The Toxic Tour - Legs 5-7: You Make Camping Look GOOD
In the interest of reducing the agony, I will now attempt to shorten several Legs of The Toxic Tour to create one combined post.
Which, unfortunately, only makes this a ridiculously long entry. So get comfortable!
Leg 5 of the Tour encompassed the adventure of the flight between Norfolk, VA and Hartford, CT. Naturally, it wasn’t a direct flight, so we were prepared for a slight layover in Boston. As you may recall, we’d just run Mr. C through the fountains at the Botanical Gardens before heading to the airport, so he was refreshed and ready to be a good boy on the journey.
And what a good boy he was, holding his brother’s hand and trotting to airport security in his little tiger backpack, looking adorable and not causing any problems. And, by the way, Yours Truly also didn’t cause any problems, having remembered to dump out all the water from her water bottle. I am evilly happy to report, however, that Bee had to run his carry-on through the X-ray machine a few times, since the 9 cans of tuna he insisted on bringing looked suspicious to security.
We made it to Boston alright, only to be met with a delay of the flight to Connecticut. What started as a 35-minute delay morphed into an hour, and eventually agonized into two hours.
DON’T THESE PEOPLE RECOGNIZE THE TENUOUS HOLD I HAVE ON MY TODDLER’S GOOD BEHAVIOR?
I was singing songs and playing games and whipping out every book and activity in my arsenal before Mr. C finally – blessedly – fell asleep on my lap at the Boston airport. Except that then I couldn’t move, and I cursed every loudspeaker announcement and every passenger who jostled my foot walking by.
We eventually made it to Connecticut, where we were met by Jay, a friend Bee had had since he was 16. Poor Jay – who had been driving around the airport for an hour, groaning every time another delay was announced – then had to drive us another hour back to his house.
Longest. Ride. Of. My. Life.
After being at the airport since two, it took extreme willpower for me to willingly enter another enclosed space. I was ready to go postal by the time (which would be nearly 10 p.m.) that we arrived at Jay’s house.
And Jay’s family – which included two teen-aged sons, a lovely wife, one large dog and assorted cats – was so sweet; waiting up to welcome us, they had prepared spaghetti and meatballs (which we were too jet-lagged to eat) and a birthday cake for Mr. C (which also went uneaten).
They, in fact, went out of their way to make sure we had everything we would need for the next leg of the journey, which was the Camping Leg. They let us borrow tents and sleeping bags, made sure someone could loan us a cooler, rearranged their cars to fit the four of us in one for the three hour trip to the camp out, and ran to the store at various times to pick up supplies we didn’t have.
They were so nice, I feel bad saying anything negative about them.
So, let me put a positive spin on this:
Staying at their house that night after the flight was great! I loved the generous amount of dirt on the floor and floating clouds of pet hair! It was funny to watch Bee squirm every time their dog stuck its nose in his lap! I didn’t mind wearing shoes in the middle of the night to go from the bed to the bathroom because it made me appreciate how clean camping would be!
I know: I’m a jerk.
The next morning, after I cleaned their kitchen (shudder) and we packed the vehicles, we drove to New Hampshire for Leg 6: The Camp Out. Now, this is a cool thing: every Fourth of July, this group of high school friends gets together to camp. Every year brings different members of the group – plus their families – so sometimes the camp is small, and sometimes it’s not.
This year it was not.
Once Bee and his brother announced their intention to bring their families all the way from the west coast, all the east coasters did their best to come for at least a day. Which is how, at its peak, there were over 50 people squeezed into about 4 campsites.
50 very joyful, very boisterous, very loud people.
About half of whom were teenagers.
If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.
Actually – to my knowledge – there weren’t any disasters. I mean, sure: there was obnoxious screaming around the campfire until 11 at night. And, sure: someone somehow smuggled in fireworks that are probably illegal in at least 36 states and set them off at this campground located amongst highly flammable woods. And, yes, there were some injuries due to teenagers jumping from rocks into water, etc, that were then made worse when the group’s doctor did ‘surgery’ with a table knife. But – hey! – no one died, and the cops only had to come down once to issue a warning.
It never fails to astonish Bee and me that I married such a wild guy and he married such a prude. I would have been totally intimidated by his friends years ago; luckily I’ve loosened up a teeny, tiny bit and could appreciate how warm and giving some of the most obnoxious amongst the group are. I could also appreciate that I had Mr. C as an excuse to leave the screaming around the campfire by ten, and therefore I was not present when the cops arrived: an event I would have found humiliating.
Actually, you know what I appreciate the most? It is an item I have found invaluable in camping and – in fact – any travel where you don’t have control over the actions of your hosts, your neighbors, tree frogs, and owls: earplugs. With earplugs, I no longer stay up seething over the inconsiderate partiers at the next campsite over. Which, unfortunately, cannot be said by our neighbors at this campout.
Mr. C turned four during the camp out, and – since Jay’s wife considerately packed up the cake she’d made at home – we were able to sing “Happy Birthday” while Mr. C sat on S.B.’s lap (S.B. was – finally! – able to use his little brother as an ice-breaker with all the ladies). The youngest by about 6 years, Mr. C had a blast being the play-thing of the group, letting the bikini-clad 16-year-olds carry him around and getting swung and chased by ‘the big boys’.
Between the communal dinners, the canoe-ing, the s’mores, and the constant babysitters, it was a very enjoyable three days. What I liked the most was getting to meet the people who were such an important part of Bee’s past, and finally being able to put faces to names.
I hope like hell that I didn’t come off like too much of a spaz, a bitch, or a prude; I really wanted to make Bee proud. Of course, I think Bee was enjoying himself entirely too much to notice if I was representing his wife well. (Constant Reminder To Self: No one cares what you think as much as you think they do!)
After another looong drive back to the airport, we prepared for Leg 7: our 8 hour trip back home. Which dragged into 10 hours. I don’t know what was wrong with our Flight Karma, but the last flight on each of the three Flight Legs of The Tour was delayed. This time, not only were we delayed at the airport, but we sat on the runway for at least half an hour while some ‘minor problem’ was fixed and then its paperwork was held up in the computers.
DON’T THESE PEOPLE RECOGNIZE THE TENUOUS HOLD I HAVE ON MY TODDLER’S GOOD BEHAVIOR?
Mr. C hung in there like a champ, listening to my (sorry, his) iPod and allowing me to ply him with snacks while we sat in the stuffy, stalled plane. The minute the plane finally started to take off, Mr. C threw my (his) iPod to me so he could stare out the window, which was the point at which I dropped the little iPod shuffle. I had to remain seated with my seat belt securely fastened, so my search for the iPod was very limited. Then Mr.C fell asleep on my lap. Then we hit some turbulence. So I had to endure about 45 minutes of agony before the seat belt sign went off and I could unbuckle, slip out from under Mr. C, and squeeze between my seat and the seat in front to search for the shuffle. Did I mention that the guy on my other side was also asleep, as was the couple behind me? So, there I was, crouched at everyone’s feet as I looked between their purses and carry-ons and hoped like hell none of them suddenly woke up and caught me.
Which they didn’t. And I finally located the stupid micro-electronic amongst the personal affects of the sleeper behind me.
Oh, and furthermore, you’ve never experienced true joy until you’ve tried to put a diaper on a toddler slumped in an airplane seat. (Because the last thing I needed was for him to have an accident 1,000 feet up.)
Poor baby. He slept all the way through the flight (I sipped a soda! I thumbed through a magazine in peace! It was like a spa day!). However, when the captain came on to announce our descent, the noise woke Mr. C, who then had a meltdown of epic proportions, screaming and crying to the point where he was hacking up a lung and I worried the entire plane would assume he had the plague. There was nothing I could do to calm him, and Bee and S.B. were a row away, so everyone just had to suffer.
Anyway . . . we made it home at 1 a.m. Mr. C, having power-napped, was now raring to go, and had to be calmed down and forced to bed. But it was all good.
And, with that, I end the epic tale that is The Toxic Tour.
Which, unfortunately, only makes this a ridiculously long entry. So get comfortable!
Leg 5 of the Tour encompassed the adventure of the flight between Norfolk, VA and Hartford, CT. Naturally, it wasn’t a direct flight, so we were prepared for a slight layover in Boston. As you may recall, we’d just run Mr. C through the fountains at the Botanical Gardens before heading to the airport, so he was refreshed and ready to be a good boy on the journey.
And what a good boy he was, holding his brother’s hand and trotting to airport security in his little tiger backpack, looking adorable and not causing any problems. And, by the way, Yours Truly also didn’t cause any problems, having remembered to dump out all the water from her water bottle. I am evilly happy to report, however, that Bee had to run his carry-on through the X-ray machine a few times, since the 9 cans of tuna he insisted on bringing looked suspicious to security.
We made it to Boston alright, only to be met with a delay of the flight to Connecticut. What started as a 35-minute delay morphed into an hour, and eventually agonized into two hours.
DON’T THESE PEOPLE RECOGNIZE THE TENUOUS HOLD I HAVE ON MY TODDLER’S GOOD BEHAVIOR?
I was singing songs and playing games and whipping out every book and activity in my arsenal before Mr. C finally – blessedly – fell asleep on my lap at the Boston airport. Except that then I couldn’t move, and I cursed every loudspeaker announcement and every passenger who jostled my foot walking by.
We eventually made it to Connecticut, where we were met by Jay, a friend Bee had had since he was 16. Poor Jay – who had been driving around the airport for an hour, groaning every time another delay was announced – then had to drive us another hour back to his house.
Longest. Ride. Of. My. Life.
After being at the airport since two, it took extreme willpower for me to willingly enter another enclosed space. I was ready to go postal by the time (which would be nearly 10 p.m.) that we arrived at Jay’s house.
And Jay’s family – which included two teen-aged sons, a lovely wife, one large dog and assorted cats – was so sweet; waiting up to welcome us, they had prepared spaghetti and meatballs (which we were too jet-lagged to eat) and a birthday cake for Mr. C (which also went uneaten).
They, in fact, went out of their way to make sure we had everything we would need for the next leg of the journey, which was the Camping Leg. They let us borrow tents and sleeping bags, made sure someone could loan us a cooler, rearranged their cars to fit the four of us in one for the three hour trip to the camp out, and ran to the store at various times to pick up supplies we didn’t have.
They were so nice, I feel bad saying anything negative about them.
So, let me put a positive spin on this:
Staying at their house that night after the flight was great! I loved the generous amount of dirt on the floor and floating clouds of pet hair! It was funny to watch Bee squirm every time their dog stuck its nose in his lap! I didn’t mind wearing shoes in the middle of the night to go from the bed to the bathroom because it made me appreciate how clean camping would be!
I know: I’m a jerk.
The next morning, after I cleaned their kitchen (shudder) and we packed the vehicles, we drove to New Hampshire for Leg 6: The Camp Out. Now, this is a cool thing: every Fourth of July, this group of high school friends gets together to camp. Every year brings different members of the group – plus their families – so sometimes the camp is small, and sometimes it’s not.
This year it was not.
Once Bee and his brother announced their intention to bring their families all the way from the west coast, all the east coasters did their best to come for at least a day. Which is how, at its peak, there were over 50 people squeezed into about 4 campsites.
50 very joyful, very boisterous, very loud people.
About half of whom were teenagers.
If that isn’t a recipe for disaster, I don’t know what is.
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| Is it a reunion, or a high-class hobo camp? |
It never fails to astonish Bee and me that I married such a wild guy and he married such a prude. I would have been totally intimidated by his friends years ago; luckily I’ve loosened up a teeny, tiny bit and could appreciate how warm and giving some of the most obnoxious amongst the group are. I could also appreciate that I had Mr. C as an excuse to leave the screaming around the campfire by ten, and therefore I was not present when the cops arrived: an event I would have found humiliating.
Actually, you know what I appreciate the most? It is an item I have found invaluable in camping and – in fact – any travel where you don’t have control over the actions of your hosts, your neighbors, tree frogs, and owls: earplugs. With earplugs, I no longer stay up seething over the inconsiderate partiers at the next campsite over. Which, unfortunately, cannot be said by our neighbors at this campout.
Mr. C turned four during the camp out, and – since Jay’s wife considerately packed up the cake she’d made at home – we were able to sing “Happy Birthday” while Mr. C sat on S.B.’s lap (S.B. was – finally! – able to use his little brother as an ice-breaker with all the ladies). The youngest by about 6 years, Mr. C had a blast being the play-thing of the group, letting the bikini-clad 16-year-olds carry him around and getting swung and chased by ‘the big boys’.
Between the communal dinners, the canoe-ing, the s’mores, and the constant babysitters, it was a very enjoyable three days. What I liked the most was getting to meet the people who were such an important part of Bee’s past, and finally being able to put faces to names.
I hope like hell that I didn’t come off like too much of a spaz, a bitch, or a prude; I really wanted to make Bee proud. Of course, I think Bee was enjoying himself entirely too much to notice if I was representing his wife well. (Constant Reminder To Self: No one cares what you think as much as you think they do!)
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| cool motion-activated billboard at the CT airport |
After another looong drive back to the airport, we prepared for Leg 7: our 8 hour trip back home. Which dragged into 10 hours. I don’t know what was wrong with our Flight Karma, but the last flight on each of the three Flight Legs of The Tour was delayed. This time, not only were we delayed at the airport, but we sat on the runway for at least half an hour while some ‘minor problem’ was fixed and then its paperwork was held up in the computers.
DON’T THESE PEOPLE RECOGNIZE THE TENUOUS HOLD I HAVE ON MY TODDLER’S GOOD BEHAVIOR?
Mr. C hung in there like a champ, listening to my (sorry, his) iPod and allowing me to ply him with snacks while we sat in the stuffy, stalled plane. The minute the plane finally started to take off, Mr. C threw my (his) iPod to me so he could stare out the window, which was the point at which I dropped the little iPod shuffle. I had to remain seated with my seat belt securely fastened, so my search for the iPod was very limited. Then Mr.C fell asleep on my lap. Then we hit some turbulence. So I had to endure about 45 minutes of agony before the seat belt sign went off and I could unbuckle, slip out from under Mr. C, and squeeze between my seat and the seat in front to search for the shuffle. Did I mention that the guy on my other side was also asleep, as was the couple behind me? So, there I was, crouched at everyone’s feet as I looked between their purses and carry-ons and hoped like hell none of them suddenly woke up and caught me.
Which they didn’t. And I finally located the stupid micro-electronic amongst the personal affects of the sleeper behind me.
Oh, and furthermore, you’ve never experienced true joy until you’ve tried to put a diaper on a toddler slumped in an airplane seat. (Because the last thing I needed was for him to have an accident 1,000 feet up.)
Poor baby. He slept all the way through the flight (I sipped a soda! I thumbed through a magazine in peace! It was like a spa day!). However, when the captain came on to announce our descent, the noise woke Mr. C, who then had a meltdown of epic proportions, screaming and crying to the point where he was hacking up a lung and I worried the entire plane would assume he had the plague. There was nothing I could do to calm him, and Bee and S.B. were a row away, so everyone just had to suffer.
Anyway . . . we made it home at 1 a.m. Mr. C, having power-napped, was now raring to go, and had to be calmed down and forced to bed. But it was all good.
And, with that, I end the epic tale that is The Toxic Tour.
Flight attendants and other airline personnel should cut people flying with toddlers some slack. Loud annoucements and unreasonable requests to keep a toddler buckled into a seat are unacceptable. Flying in this country is outrageously bad... I could go on for hours. Sorry the trip home was sucky. Bet you are glad to be home.
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