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“If you get any closer, I’ll [FLATULATE]!”
Two questions:
1. Since when do they let fourth graders drive?
2. Seriously, who are these people?
Today I was driving and there was some roadwork going on. Since the traffic lights were out, the road workers were directing traffic, as road workers are wont to do, by standing in the middle of the road holding signs and making vague hand gestures.
I was at an intersection where there were two left-turn lanes. I was in the left-most left-turn lane. One of the (many) road workers directing traffic was in the middle of the intersection, in between the two left-turn lanes. He was gesticulating forcefully at a car in the lane next to mine. I’m not sure what he was trying to say with his gesticulations, and apparently the object of his gesticulations wasn’t sure either, because aforementioned road worker started increasing the force of his gesticulations while maintaining the same level of vagueness. He was mouthing something (apparently) important and seemed to be getting annoyed that he was (apparently) not understood.
It was at this moment that I became grateful that I chose the left-most left-turn lane to turn left in, because if I’d been in that other lane, I would have had no idea what that guy was trying to tell me. I might have become too distracted to drive.
Here’s what it looked like he was saying: it looked like he was telling the car(s) in that lane to drive straight ahead instead of turning left. But that wouldn’t have made any sense, because in order to go straight they would have had to change lanes and merge right with the folks already going straight, which would have been a lot more dangerous than just turning left in the left-turn lane, which was unobstructed in every respect. So I can’t imagine he was actually telling them to do that, even though it looked like he was telling them to do precisely that.
The only other thing I can figure is that he was telling them to be sure to drive around him instead of through him. That was probably exactly what he was saying, in fact. My only response to that is, well, Duh. I don’t think it’s an actual question on the driver’s test, but it’s a principle sort of implied by all the other principles taught in driver’s ed: you don’t just plow into somebody who’s standing in the street, even if he is wearing an orange vest.
I understand that these road workers have dangerous jobs, and moreover that they have every reason to fear that someone might accidentally hit them with a car. I’m not entirely convinced that the danger is at its greatest when the car is at a complete stop. So while I take no issue with road workers directing traffic by way of making vague hand gestures–that’s their job, after all–I don’t think it necessary or necessarily wise for them to make vague hand gestures with such emphasis. It’s very disconcerting.
I don’t know what the folks in that other lane ended up doing because I was too busy turning left myself to notice. Also, I may have hit someone wearing an orange vest. I’m not sure.
.
Madhousewife is the new Traffic Control Czar for the Obama administration. She understands that it’s not remotely funny to make jokes about hitting road workers with one’s car.
Dear Person Who Pulled in Front of a Long Line of Cars To Get into the Elementary School Parking Lot,
I realize you’re in a hurry, and that long line is a real bummer, but that is no excuse for driving in through the out door, out door. There is a lane for driving IN the parking lot–that would be the lane that the rest of us driving IN were IN. Then there’s a lane for driving OUT of the parking lot–that would be the lane that cars driving OUT drive OUT of. They can’t drive OUT if you’re driving IN in the same place. You dig? In addition to being rude, it’s just not safe.
And no, this isn’t sour grapes because you took the parking space that could have been mine if you’d been following the rules. No, Jethro, this is about the children. Thank you.
Sincerely,
Madhousewife
Dear Girlfriend,
You know you’re supposed to wear your socks when you play on the indoor playground. It’s the rule. Not my lame-o killjoy rule, but the rule of that fine establishment that provides the inflatable bouncy toys. If you do take off your socks, though, you should stay in the bouncy toy structure, where I can’t see you and force you to put them back on.
Oh, and I saw you try to hide the socks behind the inflatable bouncy thing. A bold move, to be sure. Just not quite bold enough. Better luck next time, girl.
Love,
Mommy
Dear President Obama,
Yeah, I figured as long as I’m writing letters, why not drop you a line as well? Look, I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with your ability to say stuff that is nakedly false but say it in such a way that even the most hard-nosed conservatives hesitate to call it “lying.”
I remember back when Bill Clinton was President–remember how they used to call him “Slick Willie”? good times–he would say something, and it would seem to consist of verifiable facts, but knowing it was coming from him, one could only think it had to be covering up something nefarious. You, sir, are a completely different kind of talent. You say stuff that everyone–everyone–knows isn’t true, and yet you say it so calmly and sincerely that even cynical folks like me find themselves searching desperately for the grain of correct information they are convinced is hiding in that big, fat, obvious not-truthness. How do you do it? Don’t answer that, you’ll only make more work for me.
Your obedient,
M. Housewife
P.S. Your hair looks fine.
Dear First Lady Obama,
Is that the appropriate title? I feel funny calling you Michelle. Anyway, just wanted to tell you, pay no heed to the haters: you ROCK those sleeveless outfits. You’ve got great arms–no need to hide them under a bushel and whatnot. Those critics are just jealous. They probably have puny, flabby arms like mine. Next time someone gives you grief about your clothes, you just look them in the eye and say, “Don’t you have more important things to worry about, like the economy going down the toilet?” Deflect, deflect, deflect!
Just one Mormon lady living vicariously through your bare arms,
Madhousewife
1. You could fall asleep at the wheel and kill yourself (or others).
2. You could be driving along thinking about how tired you are and not about which freeway exit you want to take, and all of a sudden you’re faced with a choice–East, West, North, South–and you won’t remember which the hell it is because it’s almost 1 a.m. and you just…don’t…know, even though you’ve driven this route many times and have always made the correct decision before–seriously, it’s not that hard–but right now, for some reason, you’re thinking, “East…west…whuzza diff’rence…who cares…” and then you remember, “WAIT! WAIT! THERE IS A DIFFERENCE! I CARE! BUT WHICH IS IT? WHICH IS IT? IT’S EAST! NO, IT’S WEST! IS IT WEST? YES, IT’S WEST! WHICH WAY DID I JUST GO? WAS IT EAST? IT WAS EAST, WASN’T IT? CRAP!” Which wouldn’t be such a big deal, except that when you’re going east, the next freeway exit isn’t until, like, Idaho, and as lovely as Idaho is this time of year, it is very far removed from where you need to be, which is in bed, sleeping.
* Note: I didn’t really have to drive all the way to Idaho before turning around and heading west. That was an exaggeration, for dramatic effect. In reality, there is at least one exit between Portland and Idaho. Unfortunately, it drops you off in the middle of ##$*(#$ nowhere, where there are no street signs–not that it matters because there are no streetlights, either, and it’s pouring down rain because it’s Oregon, so you wouldn’t be able to read the signs even if they were there. On the plus side, you are starting to wake up. On the minus side, you feel pretty much ready to kill yourself (or others), which is also dangerous. Incidentally, where you read “##$*(#$,” I want you to think of the filthiest word you know, because even if it wasn’t the word I was saying last night, it was certainly the word I meant to be saying.
And that’s why you shouldn’t drive when you’re really, really tired. Tell your friends, etc.
I’m too busy to write a long, rambling post about all the crap that happened to me this morning. Suffice it to say that it involved missing a bus and being twenty minutes late to an appointment. What I really wanted to do was wish my dear husband a happy anniversary–eleven years, baby!–and, you know, fish for well wishes and congratulations from the rest of you because that’s the kind of attention whore I am. That’s all.
We will be celebrating our eleventh anniversary in style this evening, as it is my tap recital (where I will be dressed as a vintage attention whore). Wish me luck, or a broken leg, or whatever it is we show business people do. I’m looking forward to this recital because I worked very hard for it, and I’m just hoping that I don’t goof it up because that would make me mad. The good news is that if I do goof it up, it won’t be that noticeable, as I spend most of my time onstage in the back row. The bad news is that there is one part at the very beginning when I’m in front, and I have to go into this pose after executing a turn, and roughly half of the time I lose my balance on that pose. In the world of dance, this is known as a “problem.” So hopefully I will keep my balance tonight, but if I don’t, at least everyone will have a few laughs at my expense and I will therefore have brought joy to the audience, which is really what I strive for, as an attention whore. Believe it or not.
Tomorrow my daughters and I are making the long-a** drive up into Washington to see my sister, my other two sisters, my brother, and my father. Two of my sisters live in Washington. My brother, who lives in Maryland, is coming out to Washington to meet a girl. My other sister is flying in from Missouri, and my father’s flying in from California. And I’m driving for four-and-a-half hours, maybe five or six, depending on whether or not I get entangled in Seattle’s rush hour, which I believe starts at 2 p.m. and lasts until roughly 7 p.m. If I leave here by nine, I should make it. Unless I run into some inexplicable traffic jam in Tacoma again. Suckitude. It’s only because I love my family of origin so much that I make such sacrifices. Yes, I am making a really big deal out of it because I know my sister’s reading this.
I actually don’t think I’d mind the drive so much, if it were just me. I like driving by myself. I can listen to whatever music I want, stop to go to the bathroom if I have to–and more importantly, not when I don’t have to–and I never ask myself, “How much longer until we get there?” Okay, sometimes I do, but it’s rhetorical, and only in Tacoma. And it’s more like, “How much longer can this possibly take???” But at least I can enjoy the solitude. Driving with children in the car is a joyless enterprise. On the plus side, I won’t have Elvis. On the minus side, I will still have Girlfriend, and there’s just no good way to travel with a two-year-old. I will be spending the whole time worrying that she’s going to sleep too much in the car and won’t sleep that evening, when I really, really want her to. Or I will be spending the whole time cursing because she’s not sleeping in the car, and worrying that she’s just going to crash at around 5 p.m. and wake up at 8 p.m., which is a whole other hell. I can only hope that Sugar Daddy knows where all the parts to the portable DVD player are, so I can electronic-babysit her all the way to Seattle. It’d be just like staying home, only with better restraints! (I’m kidding.)
Well, I have packing to do. You all enjoy your respective weekends. Ciao!
Dear Sporty Red Car in Front of Me,
Do you understand that you’re on the freeway? Do you wonder why it’s been so long since you saw a traffic light or stop sign? If you do realize that you’re on the freeway, why are you driving 40 miles per hour? Seriously, why would you do that? What possible reason could you have? Fifty miles per hour is one thing–sure, it’s annoying, but at least it’s in the neighborhood of what other freeway drivers are doing. Forty miles per hour–I’m sorry, but I just don’t “get it.” What’s your motivation? What kind of statement are you trying to make? Is this some kind of hip, ironic driving that I’m too square to appreciate? Please, enlighten me. I really want to understand.
If you’re having problems and can’t go faster than 40 miles per hour, at least not without a note from your mechanic, please, do yourself a favor and take the side streets. The freeway is no place for a delicate engine such as yourself. At least put your hazards on. I mean, you look like a nice vehicle. It would be a real shame if a driver less alert and conscientious than I were to smash right into you because he wasn’t expecting a shiny metal box to just be sitting there in the middle of the road like it was festival parking at the Pink Floyd concert. It would be even more of a shame if some sicko were to become enraged by your tortoise-esque pace and, God forbid, do intentional damage to your auto body because he was just so effing sick of being stuck behind your lazy bumper while the rest of the world passes him by at 55+ miles per hour.
I know, I know–trucks get away with this crap all the time, and it isn’t fair, but that’s the way of the world. Might makes right, as sad as that may be. Like the Darwin fish says, survival of the fittest, baby.
Of course, the only reason I’m writing all this instead of cursing at you is that I’m in no particular hurry to get where I’m going this morning. I’ll tell you this, though–you’ve given me a lot to think about today. You really have.
Sincerely,
Madhousewife, aka the American-made Minivan in Back of You
When I was growing up, my mother used to sing a song called “Dead Skunk in the Middle of the Road.” I think it was a novelty song from the era; I have no evidence that she made it up out of whole cloth. I could Google it, I suppose, but … oh crap, I’m doing it, I’m Googling it. What’s become of me? It’s a real song, written by Loudon Wainwright III. Well, of course it was. And now I’m Googling Loudon Wainwright III. Good lord, where does it end?
It ends here. I was blogging. I have a point. My mother used to sing this song, and it is burned into my memory. I think of it every time I smell a dead skunk on the road. However, I have never in all my 36 years actually seen a dead skunk in the middle of the road–until today.
Well, technically it wasn’t in the middle of the road. It was more off to the side. Actually, it was halfway onto the curb, which makes me wonder:
1) Who hit this skunk? Was it a cyclist? Or perhaps a motorist under the influence? Why was he driving so close to the sidewalk?
2) Perhaps the skunk was struck by a moving vehicle in the actual middle of the road, but was not instantly killed. Maybe he crawled over to the sidewalk to die. Or was he trying to live?
Here’s the other interesting factoid: I have oft smelled a skunk on the road but never seen one. Today I saw one but did not smell him. Perhaps he was hit long enough before that the stench of traumatized skunk had already dissipated. Perhaps he was hit by a truck of Febreeze. But there’s also the possibility that this skunk just didn’t stink. Maybe he was a skunk misfit, a skunk freak, if you will. Maybe that’s why he threw himself in front of that bicycle. The point is, we don’t know. We can’t know.
And so it is with God. Just kidding. I had no larger philosophical thesis, I was just excited about my first dead skunk sighting. You understand. Or probably you don’t. Probably you resent me for reeling you in with that Loudon Wainwright III reference and you can’t believe you wasted all this time reading my Deep Skunk Thoughts. Here, watch this YouTube video, you’ll feel better. (Or alternatively, take my God poll.)
Sometimes I have to wonder about these folks who get the personalized license plates. On the freeway this morning I noticed a SUV with the license plate EMBLMR, and I thought, “Emblemer. What exactly is an emblemer? Someone who makes emblems? Does this person have his or her own embleming service?” And then I realized that it probably wasn’t “emblemer” at all but EMBALMER! Embalmer, well, I know what an embalmer is. And then I thought, “Why does this person want to advertise the fact of being an embalmer, and why would he advertise it on his SUV? I assume he is a professional embalmer. I don’t think he’d be advertising his amateur embalming, as I’m pretty sure amateur embalming is frowned upon in the legal world. I don’t have proof of this, of course. He could be an amateur embalmer, but let’s say he’s a professional embalmer. Why should the rest of us care? Are we really supposed to be driving down the freeway wondering who we’re going to have embalm Aunt Sally when out of nowhere this SUV-driving embalmer cruises into our lane and all our problems are solved? Where is his 800 number? Or is this supposed to be some kind of threat–’Tailgate me and I’ll embalm you!’ But isn’t that illegal, too? Oh, look, there’s my exit.”
It seems that a lot of people who have vanity plates put their professions on them. There are many dentists with vanity plates in this area. Registered nurses, too. I don’t have any specific data to back this up, but I suspect people with professional degrees are more susceptible to the temptation to put those degrees on their license plates. That’s because it’s hard for your fellow drivers to read the fine print on your diploma if you post it in your rear windshield. When I was a young teen I saw a psychologist whose license plate read INTJ PHD, which alluded to both her advanced degree and her Myers-Briggs personality type. Perhaps it was her way of asserting herself in the world. (The “I” is for introvert, you know.) Anyway, with all due respect to my former psychologist, who was a wonderful human being for whom I retain much affection, I think it’s a little obnoxious to put your PHD on your license plate. If my husband is ever of a mind to get a vanity plate, I will have to put the kibosh on any design that contains the letters PHD (at least in that order). Unless he wanted one that said ELMRPHD because that might be kind of funny. But that’s not really his style. And plus, it’s probably taken.
It must be very disappointing to come up with what you think is a brilliant and unique combination of letters for your vanity plate only to find out that some other jerk had your idea first. That’s why I feel sorry for people with vanity plates containing misspelled words when there was obviously space enough to spell the words correctly. Because you just know they had their hearts set on saying whatever they were saying only to have their dreams crushed by the DMV official who informed them they needed to be a bit more original next time. It’s especially sad when the license plate says something like 2KOOL4U. Because what are they, twelve? And if so, do their parents know they’re spending their money on vanity license plates?
My mother went back to work when I was in high school, and she told us that her new boss had just written a book, which he was very excited to have published. When it finally came out, she brought home a copy of it. Her boss was a scientist, so I’d expected it to be a science book, but actually it was a book about vanity license plates. I believe it was called VN8TPL8. It didn’t sell very well. My mom’s boss blamed the booksellers, who tended to stock it in the Automotive section, when it really should have been in Humor/Novelty. (Or better yet, by the cash register, as an impulse item. You have to admit he had a point. Would you buy such a book on anything but an impulse?) Anyway, I read it. As far as books about license plates go, it was pretty good.
My mom’s boss was a very talented scientist, but he did not have a Ph.D. He had a Master’s degree. Which was not why he was reduced to writing books about vanity plates. That was just a special interest of his. No, what I was going to say was that I’ve not noticed many people with Master’s degrees putting their educational credentials on their license plates. This is probably because they would be too easily misunderstood. People might assume you had multiple sclerosis, or alternatively, if you’d studied the humanities, that you had children. Of course, if you had a Master’s degree and multiple sclerosis, you could put MS SQRD on your license plate and there would be no confusion. Theoretically.
In Oregon there are many vanity plates referencing the Ducks. I bet the first person to grab GO DUCKS as a license plate feels pretty pleased with himself. By the same token, the poor sap who’s stuck with GO DUKS probably feels like a chump every time he gets in his car. He certainly looks like one. No offense to him.
My mom’s boss dedicated a whole chapter in his book on people who try to get naughty license plates, but the DMV has censors to prevent state-sanctioned obscenity on the roadways. Quote from a lady who was in charge of weeding out the pervy plates: “You’d be surprised at what people try to get away with.” No, dear lady, I bet you’d be surprised at what people do get away with. Which makes me wonder how often in Oregon do OSU fans have their license plates rejected out of hand?
Full disclosure: When I was a senior in high school, my parents bought a used Datsun 260Z, and they got a vanity plate for it. Because if you’re going to get a nifty sports car, you should get a nifty license plate to go with it, eh? They considered several options, including one that said NOIZMYN. I thought that was too esoteric. Eventually they decided to go with a play on words involving our last name and the letter Z. It was only moderately clever. People who didn’t know what our last name was thought that it was trying to say “sleazy” (or rather, “zleazy”), but that wasn’t it at all. Eventually my parents gave this car to me. I loved that little car. I named it Fred. If I’d been in charge of buying it a vanity license plate, that’s what I would have put on it, FRED. No one would have misunderstood that.
As newlyweds, my older sister and her husband got a vanity plate for their pickup that said LDS CPL. I didn’t really understand why they would want to do that. I don’t believe in advertising your religion or your political affiliation on your car. Because we all make mistakes sometimes, and do you really want to be responsible for giving your whole group a reputation for bad driving? Let’s face it, no one remembers the license plate of the courteous and competent driver. But I can easily envision our poor (bike-riding) missionaries showing up on someone’s doorstep and that person saying, “One of your people cut me off this morning, so you can go to hell!” Because we all know what keeps most people from becoming Mormons is that handful of crackpots driving too slow in the fast lane and forgetting to shut off their turn signal whilst spreading the glorious gospel through their license plates. Oh, wait.
The thing is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything on my car drawing attention to me. I certainly don’t want anything on my car distracting other drivers from the important business of safely transporting themselves from point A to point B. Which is why I think it’s foolish and in some cases dangerous to own a vanity license plate that says something totally indecipherable on it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in traffice looking at something like SFJDKEO or WERCIRU and wondering what the heck I’m supposed to make of that. I know it’s probably not for me to understand at all, which is why it’s called a vanity plate and not an amuse-the-world-at-large plate. I just don’t like being confused. I’m a word person. I must make order out of alphabetic chaos. I just know that one of these days I’m going to miss my exit. Stupid vanity license plates.
I just found my mom’s boss’s book on Amazon.com–nine used and new from $.95. I’ll have to ask my dad if he knows where our copy went, but I’m sure he doesn’t. I hope they didn’t throw it out–it was autographed!
You are now at liberty to contribute to the discussion with personal anecdotes, rumor and innuendo. Proceed.
So last night on my way to tap class I had the opportunity to share the road with one of those cars that sports the "If You're Not Angry You're Not Paying Attention" bumper sticker. I admit I never appreciated the depth and veracity of this bumper-sticker expression until I noticed that the driver of said car was indeed not paying attention, nor did she seem particularly angry. I, on the other hand, was paying attention and therefore was a bit miffed.
But I got over it. (My social conscience isn't what it used to be, and my husband has enough road rage for both of us.)
Speaking of bumper stickers, you remember those from the Clinton administration that said, "Don't Blame Me, I Voted for Bush"? I've been wondering if I could get my hands on one of those so I can paste it on my car, only with the "Don't" blocked out. Because I wonder how good my insurance policy really is.
Speaking of nostalgia, though, one of the reasons I was in such good humor last night–aside from the fact that I have the perfect temperament for commuting–was that I was in the car all by myself and could listen to whatever music I wanted. In the car all by myself is really the only circumstance under which I may listen to the music I want because no one else in my family will tolerate it. Well, I take that back. Sugar Daddy will tolerate it, but only if he can make fun of it and disparage my taste while he's doing it. The children simply will have none of it. Princess Zurg prefers classical music, and the boys have inherited their father's penchant for theatrical heavy metal. So far the baby hasn't offered any opinions one way or the other, but being in the car with only a sleeping baby is almost like being alone in the car. Is that my way of saying the baby doesn't count? I suppose it is.
Anyway, my current CD of choice is Todd Rundgren's Nearly Human, which SD so graciously bought me for Christmas. And not just so he could make fun of me. No, just because he wants me to be happy. That's all. You see, I had the album on cassette for many years, but a couple years ago I lost it, and I had been unable to find it again in any format. Because who wants a copy of Todd Rundgren's Nearly Human unless you're a Todd Rundgren fan, and a Todd Rundgren fan would have bought it on CD back in 1989 and never let it go. Or something. Anyway, SD got it via the internet somehow and then a week after Christmas he found two copies of it in a bargain bin at a used CD shop for $4 each. He bought them both, just on principle. But I digress. So I have Nearly Human again (three copies, actually), which may not be Todd Rundgren's best album, but I heart it anyway, and I heart my husband for buying it for me even though it encourages my musical dorkiness. Now all I need is for someone to reissue Joan Armatrading's Back to the Night on CD and I will be in dork heaven. (As long as I'm in my car by myself.) Right now the only copy I have is on vinyl. I know! Could I be any older?
Well, obviously I could. I knew that I had entered fogeyville, though, when I started hearing Van Halen on the "classic rock" station. Okay, maybe that was just a sign of our instant-nostalgia times. Maybe I really knew I was getting old when they started having radio stations which exclusively played '80s music, and I found I preferred to listen to Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" for the millionth time rather than whatever Noise The Kids Are Into These Days. Isn't that just wrong?
I really knew I was old when I started liking bands from the '80s that I hadn't been able to stomach when it was the '80s and there was an excuse for such things. Now my only excuse is that these songs invoke bittersweet memories of my youth. How, you might ask, is Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" at all evocative of my misspent adolescence? Don't get all technical on me. It's a Pavlovian response. I don't claim to understand it.
What's the most incriminating item in your record collection?
EDIT: By "record collection" I really mean music collection–not just vinyl media. Sorry, old habits die hard.
Last week the Madhousehold visited some of the grand attractions of our fair state,
Oregon. We started on Tuesday with our first visit ever to the
Enchanted
Forest in
Salem. You must understand that I grew up in Oregon, have lived here as an adult for several years, have made the Eugene-Portland/Portland-Eugene drive down the I-5 approximately 50 billion times, and have seen from the freeway the Enchanted Forest and its poor amusement park neighbor, Thrillville USA, and every time thought to myself, "That place looks creepy." Thrillville, in particular, seems always to be deserted, like the rides haven't been operated for years, and looks like a great hangout for child molesters. My impression of
Enchanted
Forest, which is visually a tad more obscured (because it's in a forest), has always suffered from that association.
However, I had it on good authority that the
Enchanted
Forest was not a dump or a hangout for child molesters, so I opened my mind to visiting, as did Sugar Daddy. We're very glad we did because the place is really, really quite charming. It's sort of a poor man's
Disneyland. A really poor man. But one with lots of gumption and a pure heart. The kids were especially taken with
, which has life-size replicas of scenes from various fairy tales and children's stories. There's an Alice in Wonderland rabbit hole you can crawl into, which becomes this long, very small tunnel, completely pitch-black until you come out a giant keyhole on the other side. Elvis must have gone through there a dozen times. I couldn't follow him because my adult-size, pregnant self probably would have gotten stuck, and that would have ruined the enchantment for everyone. You can also visit the Seven Dwarfs' mine and climb into the mouth of a giant witch's head and come out on a slide. Elvis did that about 37 times.
Eventually we got to Western Town, which was a little less enthralling for the youngsters, who didn't care to have their pictures taken with Abe Lincoln (what he was doing in the old west, I'm still not sure, but he was very authentic-looking; even the beard was real). SD and I did pose for pictures with Abe, and we got to wear Confederate uniforms and carry guns and everything. Why we were posing with Abe Lincoln in Confederate uniforms with guns, I'm not sure either, but it was fun.
Less fun was the Haunted House, which SD insisted on taking the kids to. He was going to leave Elvis out of it, but the kid threw such a tantrum about wanting to go inside that SD and I both consulted our Bad Parent manual and concluded that it would be less traumatic just to take him after all. I know, I know, you should never trust the Bad Parent manual. I'm going to burn mine one of these days. Well, anyway, the Haunted House was scary. I don't know if I would have been scared all by myself, but walking through with Mister Bubby and Elvis and wondering what gruesome sights and sounds I was going to have to shield them from was terrifying. Interestingly enough, I think Elvis was doing okay up until this skeleton head rushed at me and made me scream. That was the beginning of the end, which unfortunately took much longer to come than one would expect. I rushed through the rest of the evil tour trying to cover both my sons' eyes and yelling, "Don't look! Don't look!" I didn't look, but I can't vouch for the boys, who may end up in therapy someday wondering why their mother was such a freaking idiot. Bad, Bad Parent manual.
Overall, however, the park was worth the price of admission. It helped that it was a lot, lot cheaper than
Disneyland.
After leaving the park, we drove down to scenic Eugene, where we visited my good friend Melissa H. (she of the Hong Kong Chicken fame) and her family, who were to watch the kids whilst SD and I gallavanted off to Newport for our 3-1/2-year belated 5-year anniversary getaway. First, though, I had a baby shower to go to, where I got to see some old friends and win a lot of candy bars playing a baby shower game. None of them were candy bars I'm really crazy about, but I enjoy winning stuff anyway. Well. The next morning we met the H's for a swim at the Amazon Pool. MB drew a picture:
(L to R, Mister Bubby, Elvis, Princess Zurg, Sugar Daddy and me. I don't look very pregnant in that bathing suit, but I might be hiding a couple fetuses in my left arm and leg.)
After swimming, SD and I took off for
Newport, where he had booked us at a bed & breakfast that was a Big Secret That I Was Not To Know About So I Could Be Surprised. Which I was, because I'm not into discovering big secrets that are supposed to be surprises. We stayed at the Sylvia Beach Hotel for Booklovers, which is an absolutely delightful establishment. Each of the rooms is decorated with a different author theme. SD had originally wanted to stay in the F. Scott Fitzgerald room, but it was booked through September, so instead we were in Poe. Which I suspect was cooler anyway, so I was hardly disappointed. I have pictures of that too, but I can't freaking find them on my computer, so you'll have to use your imagination. Perhaps that will be best anyway. So whatever. They have a wonderful family-dining style restaurant, Tables of Content. The food is excellent, and we spent several hours in delightful conversation with three other couples we'd never met before. I was sad to leave because I knew it would be at least a couple years before we could return, but next time we go we will certainly spend a couple more days there. Maybe we'll get to stay in Fitzgerald then. (I just know I'm not going to sleep in Willa Cather's room–too much frontier privation.)
So we returned to
Eugene the next day to reunite with children, but we also went on a dinner date with the (adult) H's to our favorite restaurant in
Eugene, Chef's Kitchen, where I had duck for the first time. It was good. (Quack.) After bidding our final adieus to the H's (all of them), we took a little tour of our old haunts in
Springfield. I found this more than a little depressing. I'm not sure why. I have many fond memories of our time there, but also a lot of un-fond ones, and I can't help mixing up the two into one big awful kind of memory of things I desperately miss and things I desperately wish had never happened. Fortunately,
Springfield isn't a very big place and we went back to the hotel, where Elvis instantly fell asleep. Score.
The next day we drove down to the Wildlife Safari in Winston. The drive-through part of this park is very cool. I got to see a lot of giraffes. And ostriches, which are very cute. And baby ostriches, which are even cuter. The rest of the park is eh, whatever. SD and the kids rode elephants. Overall, the price-to-good ratio was not as favorable as that of
Enchanted
Forest, but when one place is dirt cheap and charming and the other place is expensive and south of
Roseburg, it isn't really a fair comparison, I guess. The interesting thing was that on our way out of the park, looking for a place to eat, we saw this Noah's Ark Restaurant, which boasts among its many attractive attractions a full-scale replica of Moses' Tabernacle. It's possible that the place was owned by some Jehovah's Witnesses, who had a Kingdom Hall right next door. As curious as we were about what Watchtower Cuisine might consist of, we thought perhaps it wasn't the best choice to take tired, hungry and irreligious children. Maybe next time. You know, if we ever have occasion to be in Winston again as long as we live. Which I don't plan on.
We had dinner at Denny's. Then we went home. Now SD is back at work and the children are back to making me old before my time. Oh, wait. They never stopped.
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