Vacations With Lunatics
Vacations with lunatics -- the lunatics in question being my family. The Writer's Block topic was about most memorable vacations. Well. Every family vacation was incredibly memorable. Read on.
For those of you who don't know, my stepfather was a comic when I was growing up. This led to some interesting interactions. There was a lot of one-upsmanship in the family because, well, everyone in my family is funny except for me. Just ask them. They will tell you.
Well, as summer approached at the close of my freshman year in high school, my stepdad had a series of shows on Prince Edward Island. My mother decided that it would be a brilliant idea to take a vacation there. Great, except for the fact that it was the week of finals, so I had to arrange to take all the finals early which just killed my GPA. But I digress.
We looooaded into the car. We were packed into a late 80's model Chevy Baretta, bright red. A sexy car at the time, kinda, but not what I'd exactly call a wicked sensible family car. My mother wasn't always the most sensible about certain things. You should have seen her trying to pack my sister and me into her Le Car way back in the EARLY 80's. Yeah. Le Car. We had one. It was like a roller skate with fewer safety features.
Anyway, we drove. And drove. And drove. Finally, we came to the ferry that would take us to the island. It was cool, especially as my sister threw potato chips at the sea gulls, and I worried that the sharp chips would slice their throats. She seemed to think they'd be fine, and for some reason, the opinion of a fourth grader reassured me. Yeah.
When we got into Charlottetown, I was incredibly excited to note that there was a RESTAURANT named after my favorite soda, A&W. Like, whoa, they'd make a restaurant in honor of a soda. Was there a Coke restaurant someplace? I was thrilled by this prospect. The water was also PURPLE because of all the red clay under it. That was really groovy. The stinging jellyfish... not so much.
I assure you that it would not have been possible for my sister to be a bigger brat. All she did was fight and complain and harass and beg and by the time we got to the other end of the island from Charlottetown, my mother had had enough. The vacation ended with my mother beating my sister's butt as my sister thrashed around on the floor of the hotel. GOD that child deserved it. I know that hitting children shouldn't be cool, but man... she was so out of control.
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Now, this was not the first time that my sister unleashed her lunacy on our family during a vacation. Oh no. A few years before THAT, we'd been in Martha's Vineyard, again, for shows that our stepdad was doing. We were up toward the top of the Wesley Hotel, which has these lovely balconies. My folks were in one bed, Beth and I were in the other. In the middle of the night, she sat bolt upright in bed, gasped, hopped out of bed and started booking out the door.
My stepdad was on his feet in an instant, chasing after her. Beth was a wiry little seven year old kid though, and was doing a good job evading him as she screamed bloody murder down the hall. She was headed for the open door at the end of the corridor; the balcony was right there. Just as she started to jump, my stepfather caught her, and dragged her back over. She kicked and screamed and got a bloody nose. He dragged her back to the room, past the other guests who were watching in horror. Once inside, Beth woke up and asked, "what's going on?"
You got it. The kid had a nightmare, and wasn't even awake when it all went down. My stepdad, who had to do comedy shows for these people the next night, now looked like a child abuser, and Beth couldn't even remember what happened.
Then of course, there was the year before, in Canada's Wonderland. Oh yeah, that ruled. Beth was dying to go on this ride called The Bat. Basically, you sit in this car, you do the ride forward, and then, at the end, the ride does it all again, BACKWARD.
Dude, I was, like 11 or 12, and I was scared out of my mind to try that. But she cajoled and begged and whined, and everyone who was anyone knew both my mother and my stepfather were prone to motion sickness. It was my job to take the kid on the ride.
Luckily (or unfortunately, depending how you look at it), she was tall enough, barely. We waited in line, my stomach clenching with dread, Beth excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet as we shuffled forward. Finally, we got onto the ride, and in a whoosh of overheated summer air, we were off.
Beth screamed her head off from the moment we started till the moment we stopped. It was like someone was prying her toenails off with a spoon. I didn't think it was possible to scream for that long and that loud, just a single piercing note that only dogs and rollercoaster riders could hear. We finally got back to the beginning, got off, and my sister was a sobbing, shaking, barfing mess. I helped her walk down to our folks. My mother had some blue ice cream.
"Here," she said. "I got some Smurf ice cream. Have some. You'll feel better." She handed it to Beth. Beth didn't want to eat it, and so she carried it with her as we walked in the hot sun. It wasn't long before my mother, wearing a sexy little MILF sundress (my mother is hot), started to blister. It was in that moment that I realized; my mother had blisters... but that Smurf ice cream hadn't melted in the least. Beth had been carrying it around, not eating it, and it... wasn't... melting.
I took the ice cream and hurled it into the trash, convinced it was radioactive or something, which made Beth cry. She hadn't wanted to eat it until I threw it away. Figures.
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Fast-forward ten years.
I was a young married woman, only 22, and I'd invited my father to come up to Massachusetts, where I lived with my new husband, to see a show in Boston. Dad brought my sister.
Not wanted to make my in-laws feel unincluded, my husband and I bought six tickets to the show. It was not cheap, and we were young, you know? My sister and father got to my house, and utterly refused to stay in our guest room. Why? Because my house had cats and my sister had, in the ten minutes previous to her arrival at my house, developed an unnatural hatred for all things feline. The real reason? My father wanted to be able to drink booze unimpeded by my husband's vitriolic hatred of alcohol. Oh.
So. The next night, we piled into two cars and headed into Alewife. I figured it would be easier to take the train into Boston than to try to park. First, we stopped at this place in Waltham that had boneless chicken wings that were great. We did this because, well, my husband and I didn't have much money left after buying over 400 bucks worth of tickets. A fancy dinner on the town was just not in the budget.
We sat in the restaurant, and my sister sneered.
"Jenny. You don't eat CHICKEN WINGS before going to see the Boston equivalent of a Broadway show."
I felt like I was going to cry. I teared up. I had tried so hard. My evil mother-in-law saved me, bless her heart -- that night was the only time she was ever nice to me, I swear to God.
"Well, in Boston we do. I guess we aren't up to New York's standards."
Beth shut up, but her attitude percolated around us, making things very uncomfortable.
My husband and his family piled into one car, and I drove Dad and Beth. As we headed up 128, Dad was in the back chugging beers from a little cooler he had back there. Beers. In a cooler. In his car. I boggled mightily. By the time we got to Alewife, my dad was weaving his way along after us. The train was very crowded, and my sister had this look on her face that announced to the world that riding a train was far, far beneath her. My father, standing, looked like he wasn't going to last on his feet much longer. I was paralyzed with horror. My mother in law stood up and said, "I've been on my ass all day. Mr. Nichols, why don't you sit down? I want to stretch my legs." She herself was a recovering alcoholic. She knew the score.
We got off the train, and headed for the theater. My father was moaning, "how much FAAAARTHER is it?" It was like having a kid with me. The whole thing was a nightmare from beginning to end.
The moral here is this; never vacation with my family. They will make your head explode. Vacation with your own. I am sure they are far more sane, and twice the fun!
For those of you who don't know, my stepfather was a comic when I was growing up. This led to some interesting interactions. There was a lot of one-upsmanship in the family because, well, everyone in my family is funny except for me. Just ask them. They will tell you.
Well, as summer approached at the close of my freshman year in high school, my stepdad had a series of shows on Prince Edward Island. My mother decided that it would be a brilliant idea to take a vacation there. Great, except for the fact that it was the week of finals, so I had to arrange to take all the finals early which just killed my GPA. But I digress.
We looooaded into the car. We were packed into a late 80's model Chevy Baretta, bright red. A sexy car at the time, kinda, but not what I'd exactly call a wicked sensible family car. My mother wasn't always the most sensible about certain things. You should have seen her trying to pack my sister and me into her Le Car way back in the EARLY 80's. Yeah. Le Car. We had one. It was like a roller skate with fewer safety features.
Anyway, we drove. And drove. And drove. Finally, we came to the ferry that would take us to the island. It was cool, especially as my sister threw potato chips at the sea gulls, and I worried that the sharp chips would slice their throats. She seemed to think they'd be fine, and for some reason, the opinion of a fourth grader reassured me. Yeah.
When we got into Charlottetown, I was incredibly excited to note that there was a RESTAURANT named after my favorite soda, A&W. Like, whoa, they'd make a restaurant in honor of a soda. Was there a Coke restaurant someplace? I was thrilled by this prospect. The water was also PURPLE because of all the red clay under it. That was really groovy. The stinging jellyfish... not so much.
I assure you that it would not have been possible for my sister to be a bigger brat. All she did was fight and complain and harass and beg and by the time we got to the other end of the island from Charlottetown, my mother had had enough. The vacation ended with my mother beating my sister's butt as my sister thrashed around on the floor of the hotel. GOD that child deserved it. I know that hitting children shouldn't be cool, but man... she was so out of control.
******************************************************************************************************************
Now, this was not the first time that my sister unleashed her lunacy on our family during a vacation. Oh no. A few years before THAT, we'd been in Martha's Vineyard, again, for shows that our stepdad was doing. We were up toward the top of the Wesley Hotel, which has these lovely balconies. My folks were in one bed, Beth and I were in the other. In the middle of the night, she sat bolt upright in bed, gasped, hopped out of bed and started booking out the door.
My stepdad was on his feet in an instant, chasing after her. Beth was a wiry little seven year old kid though, and was doing a good job evading him as she screamed bloody murder down the hall. She was headed for the open door at the end of the corridor; the balcony was right there. Just as she started to jump, my stepfather caught her, and dragged her back over. She kicked and screamed and got a bloody nose. He dragged her back to the room, past the other guests who were watching in horror. Once inside, Beth woke up and asked, "what's going on?"
You got it. The kid had a nightmare, and wasn't even awake when it all went down. My stepdad, who had to do comedy shows for these people the next night, now looked like a child abuser, and Beth couldn't even remember what happened.
Then of course, there was the year before, in Canada's Wonderland. Oh yeah, that ruled. Beth was dying to go on this ride called The Bat. Basically, you sit in this car, you do the ride forward, and then, at the end, the ride does it all again, BACKWARD.
Dude, I was, like 11 or 12, and I was scared out of my mind to try that. But she cajoled and begged and whined, and everyone who was anyone knew both my mother and my stepfather were prone to motion sickness. It was my job to take the kid on the ride.
Luckily (or unfortunately, depending how you look at it), she was tall enough, barely. We waited in line, my stomach clenching with dread, Beth excitedly bouncing on the balls of her feet as we shuffled forward. Finally, we got onto the ride, and in a whoosh of overheated summer air, we were off.
Beth screamed her head off from the moment we started till the moment we stopped. It was like someone was prying her toenails off with a spoon. I didn't think it was possible to scream for that long and that loud, just a single piercing note that only dogs and rollercoaster riders could hear. We finally got back to the beginning, got off, and my sister was a sobbing, shaking, barfing mess. I helped her walk down to our folks. My mother had some blue ice cream.
"Here," she said. "I got some Smurf ice cream. Have some. You'll feel better." She handed it to Beth. Beth didn't want to eat it, and so she carried it with her as we walked in the hot sun. It wasn't long before my mother, wearing a sexy little MILF sundress (my mother is hot), started to blister. It was in that moment that I realized; my mother had blisters... but that Smurf ice cream hadn't melted in the least. Beth had been carrying it around, not eating it, and it... wasn't... melting.
I took the ice cream and hurled it into the trash, convinced it was radioactive or something, which made Beth cry. She hadn't wanted to eat it until I threw it away. Figures.
******************************************************************************************************************
Fast-forward ten years.
I was a young married woman, only 22, and I'd invited my father to come up to Massachusetts, where I lived with my new husband, to see a show in Boston. Dad brought my sister.
Not wanted to make my in-laws feel unincluded, my husband and I bought six tickets to the show. It was not cheap, and we were young, you know? My sister and father got to my house, and utterly refused to stay in our guest room. Why? Because my house had cats and my sister had, in the ten minutes previous to her arrival at my house, developed an unnatural hatred for all things feline. The real reason? My father wanted to be able to drink booze unimpeded by my husband's vitriolic hatred of alcohol. Oh.
So. The next night, we piled into two cars and headed into Alewife. I figured it would be easier to take the train into Boston than to try to park. First, we stopped at this place in Waltham that had boneless chicken wings that were great. We did this because, well, my husband and I didn't have much money left after buying over 400 bucks worth of tickets. A fancy dinner on the town was just not in the budget.
We sat in the restaurant, and my sister sneered.
"Jenny. You don't eat CHICKEN WINGS before going to see the Boston equivalent of a Broadway show."
I felt like I was going to cry. I teared up. I had tried so hard. My evil mother-in-law saved me, bless her heart -- that night was the only time she was ever nice to me, I swear to God.
"Well, in Boston we do. I guess we aren't up to New York's standards."
Beth shut up, but her attitude percolated around us, making things very uncomfortable.
My husband and his family piled into one car, and I drove Dad and Beth. As we headed up 128, Dad was in the back chugging beers from a little cooler he had back there. Beers. In a cooler. In his car. I boggled mightily. By the time we got to Alewife, my dad was weaving his way along after us. The train was very crowded, and my sister had this look on her face that announced to the world that riding a train was far, far beneath her. My father, standing, looked like he wasn't going to last on his feet much longer. I was paralyzed with horror. My mother in law stood up and said, "I've been on my ass all day. Mr. Nichols, why don't you sit down? I want to stretch my legs." She herself was a recovering alcoholic. She knew the score.
We got off the train, and headed for the theater. My father was moaning, "how much FAAAARTHER is it?" It was like having a kid with me. The whole thing was a nightmare from beginning to end.
The moral here is this; never vacation with my family. They will make your head explode. Vacation with your own. I am sure they are far more sane, and twice the fun!