Saturday, November 24, 2007

Home Sweet Home

Survived Thanksgiving with Mr. D's family. His fat, lazy-assed cousin ate most of the pie so I didn't get any and I left my make up bag at home (sigh--with my pretty new tinted moisturiser by Boots) and I got 2 zits. My asthma kicked into "sucking air mode" and my children had had enough of everything by 6:30 p.m. Oh, and the bachelors were the only ones with pictures of what they were thankful for.

So we locked ourselves in Grandma's bedroom and watched The Incredibles and I shooed the annoying cousins away. On Day 3: Terror in the Heartland we left our bachelors behind to spend the ENTIRE DAY IN SPORTS BARS DRINKING AND INHALING CIGARETTE SMOKE. By the time I made it to the spa, panting, gasping, sounding like a deranged squeaky toy as I wheezed in Aveda-infused air, I had nearly emptied my inhaler.

The spa? Quite lovely, thank you. Zender's in Iowa City knows their stuff. I sat in the steam room and cleared out my chest. I dipped my feet in the whirlpool and let the haunting notes of Native American flute music tranquilize my brain. The massage was OUTSTANDING. The 2nd best I've ever had, the best being by my college roommate Kelly who is now a massage therapist and works magic on people's bodies. The only reason she surpassed Doreen at Zender's is because she and I go way back and when you've been hung over together and seen each other naked as much as we did as roommates, well, suffice it to say she's fairly comfortable working her way around my bod. I respect a massage therapist willing to dig into my muscles and work out the knots that plague my upper back and right shoulder.

Then I returned, groggy but clear-lunged to our room ready to go to sleep. But alas! Mr. D left a note telling me of our dinner reservations at 7:30. Sob! I returned to The Most Overrated and Shitty Fancy Restaurant in the Midwest to order a horrid steak and dreadful seared spinach (pardonez moi, but seared does NOT mean sitting in a soup of salty spinach brine and wilted up like it just got poured out of the Del Monte can). I registered my complaint with our waiter who offered me a free dessert. Excuse me? My kids' school cafeteria serves a better meal than this overpriced slop house and you think I want to try your DESSERT? What I should have asked before ordering my steak were 2 questions:
1) do you employ a chef or several teenaged line cooks?
2) is this food from the same Sysco truck that delivers to the buffet adjacent to
Most Overrated and Shitty Fancy Restaurant in the Midwest?
Unfortunately I did NOT ask said questions and ended up with waaaay less than anyone should have paid for.

I left my in-laws to their gambling and drinking and took to my room to discover that I had no wireless or free internet or really any internet access.

Day 4: Terror in the Heartland: Packed, ate buffet with Doug's brother & sister-in-law (actually, they're both a good sort) and traveled back to Grandma's to collect the bachelors. I do believe the tires squealed on the dirt road in our haste to peel out and head home.

Home Sweet Home. Home where I can breathe free and clear. Home where I found my make up bag kicked under our bed, explaining why I didn't notice it missing. Home where Lady Vi used her litter box and survived our absence like the trooper she is. Home where my children relax and let down their guard and have their own space. Home where I have an internet connection. Home where I cook and damn it, I cook a tasty and nutritious meal and pies that I'll get to eat slices of. (I cannot believe I'm saying this, but I'm looking forward to my own cooking after the last few days.) Home where I can have a proper cup of coffee and wear my comfy sweats. Home where my husband can watch football and recover from overindulgence. Home where I feel so grateful to return.

1 comment:

  1. Welcome back! I'm glad you survived.

    "I do believe the tires squealed on the dirt road in our haste to peel out and head home." -- I understand this completely, as it describes some of our family visits over the years. Well, maybe not the dirt road part...


Spill it, reader.