Jennifay reminded me of my Family Vacations.

This is funny because it illustrates me as an early adolescent, which was (at least when viewed from the standpoint of an outside observer) a rather funny time. I think my early teen years could probably support several comedian's stand-up routines for a couple years, at least.

Sorry to continue the Burlington Hiatus, but I'm just not quite into that frame of mind yet. Just be happy that I'm back to my absurd updating schedule.

So anyway. (Yes, I do tend to start sentences with "so anyway" in speech as well) My parents displayed a mind-boggling lack of understanding of What The Eldest Child Might Like To Do when planning our Family Vacations. Not that I expected them to tailor the outings to myself, but we could have met maybe halfway. Or they could have left me with someone else, which would have been fine with me.

I'm trying to remember which one came first. I believe it was the Driving Tour of the Mid/Southwest.

Those of you who have been with me for a while may have noticed that my stomach is the 98-pound weakling of Digestive Organs. I get very motion sick. It's better now, but then -- any drive over an hour or so had me on the side of the road hurling acid and bile out of myself. I think I must have killed at least a few roadside plants in my time.

This Driving Tour took two weeks. We flew into Colorado, rented a car, and proceeded to drive through Colorado, Utah, Arizona, and New Mexico.

So the first problem with this trip idea should be obvious. I spent the whole goddamned time basically in a Dramamine coma. The roads we took were particularly hard on me because they were all curvy Scenic Routes.

The second problem with this trip is that I'm definitely missing whatever gene it is that makes one breathless and awe-inspired by wide panoramic vistas of Landscape. This is even more evident when those vistas are almost entirely desert. I completely fail to be bowled over by the effects of erosion on tall rock formations. Periodically we would stop, my parents would drag my sedated ass out of the car and over to a Landmark. I would pry my eyes open for long enough to squint and say something like "Hey, it's a big rock!" before stumbling back to my backseat bed.

Even the Grand Canyon failed to make much of an impression on me. I know it makes me a terrible person who is unable to appreciate beauty or something, but it's the truth. I looked at the Grand Canyon. That is exactly what it is. It is a big red hole in the ground. The bottom of it is quite far away. I find this totally uninteresting.

Man, is it dead today. Nobody's updating, and nobody in the Book Club is sending email. Evil of all y'all.

The second stunning vacation choice for myself was to take us (me and my sister) to Aruba. I was 13. Even at 13 I hated the beach. I still hate the beach. I am extremely lucky to have found a Boy that also hates the beach, and he is lucky to have found a Girl that will not drag him to hot sand-in-your-vagina salty places with lots of hateful people running around.

For those of you who don't know, there is almost no point whatsoever to Aruba if you do not like the beach. Unless you are a college student looking to get laid. Seriously, the place was like a giant singles bar. My folks received $100 worth of free drinks as soon as we landed. Men in ill-advised Speedos spent the days and nights gawking at and trying to sleep with girls in frequently also ill-advised string bikinis. One assumes that at least some of these efforts were successful, otherwise the place would have migrated to an elderly person's resort a long time ago. The many free drinks probably helped.

Of course, at 13, you're not exactly willing to give it up for a Speedo and likely lice-and-disease-riddled pedophile. So mostly I stayed in my room reading Crime and Punishment.

Which was problematic in and of itself. There was a band in our area, although I use the word "band" rather loosely. Three Arubans who I actually think were Mexican called Los Tres Amigos. They must have been androids, because they seemed to spend twenty-four hours a day every day outside my goddamned hotel window playing Spanish renditions of such American hits as "Bingo Was His Name-O" and similar songs. Apparently their training for this gig consisted of someone handing them a Spanish tape of the children's songs they're always advertising at three in the morning. Which I assume is a ploy to convince sleepless parents of infants that if they only had this tape, their kid would shut up.

They did talk me into going snorkelling one time. I got so sick I threw up on the boat. I at least did better than my mother, who threw up in the ocean with herself in it (the ocean). She couldn't even get back on the boat to go back to the hotel place, she had to walk, in her bathing suit, the couple of miles. We were both completely green for hours. I think I may have seen 1 fish. If I remember correctly it looked exactly like your standard-issue pet store tropical fish.

When I have kids I'm taking them to fucking Europe.

onehanded