Oh Susannah, Don’t you cry for me.

I was unpacking my suitcase fifteen minutes after we arrived in Branson. The phone rang and I answered thinking it was my in-laws down the hall. “Hi, Mrs. Hackablag?” “It is Huckablog.” “Sorry, Mrs. Huckablog, this is Candy with guest services. How is your condo?” “Everything is great so far, thanks.” “Mrs. Huckablog, we were wondering if you would like to come to an orientation for Whinedamn resorts, it is just 90 minutes long, and we will give you 120 dollars, in cash, for attending.” “No, thank you. Have a nice afternoon.” Click.

I went about my afternoon, sort of thinking about that sales call. I ate dinner, visited some dinosaurs, met Elvis….still thinking about that call. I figured it out: 90 minutes, 120 dollars. That is what, 80 dollars an hour? That is pretty good. Hum. If I had 120 dollars I could pay for my little er, indiscretion. Everyone could go ride the train and I could sit and smile for an hour and a half and then meet them in time for lunch. I did not really want to ride the train anyway, and it would be ninety minutes free of toddler wrangling. I called Candy back, and she was THRILLED to talk to me. She asked how old I was, if we were above a certain income bracket (barely Candy, but you do not need to know that.) and what The Husband and I did for a living. She informed me that she had a spot for us to be “orientated” on Saturday morning, but my husband would have to come with me because of my age and since he is the “main bread winner” (and old.) Great, now I had to convince The Husband that listening to a sales pitch would be better than riding a scenic railway. It did take some time, but finally I talked him into it, on the one condition that I would do all of the talking and the saying no. (Remind me to tell you sometime about our crazy expensive cookware.)

Saturday morning we got up early so we had time to pack, check out, and get The Son settled with MMiL and FFiL. We walked in to this lounge type thing and saw dozens of couples sitting on cheap furniture. Half of them looked like rich, old retirees and the other half looked like middle class working people. We applied our sticky name tags with our names spelled wrong, and watched as various salespeople poured through the doors. A woman named Susannah came smiling to us, and lead us up into a hot, crowded room filled with lots of tiny tables. She spent a good five minutes pumping us for information, or getting to know us—you decide. What do we do, where did we meet, where did we go on our honeymoon, how often do we vacation, where did you go to school, where are you from? “Oh, I grew up twenty minutes away!” (I chose to ignore the fact her name tag said she was from Fairbanks AK). “Oh, I went to school at insert Alma Mater” (Really? You have a degree? Does selling timeshares really pay that well? ((then again, I have several degrees and I spend my days wiping applesauce off chins and singing songs about spiders. Never mind.))

After several minutes this little, overly tan guy walked in. His name rhymed with Fake-o. You could see the gray roots of his dyed black hair. He looked like he was either wearing heavy foundation or tanned daily. He went into this whole spiel about the links between health, vacations and living longer and working too much and blah blah blah. Every other sentence he would insert a….dramatic pause. He had so many…..dramatic pauses that I briefly wondered if he was having a series of small strokes. When he was done talking and pausing he showed us a video of lovely suites filled with average Americans singing the praises of Whinedam resorts. (none of the suites looked remotely like the ones that we stayed in that week), it was full of phony sounding statistics, and I could read the fine print from my spot. The organization responsible for these “facts”? The World Vacation Institute. Oooh, that sounds official. Then Fake-o told us how he had a heart attack “a year ago this month” and just fourteen days after quadruple bypass surgery he was on a beach in California, with his small son, at a Whinedam resort. He showed us a framed photo of the silhouette of a small boy holding hands with some guy running down the beach. He quickly waved it in front of our faces and then put it back on a shelf. Since we were at the front table, I could see the picture fairly well. I am pretty darn sure it was not Fake-o in the picture. It really, really looked like the picture that came in the frame. Also? FFiL had a quadruple bypass this time last year and spent some of his recovery time at our house. He sure as hell was not in any shape to be gallivanting on a beach fourteen days later. I call BS on Fake-o.

When Fake-o was finished with his brief work of fiction, Susannah took us on a tour of the compound, and it was lovely. I would definitely enjoy staying there as I vacationed. As we were walking she casually said, “I will be up front with you, it costs sixty-two nine.” That is exactly how she said it, sixty-two nine. I guess I was confused by what it was exactly that she wanted us to buy (it is a deed ((um, huh?)) for the rights to use Whinedam condos for a certain amount of “points” a year. Confused yet?), because I kept trying to figure out what dollar amount sixty-two nine was (that would be $62,900). I heard The Husband choke behind me. We should have just left right then and asked for our $120 while admitting that we were never going to spend that much money on a condo we could only use three weeks a year. Instead we continued the tour. I asked intelligent questions, oohed and aahed at the appropriate times, and then saw a clock. Our 90 minute “orientation” had been going on for over two hours. I told Susannah we needed to hurry this along, we had to meet our family, she rushed us into a VERY LOUD room, crammed with people. (When I brought up this detail to The Husband later on he said he noticed the same thing, and thinks they do that on purpose to overload people’s senses. They get nervous and hot and are more likely to rush and say “Yes” without giving it the thought 63 grand deserves.)

I told her we were interested but not ready to commit today. (I was trying to be nice Susannah!) She had to go get her manager to talk to us before we left. This anorexic looking girl, a few years older than me, came up with her eyes all bulging out. The first words out of her mouth were, “So how much can you put down today?” Er. I might have been playing along a little to well. The Husband looked panicked. (He told me when we got in the car I was lying so well he even believed me, that is amazing because usually I am a HORRIBLE liar.) I said we were not prepared to make a commitment right away. (Please let me leave scary lady, I just came to pay for my ticket!) She said, “Well you have to make a commitment today or you lose this good deal.” “Well, I am sorry, with the economy the way it is, it would be foolhardy of me to agree to spend this much on a non-necessity.” “You are looking at it the wrong way, instead of thinking about saving to spend for your vacations, you have to spend to save.” I could not suppress the giggles escaping my lips on that one. I think it ticked her off, because next she said, “You know, financially savvy people never have to think about it. They just say yes right away,”. Great. First you make me late, then you scare me with your eyes, and now you are insulting me? Does that really work on anybody? I chose to negate telling her about all of those financial tests that I studied for (and mostly passed), and just gave her a firm. “No, thank you. We are not interested.” She flipped over her piece of paper and then proceeded to give us a BETTER DEAL on something called the “VIP” package. Oh, so this is like buying a used car? You thought I was just trying to negotiate? I just want to leave, and never speed through a certain county again! “No, Thank You. We cannot commit to that much money. Especially not with your seventeen percent (!!!) interest rate.” “But, you can get financing on your own with a lower interest rate.” “How can we do that if you want us to agree right now?” “You just pay the $6,000 down and figure out the payments later.” “No, thank you. We cannot commit that much money.” (Dear God, let me out of here!) Scary eye lady huffed off without even saying “Bye”.

I looked over at Susannah, she had tears welling up in her eyes. Was she faking? Maybe, probably even, but I believe she was really upset. She saw her big fat commission fly away. I patted her on the shoulder and told her that she did a good job, that scary eye lady ruined it for her by pressuring us so hard. She gave me her personal email and cell number in case we changed our mind. She then had to bring over some old guy with a bulbous nose, blood shot eyes, and smelling vaguely of stale Bud Light to “check us out.” As soon as Susannah left, he sat down and said, “I understand why you said no. Here let me tell you a better deal.” He brought out more papers and gave us yet another price discount. I was amazed at the sheer tenacity of these people. I no longer had the patience for tact at this point. Our ninety minute “orientation” had turned into a three hour interrogation session. “No. We have to go now, can I keep these papers to think about it (and by think about I mean broadcast it all over the internet)?” “Oh, No, we can’t let you take the inventory.” Whatever dude. “Fine, we really need to leave.” He sighed, led us to the front desk. A weary looking lady counted out $120 in twenties into my hand, I turned on my heel and marched out, relieved to finally be free.

When we were outside, the first words out of The Husband’s mouth were, “How much do you think the timeshare would cost if they stopped giving $120 to people like us?” Good point darling. Oh well, we were $120 richer and had at least gotten some good blog fodder from our morning not riding the train.

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Mini-Break

I bet you thought I forgot about our little contest didn’t you?  No, I just wanted to give the last post its deserved time at the top.  It did give me some extra time to decide on a winner, which was needed.  The early leader was Grammy, whose story I really enjoyed…and found the most “believable”,  but she was quickly surpassed  by ShoeShe who came up with a nice (if plagiarized) little novel.  Shoeshe would have won if it were not for the thought of my precious little baby seeing dead people.  Oh, and she won the last contest.  This means she was disqualified.  As was MMiL for submitting her entry late.  Sorry.  So the winner was CAT, with her story about aliens and brain wiping.  Second place is Ang with her tale of fame.  Your prizes will be mailed to you.

The real story?  We were in Branson, Missouri.  To quote Homer Simpson, “Las Vegas if Ned Flanders were in charge.”    The first night we were there we went to a dinosaur “museum”.  Now I have been to dinosaur museums, two of the best in the world (Smithsonian and American Museum of Natural History) and this was not a museum.   We circled the parking lot when we got there because we were unsure if it was even open it was so dead.   We went in and paid WAY too much to see a bunch of rubber statues of dinosaurs.  They had a little screening room that had some show that had been Tivoed from the History channel.  The Son walked through and was “all done” in four minutes.   They had a little area with dinosaur puzzles and while we were sitting around…Elvis walked in.  FFiL and I saw him at the same time.  I grabbed MMiL’s camera, The Son, and went off in search of some blog fodder.  Turns out Elvis is the headliner in a show in Branson called Legends.  I still have no idea why he was at the dinosaur “museum” but he was very nice, looked very much like Elvis, and spoke with a mid-western accent. 

The Son loved the Dinosaur museum and real fossils might have scared him anyway.  Because of this Triceratops he now thinks his book with a Rhinoceros is about Dinosaurs.

Obviously you can not ride the exhibits at the Smithsonian.  Another plus to Branson.

Since we (and Elvis) were the only patrons, he had the play area all to himself.

As we were leaving, we saw the sole employee had blown up the dinosaur bounce house for us.  We bounced for a good half hour.

All of us.  FFiL and I got quite a work out.

The Son was soooo tired after the long drive, a little nap, and the Dinosaur-a-gogo, but not too tired for a heaping  ice cream sundae!  Doesn’t he look like he is about to pass out in his spoon?

The next day we went to Silver Dollar City, which some may call cheesy, and it is, but I LOVE it there!  I could go once a month–no problem.  That night we had tickets to go see the new stage show, Noah: The Musical.  It was….different.  I enjoyed it, and the theater was awesome, it was like we were inside the ark and there were animals, some real, some not, all around us.  Here is a picture of some little boy who sat near us who was very disruptive.  He threw his cup of water, talked loudly saying, “The Son goes ON THE BOAT!”  “Mama, why Noah singin’ ?”, “No, Daddy, NO DADDY, NO! THE SON STAND UP!”  I felt so bad for his parents that I decided to conceal their identity.

There was a whole bus load of women wearing bedazzled sweaters and rhinestone jean jackets wearing their hair like this.   I think they may have been part of an Aquanet cult.  They REALLY liked the show–especially the sequined up Jesus who came out at the end.

Apparently that much hairspray is itchy.

The next day MMiL and FFiL took The Son to ride a train.  He seemed very unimpressed by his train table when we got home after getting to play with this one.

MMiL took this picture, I am hoping through a window.  I assumine she did not let my two year old ride on top of the train.

He obviously found someplace to climb, he always does.

Here he is with the Conductor I guess.  Whoever it is, he has mastered that Clinton thumb.

The next post will tell you what The Husband and I were doing while everyone else was on the train.

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To love and protect.

Um, yeah. This is not a fun blog post. It was hard to write, and is hard to read, so my feelings will not be hurt if you just pass right on by this one. It is in honor of National Domestic Violence Month, and all money made from ads here on thehuckablog for the month of October will be donated here, so feel free to click away.

Sometimes I wonder if I am protective enough of The Son. I always keep an eagle eye on him, but tend to err more on the side of letting him test his limits rather than helicopter over him. I let him climb, jump, taste things, wear what he wants, kiss the dog, play with other kids. I so do not want him growing up afraid, or wary of new experiences, or to be shy around new people. He looks just like The Husband’s side of the family, but the older he gets, it is becoming more and more obvious his personality is all me. He is bossy, he is chatty, he is loving and a cuddler, he is curious, he is pouty if he does not get his way, he can be manipulative, he gets obsessed with certain things, and he is brave. I do not want him to get hurt, but I also want him to experience life to the fullest. The hard truth is that if you are really living your life, sometimes you will get hurt.

I started liking boys around the fifth grade. I had my first boyfriend in the sixth grade and he was tall and lanky and had an identical twin. His name was Kris with a K, it was short for Kristian. When I was twelve, we sat next to each other in beanbag chairs in our GT social studies class as we watched Ben Hur, he leaned over and kissed me, it lasted exactly two seconds when our teacher looked over and made us separate our beanbag chairs. Kris with a K was the first in a long line of middle school and high school loves, we would pass notes, hold hands at the skating rink, later on we would go horseback riding or slow dance to Bryan Adams songs. Fun, but not serious. When I was sixteen my family moved to another state. It was the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school and I was-to put it lightly-pissed off about moving. We found a church right away and I started going to youth group. Now I am-and was-a good Christian girl, but the best thing about youth group were the boys.

I had lived in my new hometown for all of a month when I got asked out by Ryan. By the time school started, we were “going steady”. We had lockers right next to each other, and I would daily find little flowers or poems or presents that he had left for me. He declared his love for me, he showered me with compliments, he was jealous over other boys, and I was….overwhelmed. I never really made any close friends those last two years of high school because I would spend every waking moment with–or at least on the phone with– Ryan. I should say right from the beginning my parents were not too crazy about him, probably more because they did not want their sixteen year old child to be so serious about a boy than anything else, but they knew if they had tried to keep us apart, it would just drive me closer to him. Wise parents that they were, they did the opposite. Invite him over, sure he can have dinner with us, sure he can come with us on our family trip, at least that way they could keep an eye on us–let me test my limits while keeping an eagle eye on me.

We had fun, but slowly but surely things started to turn for the worst. Being a year older, he chose to go to college here in town because I was still in high school. We still spent every second together possible after he graduated, me barely fitting in the extracurriculars I was passionate about (I was a drama geek). It stopped being fun around Christmas of my senior year, he was just pissy all the time, he would yell at me, and then say how sorry he was we had argued, how much he loved me, blah, blah, blah. He would get mad if I excluded him to do something with my friends or family. Every now and again….he would grab my arm, or kind of pinch my waist during an argument. I obviously did not like it, but guess that I did not realize what a slippery slope that kind of (now I know it for its real name) abuse is. I think I thought we would break up when I went away to college, and just kept stringing him along until then. Would you all think I was the worst, most shallow person in the world if I told you I was worried about not having a date for my senior prom if we broke up? In the mean time the yelling, and possessiveness just got worse and worse, I knew something was not right, but did a good job of covering it up in front of my family.  I would say if anyone knew what was really going on, it was probably my brother. I had developed this weird habit of inviting JHJ along whenever Ryan and I went someplace, partly because I love my brother and enjoyed spending time with him, but also because….I was maybe starting to be a little afraid to spend time alone with my own boyfriend.

I did try to break things off the summer before I went away to college, but he was so…heartbroken, and then would be so sweet and romantic that it never really stuck. He would always be back in my life before I knew it. In July he applied to the college I had already been accepted to and was accepted as well. He found an apartment from which he could look out the door of and see my dorm. I again tried to break up with him, but by the time school started, I was the new girl again. I did not know anyone, and he was an easy way for this social butterfly to not be lonely. He was working nights, going to class during the day, and spending time with me during the afternoons and evenings. It is amazing I can sit here and make excuses for him ten years later, but I still wonder how much sleep deprivation had to do with those final months of our relationship. Ten years ago this week, I became a statistic. I was not at home to have my wonderful parents watching over me. I was old enough to make my own decisions, and young enough to make stupid ones.

It was a gorgeous fall day, and I had been up bright and early to go to my eight AM class, World Civ, a class that Ryan and I had together. He did not show up, and I was royally ticked off. Why? I don’t know, I guess I thought I was never going to be able to break up with this guy and certainly did not want to be married to a drop out who was still working overnight at MajorRetailer. I marched over to his apartment, intending to lecture him and get him up in time for his next class. I just deleted this whole paragraph. I think it was good for me to type it out, but I do not want it out there for people whom I love to read, so let’s just paraphrase it and say that I take National Domestic Violence awareness month very seriously.

At one point he stopped and sat down on the couch and cried, saying, “Get out before I really do kill you”. I left and ran out into the parking lot and back over to campus. In my hurry, I left my bag, my phone, my keys and my shoes at his apartment. I scared the crap out of some girl going to her car, and told her I needed help. She called campus police who took me to the hospital, once I was there they x-rayed me, and made me talk to the police. While still at the hospital, I got a phone call saying it was my dad checking on me, I had not called my dad and figured the school had, I was pissed off I did not have a chance to break this gently to my parents so I called my mom from the hospital and rushedly told her what happened. She freaked and was mad my dad had not told her what he knew, so she called him. Turns out it was not my dad at all but Ryan checking on me. I was mostly fine, the only lasting (physical) damage was a broken finger that never quite healed correctly. The cops went to Ryan’s apartment and he climbed out of the back window, they never even tried to capture him. I later learned the Ryan was fired from MajorRetailer that same day because he had stolen a shotgun from the sporting goods department. That morning could have been so much worse.

I had to go tell the dean of students what happened, and the dean made me tell him the graphic details. Ryan was kicked out of school. He called many times a day for a couple of weeks to say he was going to commit suicide if I did not take him back, I secretly wished that he would. He had a spare key (NEVER GIVE OUT KEYS) to my car and stole it while I was at class. He then parked it in a deserted area, took a logging chain, put it around the back wheels and then called and told me to meet him and he would give the car and my key back. I called the police instead (using my brain for the first time in over a year) and they cut off the chain and kept my car at the university police headquarters. Ryan had the nerve to call the police station and ask if he could have his chain back.

He was not allowed on campus anymore, but one day he followed me from class and begged me to take him back. When I told him he could not come up to my dorm he pushed me really hard, and I fell and skinned my elbows–and ripped my favorite sweater. That was the last straw. I had been afraid to press charges because I thought he would get out of jail quickly, hunt me down and kill me. That day I called one of his out of state relatives whom I knew loved him, and whom he respected. I told her exactly what happened, every gory detail. I told her if he did not leave the state I was going to press charges. The next day she came with a U-haul and took him with her. He sent me a letter months later saying that he had gotten married two months later, and had joined the military.

Ten years is a long time. I am a different person than the college freshman, but I know I was shaped, in part, by that day. I was hurt, in every way–but my bravery and trusting nature is what took the biggest beating. I did not have a serious boyfriend for three years afterwards…but when I took the plunge to love, and trust, it was with The Husband. Nothing works as a salve on old wounds like love from the kindest man on the planet, the most patient, the most gentle. I know how good I have it, because I have seen the other side.

I want to be protective of the people whom I love, I do not want to see them hurt…but I also do not want them to miss out on the gifts this life can give us because of fear. I want to teach The Son the gray area between prudence and sheer nerve, a lesson I am not sure I have learned myself.

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My little runaway, run-run-run-run-runaway

The Dog, Katydid, ran away yesterday. She used to do this with some frequency, but it has been months since she even made an attempt. The only way she got out this time was the utility guy opened our fence and did not close it when he left. We jumped in the Huckablazer and followed her as she ran through our neighborhood. The Husband had a pocket full of Goldfish and her leash, hoping to lure her close enough to re-think her jaunt. The Son called “KAAAAAATY DOG! KAAAATY DOG! BACK KAAAATY!” through the open window. I drove, and contemplated what to do when she darted across the street right in front of the truck. I have told you how bad she is right? She is a BAD dog. It is totally our fault, we let her do whatever she feels like, our only accomplishments have been potty training her and teaching her how to “be a ballerina” for a snack. One of our neighbors caught her and brought her home after about 45 minutes. To be honest, if it were not for the fact(s?) that The Son adores her, that she cleans up toddler food spills nicely, and that I think it is my responsibility to take care of her….I would have not even gone after her.

About a month after The Husband and I got married, I was watering flowers on our front porch and left the front door cracked. An adorable wee little bunny hopped across the yard, Katy saw it, and slipped out the door before I knew what was happening. Now this was BC (before child) and Katy was my baby. I bought her a coat and even a little hat to wear. She was our flower dog at the wedding for cripes sake. I loved that dog. I dropped the hose and ran (barefoot of course, lordy, we never wear shoes around here) after her. The front door was left wide open and the hose was left running. I thought I would catch her in two minutes in the neighbor’s yard. But she ran, and she ran, and she ran…..and, I followed her. She weaved in and out of quiet rows of houses. She crossed two busy streets. And, I followed her. “Katy! Katy! STOP! COME BACK TO MAMA!!” I sobbed, and wheezed. My feet hurt. I did not have my cell phone to call The Husband, and we had traveled some distance by this time. I saw her run into the parking lot of the neighborhood Walgreens, I thought, thank the Lord, she is cornered. Then an elderly man came out the front door….and she went in! That damn dog was INSIDE Walgreens! I followed her. As soon as I stepped inside the front door, the cashier said, “EXCUSE ME! Excuse me, Ma’am you can NOT come all up in here with no shoes on!” I stared at her and gasped out, “But my dog just ran in!” “WHAT!? You can’t bring no dogs in here!” “Yes, I realize that, help me catch her and we will both leave.” We finally got her cornered by the Wet and Wild makeup. I scooped her up and with my head held high, dripping sweat, my filthy, sore feet screaming, we started for home.

Of course I had no leash, I had no belt or shoelace to use as a leash, she was too short to let her walk without me crawling beside her, so I carried her, all thirty-two pounds of her. When I finally reached home, it was an hour after she first bolted after that freakin’ rabbit. The hose was still running, creating Lake Erie in the front yard. The front door was still standing wide open, the living room now a humid black fly breeding ground. I dropped Katy in the entry way, walked back to the office where The Husband and BIL were doing some sort of geeky computer something, and stood in the doorway with my hands on my hips. The Husband looked at his new bride, covered in sweat, dirt, and dog hair and said, “Hey, what happened to you?” They did not even know I was missing! Men! Hummff. Dogs! Hummff.

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Overheard in the Huckablazer.

a note: The Son was not in the vehicle at this particular time, just thought I should mention that before I get emails telling me you are calling CPS. Oh, and keep those Elvis stories coming, you have 24 more hours!

“Good Lord, what is this crap you are listening to?”

“What do you THINK it is?”

“It sounds like the background to an Eastern European porn.”

“How do you know what European porn sounds like? It is a Russian pop singer.”

“Where the hell did you find a Russian pop singer to listen to?”

“I was letting The Son watch trucks with jet fuel on YouTube, and we watched one on the streets of Moscow, and then YouTube recommended this video of a girl who has a song called Traffic, so I clicked on it. You know, the YouTube rabbit hole.”

“Turn it off, it is horrific!”

“No, listen to this song.” (turns it UP!)

“Did you BUY this CD?”

“No, I burned it.”

“You have illegal Russian music? The Russian mob and Interpol are going to come after us.”

“No, it is legal. ”

“So you paid for it from I Tunes or something?”

“No, it was free.”

“I wonder why.”

“Listen, this is my favorite song.”

“No! It is so bad that it makes me want to have you pull over so that I can rob that convenient store just so that I can go to prison to learn how to make a shiv so I can stab it in my ear to keep from hearing anymore of this!”

“You are such a drama queen.” (Turns off CD.)

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You tell me the story here.

Here is the picture.

A prize (not yet determined) goes to the winning story behind this picture. Make sure you list a valid email address when you log in to comment. I will give you a hint: that is my FFiL holding The Son, Elvis giving a thumbs up, and they are all standing in front of a life sized T-Rex. You have 48 hours. Be creative. Go.

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Overheard at a church not my own.

“Can you say your scripture? Remember it is for God so loved the world, John 3:16″

“For….God….so …um….the word!”

“Good!, that was close, and where is that it in the bible?”

“um…..”

“John……..?”

“John………Deere!”

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