We just returned home from our Thanksgiving vacation roadtrip. Yeah, that’s right, my family took yet another week long trip in our car. Because we don’t irritate each other enough at home—we need to do it on America’s interstates, too.
This time we didn’t travel west and instead pointed our Volvo to the south and east. The “southeast,” for you Geography majors out there. We left on my birthday, which was made even more special for two reasons: 1) My fancy birthday lunch was at a Waffle House and 2) My husband finally let me sing the Hall parts instead of just the Oates parts. (A policy that he immediately reversed the next day and once again I was stuck doing the stupid “ooohs” and “hmmmms.” I know, I should just grow the damn mustache already.)
Our first destination was New Orleans. It’s a city I’ve been to a few times, but like most people who visit it, I really don’t remember much. Well, I guess I kind of recall being on a stage in some bar on Bourbon St. during the 90’s and screaming, “My name’s Wendi and I’m blonde! Now make some noises, freaks! Whoooo! I NEEDY MORE RUM IN MY DWINKY, BARKEEPY!” but that’s about it. I honestly don’t know why I’ve never woken up in a bathtub full of ice.
The kids really enjoyed going to Cafe Du Monde, the French Market and Mardi Gras World, but their favorite part of New Orleans was, as 11-year-old Sam put it, “the offensive t-shirt stores.” He’s still begging us to get these in numbers 1-4 for our family:
Maybe I should have bought them. They’d definitely give us an unforgettable Christmas card photo. Plus, after the Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane I had at 11 a.m., it would have explained to passersby why I was trying to send a text message with my nose.
After New Orleans, it was on to Mississippi and Alabama, where we’d never been before. We found out that they have really, really nice rest areas—see? I peed in Tara:
Frankly, my dear, I don’t know why nobody remembers to flush their #2’s. Gross, y’all.
Then we crossed the border into Florida. The first thing you notice upon entering the state is that the road signs assume all drivers are idiots. Like this one: “TURN ON WIPERS WHEN RAINING.” Do some people turn on their radio instead? Is this a big problem? But my favorite sign was on a roadside restaurant and said, “JOHN B. BBQ. CLOSED NOVEMBER-DECEMBER. JOHN B. TIRED.” I hear you, John B. Rib cookin’ b exhaustin’.
We finally reached our destination of Sandestin and it was really beautiful. White sand, clear blue water and just a smattering of weirdo resort guests. At least that gave me something to tweet about:
Update from the pool at the resort: Early Puberty Mustache Kid just cannon-balled on top of Old Lady Swimming Costume. More later.
But little did we know that Thanksgiving was when the big time freaks came out. We had a lovely day of hiking and picnicking, then went to the resort’s fancy dining room for a 5 p.m. “Thanksgiving feast.” This was a smaller version of the big buffet held earlier, so unfortunately, there wasn’t any kid-type food available. We weren’t happy about that since Sam gets the DT’s if he hasn’t eaten anything breaded for a couple hours, but we just gave him a few thousand dinner rolls and told him to suck it up.
Unfortunately, the couple next to us weren’t as easily pacified and raised a stink because their loud 3-year-old couldn’t get a cheese pizza. “Where’s his cheese pizza?” they kept yelling at the preternaturally calm waiter. “If you don’t bring us that cheese pizza, we’re leaving!” (Side note: Like that’s something the waiter doesn’t want to happen?) This went on for a few tense minutes, then a very mousy mother of two toddlers at the table on our other side leaned over and said something sympathetic like, “They’re not letting you get your cheese pizza? Awwww.” We figured they must know each other, maybe from the baby pool or the elevator.
Then something happened during the few minutes I was busy making sweet, sweet love to my pumpkin pie. Something so awful that it prompted Mousy Mother to glare daggers at Cheese Pizza Mother and yell, “F–k you, bitch!” Wha? Wha say? Wha say you? OMG IT’S A TURKEY PARTY THROWDOWN—FLORIDA STYLE! GOBBLE GOBBLE, MOFOS!
As Chris and I stared with big, shocked eyes, eagerly shoving herbed stuffing into our mouths like movie theater popcorn, Cheese Pizza Husband rushed Mousy Mom’s table while she clutched her kids and screamed, “You better back the hell up! Do not approach me! Do not approach me! I mean it!” I’m telling you, the drama was a thousand times more delicious than the dry hotel turkey.
But still—someone had to intervene before the table flipping commenced, so I took a deep breath, stared each rampaging nutjob in the eye and ever so calmly hissed, “You’re. Ruining. Our. Thanksgiving.” Oh, yes, make no mistake, my friends, I can be a f–in badass when my pie eating is disrupted. BAD. ASS. I was like Rambo with a dessert fork and a tummy full of processed sugar.
Fortunately this little declaration of mine paused the action long enough for Cheese Pizza Husband and Mousy Mom Husband to get up and “step outside.” Good move, but come on, is there anything pussier than having a bar fight/argument next to the concierge desk in a hotel lobby? Wankers. Then Cheese Pizza Mom grabbed her kid and purse—while Mousy Mom screamed, “You must be from New York!”—and ditched the restaurant without paying the bill. A good old holiday dine ‘n dash. And of course not ten seconds after she left, the waiter finally delivered—-the cheese pizza.
Sam loved every single bite of it.
(Part 2 coming soon.)