My family is notorious for making vacations....interesting. By family, I mean my family. Husband would want me to make abundantly clear that he and our children are in no way associated with my family's vacation adventures.
Where to begin? Perhaps with the time we tied inflated pool rafts and trash bags of dirty laundry to the roof of the car for our trip home. Apparently, once you hit 30 mph, that stuff doesn't stay on your roof for long. And it gets stolen by the cars traveling behind you.
Then there was the collapsible camper that was hitched to the Datsun hatchback. Collapsible campers really do a lot of damage to a Datsun hatchback when you add in a driving rain storm and a ditch.
The best (worst?) was Hurrican Irene. Our vacation home happened to be on the exact beach where Irene was predicted to make landfall. Despite warnings and desperate pleas from me, my family refused to evacuate. Islanders don't evacuate for every little hurricane, they admonished. The meterologists were hyperbolic, and I was being "silly." For the record, we're not Islanders. And the Islanders did evacuate.
The Atlantic Ocean was in the living room before the week was over.
I think this is why I'm a planner, a bit OCD, and generally considered a control freak. I really think it's OK to generally be considered a control freak. Control freaks don't get caught in hurricanes on the Outer Banks. Control freaks don't total Datsun hatchbacks with campers. Control freaks don't even own campers.
My strategy is simple: I don't share a space with them. I don't share transportation with them. I plan my own activities. They are welcome to join me, but they must make their own arrangements. I join them for meals and activities if it won't make me clinically insane.
And so, it was with great trepidation that I agreed to annual summer trips to Cape May with the full entourage of my first-degree relatives. (See my Cast of Characters here).
The first thing I did for this trip was schedule myself and the children for a whale watching tour. I texted Mom & Aunt the website. I was booked for Tuesday morning. Remember: Schedule your own activities. Invite the others. Never let them schedule things for you. Here's why.
Mom's reply was that there are no whale watching tours during the week. True, it is listed as "Dolphin", but isn't that just semantics? Do the whales have some sort of contractual obligation to not populate the bay on Tuesdays? Will the dolphins picket?
I send Mom my confirmation email with all the details. Tuesday. 10 AM. 2 hour tour. She books. Done.
It was too easy, Husband warns me. There will be more.
Sure enough, I get another text. What am I planning for lunch on the boat, she asks. Well, I wasn't planning anything. There's complimentary donuts, a snack bar, and (mercifully) booze. Done at noon. I'm set. They even have Coke. There's no Starbucks in Cape May. Coca-cola is a close second.
No, she patronizes. It's a 3 hour tour. And then she actually texts me this:
"10+3 = 1. It will be 1 o'clock when we're done. What are you going to do about lunch?"
Husband starts singing the Gilligan's Island theme song. He suggests I pack all of my cash and evening gowns.
In desperation, I send her my email confirmation again. Tuesday. 10 AM. 2 hour tour. Her reply is that we're both wrong. It's 2 1/2 hours. Do I think we'll be OK without lunch that long?
I gave up. Sometimes, it's just easier.
Day 1 in Cape May was just as promising. Aunt et al were joining us for an evening ghost tour. I readied myself and my children for a quick meal.
"We'll join you," Aunt decided when I shared my plans. I quickly assessed the situation. Kids were hungry. That's never pretty. But Aunt is pretty, and Aunt takes awhile to get ready. I could see she seemed ready to go. She even had her purse slung over her shoulder. It seemed safe to agree.
I started off with Kids and Sister Beta. We made it to the street, half a football field away. When I turned, Aunt and Uncle were not with us.
I waited.
And waited.
And waited.
"What are they doing?!" I texted Husband. In his perpetual practicality, he elects to pay for the vacation, but never, ever go.
"Having sex?" he texts back.
When Aunt & Uncle finally surface, we head to the restaurant. Looking over the menu, Aunt asks the waitress what the restaurant serves that is gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free, and caffeine-free.
It's an Italian restaurant.
Where's the hurricane when you need it?
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