power. You also have to clean the house so your mate won't add to the stench that is already there, and do the laundry, which has increased threefold now that he knows you won't be there to wash his whities.
Besides the spousal preps, you also have to deal with your pets. That means buying food for them, cooking if necessary, #grooming them so they won't look like mangy mutts when you return, and most importantly, reading the riot act to the person who will be minding them in your absence. That would be in my case, the husband. He loves, loves, loves the dogs and cats, but he also loves #Netflix and his obsessive list of "readings." (Translation: everything from tabloids to tech manuals) This means he must receive instructions as to how to maintain the well-being and health of the pets and still manage to watch 60 episodes of CSI. Over the years I've used many techniques to guarantee peace of mind. I've done the teacher-pupil method, which means having him write down everything I think is important (for instance, keep the water dishes full since it's 101 degrees in the shade and the pets don't want to share your Arizona Tea); typed detailed instructions that took you three hours to prepare, which he will promptly misplace as soon as you leave the house; and the Bad Mommy strategy.
Bad Mommy actually works the best even though it sounds like something out of the Salem witch trials. The basic theory is the spouse must be convinced that he is expendable and if the Bad Mommy should find, upon her return, that the pets are undernourished, stressed out, and dehydrated, or, god forbid, MIA, she will simply tear up every book in the spouse's library, auction off his prized collection of jewelry and bola ties, and no longer participate in the keys hunt, which can jump start every business day. I don't know about your spouse or significant other, but mine has great respect for the Bad Mommy. This includes his responding to text messages and cell calls at all hours of the day and night and reporting on the quality of life of each companion animal. Without this guarantee, my vacation is not really a vacation--it's a bit like waterboarding without water.
Enforcing the Bad Mommy is exhausting but necessary so she can have a decent vacation without worrying that the house is burning down while the Keeper of the Hearth is snoring on the sofa and the cats are hanging from the chandelier. The situation may be exacerbated if your spouse or PIC (person in charge) has a hearing disability that requires repeating everything four times.
Unfortunately your preps are not over since there still is packing, making sure your laptop is operational, charging your iPhone, optimizing your physical attributes such as shaving your legs, dyeing your hair, replenishing your meds, and losing 25 pounds over the weekend. That some of these goals are not realistic weighs on you heavily, and you must spend at least an hour or two whipping yourself (metaphorically speaking) as punishment for not being the perfect person you were born to be.
Physically speaking, you've done it all--unearthed your driver's license and e-ticket, tended to the animals, and hugged the spouse. For a dysfunctional person, however, there's always a period of worries prior to liftoff. These usually consist of questions along the following lines:
1. Will the plane crash?
2. Will you forget to apply the Sun Block and give your dermatologist even more business than she normally generates?
3. Will your credit card company decide that you're not really in Florida and cancel your card since it's convinced that a greedy person has stolen your identity and will continue to purchase large screen TVs and stereo components?
4. Will you lose your cool with the TSA agent manhandling your carry-on and tell him/her where she can stick her badge?
5. Will you fall down in the shower at your vacation spot and twist your ankle so that your entire trip will become a lesson in Red Cross #emergency aid?
These are some of the puzzling questions that will occur to you as you super shuttle your way to the airport at 7 am when you have not officially awakened yet and are depending on a Starbucks double espresso at Sky Harbor as a pick-me-upper. While huddled in the shuttle van, eyeing your fellow passengers while trying not to become involved in any conversations, you remember you forgot to take your meds this morning. Naturally they are in an inaccessible spot in your baggage and you won't be able to get to them until the arrival in Florida. Should you (a) cry silently; (b) consider this a scary omen for the rest of the trip; (c) resolve not to become a flaming nut--after all, these magic pills have a half life which could possibly kick in and make you appear sane even if you feel lousy; or (d) all of the above?
As you mull the possibilities, you thank god that the super shuttle driver doesn't creep you out like the time before when you thought he looked like someone who used to deliver your UPS packages but turned out to be the person who died suddenly (according to his newspaper obituary) after his 1,000th run to the airport. Everything is going well until you hit the traffic jam from hell on Rt. 101. Now you're going to miss your plane, and you'll have a big fight with the airlines who are rigid and inflexible about booking new flights. You obsess over this while the van continues its turtle-like approach to the airport. The non-creepy driver smiles at you when you run with your luggage into the #AmericanAirlines terminal ticket level. He waves his hand and says, "Have a great trip!"
You force a return wave but curse him (in your mind, of course) for his inept driving skills. Why do you always get Super Shuttle's bottom tier of drivers? Still, he did get you there safely. Quit worrying, you rebuke yourself in your best schoolmarmish voice. as you dial your #husband for a quick home security check. Whewww! The fun is about to start.
Besides the spousal preps, you also have to deal with your pets. That means buying food for them, cooking if necessary, #grooming them so they won't look like mangy mutts when you return, and most importantly, reading the riot act to the person who will be minding them in your absence. That would be in my case, the husband. He loves, loves, loves the dogs and cats, but he also loves #Netflix and his obsessive list of "readings." (Translation: everything from tabloids to tech manuals) This means he must receive instructions as to how to maintain the well-being and health of the pets and still manage to watch 60 episodes of CSI. Over the years I've used many techniques to guarantee peace of mind. I've done the teacher-pupil method, which means having him write down everything I think is important (for instance, keep the water dishes full since it's 101 degrees in the shade and the pets don't want to share your Arizona Tea); typed detailed instructions that took you three hours to prepare, which he will promptly misplace as soon as you leave the house; and the Bad Mommy strategy.
Bad Mommy actually works the best even though it sounds like something out of the Salem witch trials. The basic theory is the spouse must be convinced that he is expendable and if the Bad Mommy should find, upon her return, that the pets are undernourished, stressed out, and dehydrated, or, god forbid, MIA, she will simply tear up every book in the spouse's library, auction off his prized collection of jewelry and bola ties, and no longer participate in the keys hunt, which can jump start every business day. I don't know about your spouse or significant other, but mine has great respect for the Bad Mommy. This includes his responding to text messages and cell calls at all hours of the day and night and reporting on the quality of life of each companion animal. Without this guarantee, my vacation is not really a vacation--it's a bit like waterboarding without water.
Enforcing the Bad Mommy is exhausting but necessary so she can have a decent vacation without worrying that the house is burning down while the Keeper of the Hearth is snoring on the sofa and the cats are hanging from the chandelier. The situation may be exacerbated if your spouse or PIC (person in charge) has a hearing disability that requires repeating everything four times.
Unfortunately your preps are not over since there still is packing, making sure your laptop is operational, charging your iPhone, optimizing your physical attributes such as shaving your legs, dyeing your hair, replenishing your meds, and losing 25 pounds over the weekend. That some of these goals are not realistic weighs on you heavily, and you must spend at least an hour or two whipping yourself (metaphorically speaking) as punishment for not being the perfect person you were born to be.
Physically speaking, you've done it all--unearthed your driver's license and e-ticket, tended to the animals, and hugged the spouse. For a dysfunctional person, however, there's always a period of worries prior to liftoff. These usually consist of questions along the following lines:
1. Will the plane crash?
2. Will you forget to apply the Sun Block and give your dermatologist even more business than she normally generates?
3. Will your credit card company decide that you're not really in Florida and cancel your card since it's convinced that a greedy person has stolen your identity and will continue to purchase large screen TVs and stereo components?
4. Will you lose your cool with the TSA agent manhandling your carry-on and tell him/her where she can stick her badge?
5. Will you fall down in the shower at your vacation spot and twist your ankle so that your entire trip will become a lesson in Red Cross #emergency aid?
These are some of the puzzling questions that will occur to you as you super shuttle your way to the airport at 7 am when you have not officially awakened yet and are depending on a Starbucks double espresso at Sky Harbor as a pick-me-upper. While huddled in the shuttle van, eyeing your fellow passengers while trying not to become involved in any conversations, you remember you forgot to take your meds this morning. Naturally they are in an inaccessible spot in your baggage and you won't be able to get to them until the arrival in Florida. Should you (a) cry silently; (b) consider this a scary omen for the rest of the trip; (c) resolve not to become a flaming nut--after all, these magic pills have a half life which could possibly kick in and make you appear sane even if you feel lousy; or (d) all of the above?
As you mull the possibilities, you thank god that the super shuttle driver doesn't creep you out like the time before when you thought he looked like someone who used to deliver your UPS packages but turned out to be the person who died suddenly (according to his newspaper obituary) after his 1,000th run to the airport. Everything is going well until you hit the traffic jam from hell on Rt. 101. Now you're going to miss your plane, and you'll have a big fight with the airlines who are rigid and inflexible about booking new flights. You obsess over this while the van continues its turtle-like approach to the airport. The non-creepy driver smiles at you when you run with your luggage into the #AmericanAirlines terminal ticket level. He waves his hand and says, "Have a great trip!"
You force a return wave but curse him (in your mind, of course) for his inept driving skills. Why do you always get Super Shuttle's bottom tier of drivers? Still, he did get you there safely. Quit worrying, you rebuke yourself in your best schoolmarmish voice. as you dial your #husband for a quick home security check. Whewww! The fun is about to start.
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