So, I am off on holiday in three weeks, and I plan to document my trip for several reasons really:
1) Primarily for me and my family, so we have a record of our vacation
2) In the hope that blogging my experiences may help someone in the future (either by the giving of sound advice, or by the ballsing things up)
3) For humour. Because funny things just seem to happen around me.
I can’t quite work out if strange events, happenings and situations are just cosmically drawn to me, or if they happen around me in exactly the same way as they do to everybody else, but I just notice them more. Having asked friends, it would seem the former, but I may be crediting life with less weirdness as a default position, if that’s the case.
I am probably more inclined to think that it is the first point – I attract an abnormally high level of oddity, but I am actually prepared to admit that I bring a lot of it on myself.
Here’s one example:
When I first visited my son’s new room at the nursery he attends, I was confronted – as all “new” parents are – by a group of questioning 3 year olds, demanding to know why I was there and who I was. I initially advised them that I was “William’s Mummy” and hoped that would be it, and that I could wander off on the rest of my tour of where the juice was kept, and to be shown how tricky it is to get yellow paint off a black floor. Like all the normal parents would have done. But, you see, my answer wasn’t enough for them. The children demanded a name. I panicked. I didn’t want to announce all Spartacus-like “I am Mrs Morrisio” as I felt that too formal, and likewise I thought “Call me Bectora” was a little too relaxed. So I opted for…
Don’t ask me why. I know it was a rookie error. You don’t tell 30 3-year old kids that you’re called SpongeBob Squarepants. All hell breaks loose. The attention that was swivelled upon me was extreme. Children flew in from the dried pasta sticky art they were in the middle of, wellingtons were discarded, and biscuits slammed down uneaten onto benches, as the entire class swooped in on the mysterious adult claiming to live in a pineapple under the sea.
Let me tell you, for those who are considering attempting this approach; don’t. Because it doesn’t end there. They find it funny; their voices escalate to cacophonous levels, until they are eventually shrieking at a pitch audible only to canines; they want to know more; they do not believe that you are SpongeBob Squarepants, but they cannot quite reconcile this knowledge with the fact that there is an adult in front of them, brazenly falsifying their identity. It is a new addition to their routine, and one they will not let go of easily.
But here’s a tip. If you do make the mistake of claiming to be SpongeBob Squarepants, and the children respond Panto-style with “Oh No You’re Not,” please take this one piece of advice from me. Do not then follow it up with: “You’re right. I’m not. I am Ben 10”
The aftermath is devastating.
This is just one example of the kind of event that happens on multiple occasions in any given day in my life, so with that in mind, I invite you to look forward to my holiday blogs. The last holday I went on involved an incident with me and 4 small brightly coloured birds, who were fascinated with my head, at an Ostrich Ranch in the Tucson Mountains. Fascinated. Not in a good way. And this on the same day that I was stopped near the Mexican border and told off by a border patrol for not carrying my passport, and then waved back into the country because (in his words) “she’s too pasty to be an immigrant”
Pfft! Not even tanned enough to be racially insulted. In the 100 degree desert.
I have already resigned myself to the fact that the 12.5 hour flight with my co-flying 3 year old Tazmanian Devil of a son, will be both a challenge and an adventure – if not for the other passengers, then certainly for us. And I am not secure in the conviction that the 3-week road trip across Route 66 in an RV with *sob* NO TV *sob* will be absolutely drama-free, but I do know one thing – I’ll have stuff to write about, and some of it might be worth a read – if only to deter you from coming anywhere near the locations I choose for my vacations.
Oh – and get this – I have never even watched one single episode of SpongeBob Squarepants.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me!