Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Hurricane Dantelope
Today began the annual Let's Go Somewhere This Holiday Season trip. TSO's finely tuned antennae picked up Florida this year as it coincided perfectly with her parents' (lucky you, just in time for the first ever introduction of new characters in the Dantelope's life - The Gila and MC Grand, or "Gila and Grand", for short) decision to check out Boca Raton while Santa's sleigh was killing bats and insomniac pigeons.
Everything was great. The packing, the getting ready, the getting in the car, the leaving for the airport, the arriving at the airport, the expertly executed You Stay Here With The Kids While I Go Park The Car maneuver, everything. Even checkpoint security went fine, although I do need to ask TSA Officer Bob to be a little gentler with his colon-massaging cattle prod next time.
No, the Dantelope Family had no troubles whatsoever getting to Florida. Instead, our troubles began shortly after we arrived.
To be sure, Ft. Lauderdale is an airport like most other airports. It's under construction, maintains a confusing array of twisty turn passages all alike, and supports the Nun Cart movement -- which for years has been allowing small "truck"-like vehicles to transport nuns to various gates while the driver screams out "beep beep beep". In Detroit, our guys actually have an electronic gizmo that makes the sound. Here in Ft. Lauderdale, apparently there's some sort of budget issue, and it's clear they need to train their folks in the art of beeping a little better.
Never mind the long wait at the luggage serpentine. Never mind the incredibly long wait at the Alamo Rental station. No, no. Let's go straight to the rental car selection process!
As a car guy, I can spot the best of the bunch very quickly -- even while I'm carrying 900 pounds of luggage. I quickly zero in on the white minivan. TSO poo-poos this one almost immediately because it has - gasp - Illinois plates on it while we are, in fact, in Florida, and lord knows what people will think of us if we don't don the appropriate vehicular identification. We move to another van and quickly realize it has bench seats in back (why would you want bench seats in a minivan? Is it to transport as many prisoners as possible? What? I give up. I have small children. Bench seats and small children go together like Dr. Phil and pedophiles.
After several more minivan switches, we end up back at my original choice because, despite its Illinois badging, it is the only minivan of the bunch with captain's seats.
Manly instincts: 1.
TSO fear of looking bad on the freeways of Florida: 0.
Next we had a most unfortunate incident in which my brain said "put it in park" and my hand said "put it in reverse". I won't go in to much detail, but suffice it to say the director yelled "Cut! That's a wrap! Print it!" and my stunt double gave me a very pissed off look. I don't mean to take his work away from him, but hey, I'm just gifted like that. Don't hate on natural talent.
Fast forward past the screaming kids, the kicking of the driver's seat, the Do I Need To Pull Over and Sell You to The Cuban Underground!??! and there we are at Cheeburger Cheeburger's for dinner with Gila and Grand...
Picture metal, outdoor furniture in a strip mall. Picture The Princess to my left, tipping her not-meant-to-be-tipped chocolate milk and dragging her elbow through her ketchup. Picture First Born laying on the ground to make letters with his crayons (and I do not mean drawing). Picture Gila leaving his cell phone at an Allstate office, and then 15 minutes later leaving his wallet on the ground. Picture my eyes rolling right out of my head.
First Born also took a classic spill. While he leaned forward on the front legs of his metal outdoor furniture chair, I saw the entire thing take place in slow motion. The legs slipped forward, the metal chair began its Death Spin over his head, coming down hard and smacking him upside his cranium while he lurched forward under the table and came face to face with the concrete floor. I knew it was bad when he didn't say anything for ten seconds. You know that slow, silent but deafening build up of sound a child packs up before exploding into a bloodcurdling scream of imminent death.
Yes, Florida. We're here for the rest of the week. You'll never be the same!
---- Dantelope @ Livin' La Vida Loca
P.S. Average age in Boca Raton so far appears to be 142. I'm not sure what they put in their water, but it has two clear effects: 1) you live forever, and 2) you honk your horn if a leaf crosses your path.
Everything was great. The packing, the getting ready, the getting in the car, the leaving for the airport, the arriving at the airport, the expertly executed You Stay Here With The Kids While I Go Park The Car maneuver, everything. Even checkpoint security went fine, although I do need to ask TSA Officer Bob to be a little gentler with his colon-massaging cattle prod next time.
No, the Dantelope Family had no troubles whatsoever getting to Florida. Instead, our troubles began shortly after we arrived.
To be sure, Ft. Lauderdale is an airport like most other airports. It's under construction, maintains a confusing array of twisty turn passages all alike, and supports the Nun Cart movement -- which for years has been allowing small "truck"-like vehicles to transport nuns to various gates while the driver screams out "beep beep beep". In Detroit, our guys actually have an electronic gizmo that makes the sound. Here in Ft. Lauderdale, apparently there's some sort of budget issue, and it's clear they need to train their folks in the art of beeping a little better.
Never mind the long wait at the luggage serpentine. Never mind the incredibly long wait at the Alamo Rental station. No, no. Let's go straight to the rental car selection process!
As a car guy, I can spot the best of the bunch very quickly -- even while I'm carrying 900 pounds of luggage. I quickly zero in on the white minivan. TSO poo-poos this one almost immediately because it has - gasp - Illinois plates on it while we are, in fact, in Florida, and lord knows what people will think of us if we don't don the appropriate vehicular identification. We move to another van and quickly realize it has bench seats in back (why would you want bench seats in a minivan? Is it to transport as many prisoners as possible? What? I give up. I have small children. Bench seats and small children go together like Dr. Phil and pedophiles.
After several more minivan switches, we end up back at my original choice because, despite its Illinois badging, it is the only minivan of the bunch with captain's seats.
Manly instincts: 1.
TSO fear of looking bad on the freeways of Florida: 0.
Next we had a most unfortunate incident in which my brain said "put it in park" and my hand said "put it in reverse". I won't go in to much detail, but suffice it to say the director yelled "Cut! That's a wrap! Print it!" and my stunt double gave me a very pissed off look. I don't mean to take his work away from him, but hey, I'm just gifted like that. Don't hate on natural talent.
Fast forward past the screaming kids, the kicking of the driver's seat, the Do I Need To Pull Over and Sell You to The Cuban Underground!??! and there we are at Cheeburger Cheeburger's for dinner with Gila and Grand...
Picture metal, outdoor furniture in a strip mall. Picture The Princess to my left, tipping her not-meant-to-be-tipped chocolate milk and dragging her elbow through her ketchup. Picture First Born laying on the ground to make letters with his crayons (and I do not mean drawing). Picture Gila leaving his cell phone at an Allstate office, and then 15 minutes later leaving his wallet on the ground. Picture my eyes rolling right out of my head.
First Born also took a classic spill. While he leaned forward on the front legs of his metal outdoor furniture chair, I saw the entire thing take place in slow motion. The legs slipped forward, the metal chair began its Death Spin over his head, coming down hard and smacking him upside his cranium while he lurched forward under the table and came face to face with the concrete floor. I knew it was bad when he didn't say anything for ten seconds. You know that slow, silent but deafening build up of sound a child packs up before exploding into a bloodcurdling scream of imminent death.
Yes, Florida. We're here for the rest of the week. You'll never be the same!
---- Dantelope @ Livin' La Vida Loca
P.S. Average age in Boca Raton so far appears to be 142. I'm not sure what they put in their water, but it has two clear effects: 1) you live forever, and 2) you honk your horn if a leaf crosses your path.
Labels: family, florida, vacation
