Internet, I need a vacation. Not even a real vacation – just a getaway. Just a couple days during which I do not have to wash and rinse a single Dr. Brown’s bottle or be responsible for preparing my own food, making my own bed, or wiping my own ass.
OK, I am willing to compromise on the ass-wiping part as it is just a getaway and not a full-on vacation.
We haven’t been on a real, actual, planned-in-advance vacation since March of 2007 (before I even started this blog!) when we went to England. Since then, I’ve tagged along with Brad on business trips over the weekends and went with my sister to Arizona for a couple days (and that was sadly Brad-less), but we haven’t done the actual Vacation Thing since deciding to make another person come out of my vagina. And forgoing vacation was certainly all financially responsible and shit, but man, I kind of really miss traveling.
Not missed: FLYING.
Adding to my vacation nostalgia was FoST and her husband’s return from their recent trip to Paris, and seeing/hearing their photos, videos, and stories made me want to slap Sadie in a backpack and board the next plane to The Land of Jerry Lewis.
Oh, France. You’re so elegant and fashionable and then…this?
Paris was actually on our itinerary when we traveled to London (we were going to take the super-speedy-go-fast train), but we wisely decided we’d be spreading ourselves too thin, and stuck with our original plan of spending three days in London and three days in the English countryside. GOT-DAMN, that trip was fun, Internet. Although I wish someone had fucking mentioned that tipping isn’t compulsory like it is here, because we would have saved some serious cash and maybe – just maybe – not looked like total fucking American maroons.
“Say, do y’all know where there’s a Pizza Hut around here?!”
Anyway, as it turns out, we have a getaway weekend planned for late October and, OH, am I excited about it. SO excited. Nevermind that said getaway is to a place* that is a mere two-hour drive from our house! Nevermind that it borders a lake that was once so polluted it caught fire! Because there will be bed-and-breakfasts and sleeping in and drinking and going to movies and visits to child-unfriendly restaurants and no nursing bras and HOLY SHIT I AM EXCITED.
Oh, and Sadie isn’t coming. Did I mention Sadie isn’t coming? And I can honestly say I am OK with that.
(Although it makes me feel a little guilty to be OK with that. And I’m sure I will have my Daniel Plainview moments throughout the weekend.)
“I’ve abandoned my [girl]!”
(That one’s for you, FoST.)
No worries, though. Sadie will be in the capable hands of her aunt & uncle, both of whom are CRAZY about that little girl. And while we were visiting them over the weekend, Sadie’s uncle actually rocked her to sleep – a duty that has been solely Brad’s since…well, since forever. Knowing that Sadie can successfully be put to bed without the aid of her neurotic parents will definitely make getting drunk on martinis easier during our trip.
It’s been too long, old friend.
As I mentioned above, we’ll be staying at a bed and breakfast. We’ve only stayed at a B&B once before, and that was in the English countryside – The Catherine Wheel in Bibury to be exact – and it was incredible. That place was everything you’d imagine it to be: a cozy little pub nestled in a bucolic village, plenty of delicious food and beer, and innkeepers so warm and friendly I wanted them to adopt me.
That is me, pretending I’m going to buy a house in this town and subsist on scones and clotted cream for the rest of my natural life.
When we booked a room at The Catherine Wheel, I distinctly remember wondering if the place would be haunted. The rooms were housed in a building that was a converted 15th century farmhouse, for fuck’s sake. There had to be at least a ghost of a decapitated stable boy wandering around, right? But alas, we didn’t see any Carol-Anne shit go down. Although this is probably because I was so petrified of seeing something other-worldly that I never dared open my eyes once we turned out the lights at night. Oh, and there was also a fair amount of Guinness swimming through my system. If I did see a ghost, I’d probably ask it to bring me a glass of water, then make a clumsy pass at it before passing out with my shoes on.
I bet those fuckers would whisper to me too if my rack looked like that.
In searching for a B&B this time around, I had totally forgotten about my “Is it haunted?!” hang-ups, choosing instead to focus on things like whether or not the rooms had cable and which places would provide the widest variety of fresh breakfast pastries. That is, of course, until I stumbled across a B&B located in a house built in 1876, and saw the pictures of their (very lovely) rooms:
You guys. TELL ME this grainy-ass shit doesn’t look straight out of one of those ghost hunting shows on TLC. That ethereal white slipcover might as well start floating and hovering menacingly over the bed right now.
And it is common knowledge that 4-poster bed = someone will be haunting THE SHIT out of you tonight.
This bathroom adjoins a room that used to be the nursery. Yes, I imagine it must be relaxing to soak in that gorgeous claw-footed tub under the icy glare of poor little Clara Josephine, who succumbed to cholera at the ripe old age of six.
Clara, honey, be a doll and hand me the conditioner.
This room is located at “the back of the house.” That’s B&B lingo for “Sorry, but no one will hear your muffled screams as the poltergeist shoves the draperies down your throat.”
And here we have the stairs up which I would always run at full speed, convinced that disembodied zombie hands were seconds away from grabbing my ankles.
No matter! If it all got to be too intense, I could just go down and relax in the sitting room.
Just ignore the glare coming through the windows from the tortured souls perpetually burning in the fires of hell. How about some tea?
Suffice it to say, we did not book a room at this particular establishment. Although I was kind of tempted when I read “video recorders in every room!” on their list of amenities – DIRTY! – only to find out that they meant fucking VCRs.
All the better to watch HAUNTED TAPES ON OMG.
Oh, God. Now I’ve gone and mentioned that scary fucking movie and I’m all freaked out. The first time we watched it, we were living in our one-bedroom apartment in Queens, and I was so scared afterwards, I could barely move the twenty feet from the couch to the bedroom. That movie is FUCKED UP, Internet. OK, we need to talk about something else now.
I can’t think of anything else.
Ah! Right. The next installment of Pay It Forward is coming soon! And it is also terrifying, but in a much more hilarious way. Thanks to everyone who has forwarded me forwards! Keep them coming! I will be putting them all to good use, including the one I received from someone yesterday with the subject line “What is Butt Dust?”, and no, I am not kidding. I lose a few brain cells every time I see it sitting there in my Inbox.
And I really cannot spare those brain cells, as I have big plans to obliterate them later.
*Please click on that link and enjoy the most ill-advised marketing campaign ever. Is “Feel the Lake Effect” supposed to sound so dirty? Or like a euphemism for suffering a foodborne illness? Are nice girls supposed to pretend they don’t like the Lake Effect? So many questions.
Entry filed under: Gobble-gobble.