Usually, I hate doing chronicles of days. Being overshadowed Narnia, Riddick, and Sarah Connor is inevitable.
With that in mind, lets throw some May, 21st, 2010 action at ya. Family trip time. Woot woot. Not quite Johnson family vacation status, but pretty high up on the "It's funny because I could relate to that because my family does the EXACT same thing" scale.*
If you don't currently own one of those scales, I suggest you buy one. They sell them at "Party Hardy." They come in a pack along with that pointless glitterry star stuff that always finds its way to the floor at six year old birthday parties.
Chronicles of the Pauker von Thatched Ponds
-The Droadster, big D, D mac daddy, Heavy D (Father. His real name is Marty. Don't ask.)
-Manny (sister. real name is nothing close to manny. again, don't ask)
-Oaf, Npdarat, Nols Farha (broski. real name, nolan. at least half the names are close)
-Mom (everytime we gave her nickname, she claimed it was "insulting")
-That guy at the bagel store who is always there and you think he lives there, waitress who is dressed way too classy for her actual classiness level, big shot CEO's at the table next to us who might not actually be a big shots at all and are just bluffing their wealth to the attractive girls they are wining and dining, slurpy mcslurp dude at the check-in counter, Doug and his fillial entourage, non-sober frataculars
My broski is graduated this weekend. He's all grown up. Such a big boy.
Anyways, my family and I had to make the immaculate trek from Smithtown New York to Charlottesville Virginia so that we could attend this momentous occasion. Being that none of my family are accomplished wizards, apparation, floo powder, and portkeys were out of the question. Lose-gardium leviosa on that one.
Yep, we drove. Being that we had a dinner reservation at 7, we had to leave kind of on the earlier side. Like, 8 am early. Almost like were back in high school. All I need is a locker, some unwarranted drama, vending machines that exclusively sell snapple iced tea, and a teacher who smokes more weed than the students. do the stanky leg.
I wake up at 8:09 am. Obviously, nobody is even close to departure mode. Heavy D is psuedo yelling at everyone, being all like "lets move it people." Meanwhile, he isn't even close to ready himself, all decked out in outdated sweatpants and a sweatsuit that looked like he was back in 1984. I think he's forgotten to buy clothes for 30 years straight. Gotta save money somehow. Especially "in this economy."
Shenanagans ensue at the house. Me Moms insists that we empty all the garbages out, fold up some table in the den that clearly doesn't need folding and is only being folded up because we aren't gonna be home for three whole days. The fun doesn't stop there. Acts II and III feature wiping down the kitchen, engaging a whole slew of other windex related activities, and bringing up the "Waughtah's." (New York for Water)
Meanwhile, the droadster is in full "i'm a dad so i have to be on top of things" mode. In other words he's standing in the hallway telling me to do this, telling manny to do that, and does nothing himself.
We pack the car. We mess up. We pack the car again. We squeeze in that last pointless bag that we most likely aren't going to even end up using. By the time we pull out of the driveway, it is 9:24 am. Almost 90 whole minutes past scheduled departure. The Late Late show. I metaphorically call up Jimmy Fallon.
After we hit up the smithtown bagel store and make the first of three starbucks stops, we're off on the road. We pop in the one CD I made for the car ride. Good news was that the critics gave my musical selection rave reviews, as confirmed from the regular chorus of "Ooh Lancey! Goood Pick!!" from momsies. Bad news was that when the CD was doneski, we were still on Long Island. 7 more hours to go. Nice. Everybody danse on THAT drug.
Highlights from the car ride:
-People get progressively less tan as you move away from Long Island
-Droad doesn't believe in technology. He also recycles the same jokes over and over again. We left late. We get it. The first three jokes were enough.
-I'm not sure what age it is where you suddenly become obsessed with traffic patterns, but I hope its not soon
-OK! magazine is the most overpriced excuse of a publication ever. Only one page of Justin Bieber?! Pur-leease
-My parents asked me about my blog, as they don't really read it (which is probably a good thing). Droad, clueless as usual despite thinking he knows everything, claims it to be "A diary/journal."
I suddenly became horrified. I mean, some of my posts are all "I have feelings," but i'm not here to provide you sappy tales of failed romances. Manny fresh. saves the day by explaining how it is not in fact a journal, but is instead a nonsensical rant of raging hilarity and idiocy. Sounds about right.
After what seems like longer than Ronalidinho and Sarah Jessica Parker's faces combined, we finally arrive at the hotel. Although the place is called "The Boars Head in," I am extremely disappointed to find that there is nobody there with a deeply assuring voice telling me to buy ham. Awful. Instead we are greeting by this 23 year old wannabe southern gentlemen at the reception desk, clearly overplaying the twang on his accent in attempt to sound more proper. Fail.
I hate that phrase. Fail. Its worse than wearing a suit on a really really hot day. Absolutely unbearable.
Anyways, other than the fact that they forgot the Civil War was over, the hotel was pretty stellar
Finally, we arrive at the roomski. To say that certain family members were displeased with the setup would be.......accurate. You probably thought I was gonna say "an understatement" right there. Gotcha.
Our stay at the Boars Head was about to get hog wild. Pumba style.
I'm gonna pull some 1800's book publishing moves on you and leave ya hanging. Part two of this story will be published shortly.
song of the day:
The first cut is the deepest, Sheryl Crow. pure terrificness
Plus, this bonus snipe from T swift.