Nothing terribly exciting happened on Sunday. Oh, we got up and ate more flapjacks, then drove around the circle of artisans that dotted a particular stretch of road in the area, and we lunched on fish and chips at an English pub (though not the English pub we'd been assured was more authentic in both food and dankness, but the brighter friendlier one that was in need of changing its frying oil). Other than that, we basically chilled out and enjoyed one another's company in our cozy cabin. We even whiled away an hour watching the VH1 Soul Train retrospective, which was an education for the wife who'd never seen an episode in her life, having grown up in the electricity-free wilds of Alaska. (It's always fun to play Stump the Wife with 80s Pop Culture. You win every time!)
At some point that afternoon, the vet called but I didn't hear my phone. He had news that yet again Sadie had developed a bladder infection. She's developed such an infection almost every time we've had her boarded and the only time she didn't was the time she got kennel cough instead. She's such a neurotic little thing and can't stand it when her pack is away for any length of time. We'd hoped Moose's presence would be a calming one, but he was probably more of a nuisance, due to his habit of constantly biting her on the neck. So we knew we'd have a antibiotic bill when we returned.
We saw very little snow for most of the trip home; certainly not what had been called for. About the time we hit Bristol, though, we could see it starting to pile up and it only got thicker the further we went. From that point until a couple of weeks ago, we saw a tremendous amount of snow, as far as my snow-seeing experience is concerned. I know there were places who had it far worse, but there were days when I couldn't get home due to my little front-wheel-drive car's inability to make it up the twisty, windy, steep-blind-curve-filled neighborhood's icy roads, and I was forced to park on the main road outside of the neighborhood and hoof it in.
"We need to get you a new car," the wife kept saying.
"Ahh, it'll thaw soon," I would say.
Then one day, after I was able to get up the first major hill of my neighborhood, but then got trapped on the blind curve (which was impervious to any amount of cat litter I cared to throw at it) and then had to reverse my way slowly back down the hill, my tires' footing slipping the whole way down and threatening to hurl me off the steep embankment and into the creek, waiting for the moment when some a-hole with four wheel drive plowed into the back of me, I decided it was time to start looking for a new car. I knew I'd need something with all wheel drive which could also hold a couple of good sized dogs comfortably and, hopefully, get good gas mileage and which was probably going to need to be lightly used. In my search, I mainly stuck to the U.S. News & World Report consumer ratings guides, which average the ratings from consumer publications across the nation. They basically liked the Honda CRV and the Subaru Forester as far as the class of vehicles I was looking for were concerned. I scanned the websites of local dealerships and was able to find examples of each of these, but the color of one of the more ideal ones, a 2009 Forester, appeared to have been painted an inadvisable shade of baby blue. On a whim, I drove by the dealership to see if it was as hideous in person and discovered that either I was looking at an entirely different car than the one online, or it wasn't nearly as blue or hideous in person. In fact, it was kind of greenish blue, which worked out pretty good.
Later that afternoon, the wife and I returned and did a test drive of the Subaru and of a CRV. Between the two of them, we liked the Subaru better. It felt roomier inside and, frankly, looked better on the outside. It also only had 20k miles on it and was not nearly as expensive as we expected based on some of the pricing we'd seen online. And, most importantly, it had an Oh Shit Handle on the driver's side. I've always wanted one of those and didn't think anyone made automobiles in which the driver can opt to bail on his responsibilities at the wheel and just hold on for dear life. We decided to get it.
The Forester fits me nicely, as it also does the dogs. Just have to fold down the back seats, put their water dish in and they have plenty of room to ride. And it can get up snowy hills just fine. Naturally, though, as soon as we'd bought it, the weather warmed up and we only had one major snow since. Will have to wait til next year for more hillside fun.
Showing posts with label anniversary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anniversary. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 6)
On Saturday, we'd had a very nice morning already, with flapjacks from a different flapjack restaurant where the `jacks were thick and tasty and the bacon salty. (Afterwards, we were already plotting how best to persuade the new place to crumble the salty bacon into the actual pancake batter for our Sunday morning trip.) We had then browsed around downtown Gatlinburg, looking in shops once in a while, but not really buying anything. We'd been planning to hit the Ripley's Aquarium, but kind of balked at the $40 price for the two of us to get in there. So, instead, we wound up blowing nearly $20 on EARTHQUAKE: THE RIDE.
That's right, we were somehow suckered in (*COUGH*COUGH *THEWIFEWANTEDTOGO *COUGH*) to forking over good money for Earthquake: The Ride. Let me just tell you something about Earthquake: The Ride. If you're an adult human being, or above the age of, say, 14, you're not going to enjoy Earthquake: the Ride unless someone else is paying for it. Not to spoil the experience, but there's no actual earthquake during Earthquake: The Ride. Instead, you're ushered into a mini-subway car, with maybe eight seats all told--and you know the ride is for children at this point because while your ass can fit in the seats, the seat belt will NOT buckle around an average-sized adult waist, let alone mine--the doors close and you're "off."
You know those rides at Disney World, where you're stapped into the little car, or miniature pirate ship, and you're led around on a track through a maze of adventure, color and wonderment? This wasn't one of those. Oh, there was a track, all right, but it went in a straight line. This meant that as the mini-subway car could only move forward and backward, therefore all the storytelling of the ride had to be done via the subway intercom system, which featured a paniced person screaming about how there had been a massive earthquake and chaos was about to ensue. There were a few other visual storytelling clues as well, such as the large crate through the slats of which could be glimpsed some sort of large ape. Hmm, wonder if that'll come back later? Then there was the matter of the ceiling of the tunnel ahead of you collapsing, causing the mini-subway car to stop just shy of destruction, back up a bit, then move forward anyway, the back of it tilting up perilously close to a 4 degree angle, which was just enough to nearly dislodge me from my unbelted seat and nearly made me spill my coffee. But it was okay. The car righted itself and began pulling backward, only to be suddenly and viciously attacked from the front by a giant rubber anaconda that had sprung out of the hole in the tunnel floor! The car then backed through the tunnel--with the announcer announcing some aftershocks all the way--passing the now well-escaped and menacing gorilla in the crate and some chunks of reinforced concrete that seemed to be swinging from pivots, and then back to the starting point, where some large and rubbery creature loomed into the window just as you thought your ride was done and all was safe. All told, it probably took less than two minutes.
"Wow, let's do that again," we said as we walked out, past the line of children and their harried and lighter-of-wallet parents. At least the kids would probably get a kick out of it.
That was far from my only fateful decision of the day, though. In fact, I still had the consequences of my fateful decision from Friday to attend to. After the temperature had soaked into our bones, we decided to head back to the cabin to soak those cold bones in the hottub. And this we did.
After a while I got out, dried off and very shortly found myself wrapped up in my robe, standing on the back deck of the cabin, a Blue Moon beer in hand and the beautiful, snow-flecked landscape of the Smokies spread before me. Seemed a perfect time to light up my stogie.
I fetched my cigar, lit it, puffed away at it until it took. It was very smooth and quite pleasant, as I had been assured at the tobacconist's that the Baccarat Dolce Far Niente would be. I continued to puff on it, taking in the surrounding vista, my mp3 player softly playing an interview with John Hodgman, while, a few feet away, the wife soaked in the hottub upwind.
The thing about smoking a cigar, though, is that it takes a long time. They're meant for chewing on while playing poker with the guys, or savoring in front of a roaring fire, in some kind of Minnesotan hunting lodge, while sipping cognac from a Riedel Vinum crystal cognac glass. And while I was certainly enjoying mine, it was taking a lot longer to finish than I really wanted to spend cold, robed and partially wet on the back of a chilly cabin. However, I was determined to make it through to the bitter end. Oh, how bitter that end was to be.
"Are you sick yet?" the wife asked a few minutes later.
"No," I said, defensively. But within a few minutes more, I began feeling a bit off. Between the cigar's taste, the smoke and the beer, my stomach was starting to feel less than stable. And still I puffed away, cause the damn thing wasn't done yet. Then, quite suddenly, it became apparent to me that not only was I definitely going to throw up if I took even one more puff, I was likely going to throw up regardless. I dropped the cigar into my beer bottle and rushed to the bathroom to wash my face, hoping to get the smell of smoke off of me before its overwhelming sweet and smooth stench put the hurt on my stomach even more. Didn't work. I could still taste cigar. Before I could even attempt to brush my teeth, the levies gave way and I took a lengthy stroll down the streets of Hurl City.
"Mmmm hmm," the wife said, once I returned, green-faced to the deck.
For the next two days, I could smell cigar smoke at almost all times even three days later could still pick up the occasional whiff of it. Oh, yeah, that's why I don't smoke regularly.
Though we were already two days into our trip, we'd still not really gone out for a nice anniversary dinner. Our Friday night meal was takeout pizza from a local pizzeria and mostly we'd otherwise eaten flapjacks. So out we went into the night to try and find a restaurant.
I'd seen a Cuban place in town that I thought might be fun. I've always been told Cuban food is some of the best tasting stuff ever, but have never had any. Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn and wound up driving back through the more touristy section, littered with chain restaurants. I kept driving, hoping to come to something nicer, or to Pigeon Forge, whichever came first. Then, we spied it... a great big log structure that looked very much like the sort of hunting lodge one might be able to enjoy a fine cigar within had one not already been put off of them for at least a year. It was called the Park Grill Steakhouse and it looked like salvation.
Inside we were greeted by very friendly hosts, who led us past a massive double-sided salad bar to a waiting table in this massive establishment. It was busy, but not too busy. Our waiter was friendly, but not overly in-your-face friendly. The piano music was pleasant and not too loud, played by a man who was a very skilled pianist, but who could have doubled for a gold-panning miner if not for his suit. The bread was fantastic! The prices on the menu scared us at first, but it was our anniversary weekend, when you're supposed to splurge a little on the finer things. We both ordered steaks, which were cooked to perfection and garnished with love. They were some of the best tasting steaks we'd ever had.
Now, both the wife and I have experience as wait staff in restaurants--the wife in a high-traffic seaside, tourist magnet restaurant, me at a busy Pizza Hut--and we were both quietly observing the staff of this one. No one seemed to be stressed out. Everyone seemed to be pitching in to help one another out. Someone who wasn't even our waiter asked if we needed refills without prompting. The place just seemed to run like a well-oiled machine, burning high octane clean fuel. It was amazing. On our way out, we noticed that near the foyer of the restaurant were hung pictures of all the staff. Most of them had been working there for over five years, and some since the place had opened in 1995. Apparently the owners treated their people right to the point that some were making careers out of their jobs there. Knowing this somehow made the dining experience all that much better.
(TO BE CONCLUDED...)
That's right, we were somehow suckered in (*COUGH*COUGH *THEWIFEWANTEDTOGO *COUGH*) to forking over good money for Earthquake: The Ride. Let me just tell you something about Earthquake: The Ride. If you're an adult human being, or above the age of, say, 14, you're not going to enjoy Earthquake: the Ride unless someone else is paying for it. Not to spoil the experience, but there's no actual earthquake during Earthquake: The Ride. Instead, you're ushered into a mini-subway car, with maybe eight seats all told--and you know the ride is for children at this point because while your ass can fit in the seats, the seat belt will NOT buckle around an average-sized adult waist, let alone mine--the doors close and you're "off."
You know those rides at Disney World, where you're stapped into the little car, or miniature pirate ship, and you're led around on a track through a maze of adventure, color and wonderment? This wasn't one of those. Oh, there was a track, all right, but it went in a straight line. This meant that as the mini-subway car could only move forward and backward, therefore all the storytelling of the ride had to be done via the subway intercom system, which featured a paniced person screaming about how there had been a massive earthquake and chaos was about to ensue. There were a few other visual storytelling clues as well, such as the large crate through the slats of which could be glimpsed some sort of large ape. Hmm, wonder if that'll come back later? Then there was the matter of the ceiling of the tunnel ahead of you collapsing, causing the mini-subway car to stop just shy of destruction, back up a bit, then move forward anyway, the back of it tilting up perilously close to a 4 degree angle, which was just enough to nearly dislodge me from my unbelted seat and nearly made me spill my coffee. But it was okay. The car righted itself and began pulling backward, only to be suddenly and viciously attacked from the front by a giant rubber anaconda that had sprung out of the hole in the tunnel floor! The car then backed through the tunnel--with the announcer announcing some aftershocks all the way--passing the now well-escaped and menacing gorilla in the crate and some chunks of reinforced concrete that seemed to be swinging from pivots, and then back to the starting point, where some large and rubbery creature loomed into the window just as you thought your ride was done and all was safe. All told, it probably took less than two minutes.
"Wow, let's do that again," we said as we walked out, past the line of children and their harried and lighter-of-wallet parents. At least the kids would probably get a kick out of it.
That was far from my only fateful decision of the day, though. In fact, I still had the consequences of my fateful decision from Friday to attend to. After the temperature had soaked into our bones, we decided to head back to the cabin to soak those cold bones in the hottub. And this we did.
After a while I got out, dried off and very shortly found myself wrapped up in my robe, standing on the back deck of the cabin, a Blue Moon beer in hand and the beautiful, snow-flecked landscape of the Smokies spread before me. Seemed a perfect time to light up my stogie.
I fetched my cigar, lit it, puffed away at it until it took. It was very smooth and quite pleasant, as I had been assured at the tobacconist's that the Baccarat Dolce Far Niente would be. I continued to puff on it, taking in the surrounding vista, my mp3 player softly playing an interview with John Hodgman, while, a few feet away, the wife soaked in the hottub upwind.
The thing about smoking a cigar, though, is that it takes a long time. They're meant for chewing on while playing poker with the guys, or savoring in front of a roaring fire, in some kind of Minnesotan hunting lodge, while sipping cognac from a Riedel Vinum crystal cognac glass. And while I was certainly enjoying mine, it was taking a lot longer to finish than I really wanted to spend cold, robed and partially wet on the back of a chilly cabin. However, I was determined to make it through to the bitter end. Oh, how bitter that end was to be.
"Are you sick yet?" the wife asked a few minutes later.
"No," I said, defensively. But within a few minutes more, I began feeling a bit off. Between the cigar's taste, the smoke and the beer, my stomach was starting to feel less than stable. And still I puffed away, cause the damn thing wasn't done yet. Then, quite suddenly, it became apparent to me that not only was I definitely going to throw up if I took even one more puff, I was likely going to throw up regardless. I dropped the cigar into my beer bottle and rushed to the bathroom to wash my face, hoping to get the smell of smoke off of me before its overwhelming sweet and smooth stench put the hurt on my stomach even more. Didn't work. I could still taste cigar. Before I could even attempt to brush my teeth, the levies gave way and I took a lengthy stroll down the streets of Hurl City.
"Mmmm hmm," the wife said, once I returned, green-faced to the deck.
For the next two days, I could smell cigar smoke at almost all times even three days later could still pick up the occasional whiff of it. Oh, yeah, that's why I don't smoke regularly.
Though we were already two days into our trip, we'd still not really gone out for a nice anniversary dinner. Our Friday night meal was takeout pizza from a local pizzeria and mostly we'd otherwise eaten flapjacks. So out we went into the night to try and find a restaurant.
I'd seen a Cuban place in town that I thought might be fun. I've always been told Cuban food is some of the best tasting stuff ever, but have never had any. Unfortunately, I took a wrong turn and wound up driving back through the more touristy section, littered with chain restaurants. I kept driving, hoping to come to something nicer, or to Pigeon Forge, whichever came first. Then, we spied it... a great big log structure that looked very much like the sort of hunting lodge one might be able to enjoy a fine cigar within had one not already been put off of them for at least a year. It was called the Park Grill Steakhouse and it looked like salvation.
Inside we were greeted by very friendly hosts, who led us past a massive double-sided salad bar to a waiting table in this massive establishment. It was busy, but not too busy. Our waiter was friendly, but not overly in-your-face friendly. The piano music was pleasant and not too loud, played by a man who was a very skilled pianist, but who could have doubled for a gold-panning miner if not for his suit. The bread was fantastic! The prices on the menu scared us at first, but it was our anniversary weekend, when you're supposed to splurge a little on the finer things. We both ordered steaks, which were cooked to perfection and garnished with love. They were some of the best tasting steaks we'd ever had.
Now, both the wife and I have experience as wait staff in restaurants--the wife in a high-traffic seaside, tourist magnet restaurant, me at a busy Pizza Hut--and we were both quietly observing the staff of this one. No one seemed to be stressed out. Everyone seemed to be pitching in to help one another out. Someone who wasn't even our waiter asked if we needed refills without prompting. The place just seemed to run like a well-oiled machine, burning high octane clean fuel. It was amazing. On our way out, we noticed that near the foyer of the restaurant were hung pictures of all the staff. Most of them had been working there for over five years, and some since the place had opened in 1995. Apparently the owners treated their people right to the point that some were making careers out of their jobs there. Knowing this somehow made the dining experience all that much better.
(TO BE CONCLUDED...)
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 5)
We went into Pigeon Forge on Saturday to see what there was to see. Most of it didn't really appeal to us, or wasn't yet open for whichever shows the theaters were performing, but we found a few things to interest us. It was raining, though, so the one thing we'd intended to do in Pigeon Forge wasn't exactly convenient to do.
During our honeymoon in 2000, we went panning for gems. It was probably four days into our trip and we'd done everything we had a desire to do in Gatlinburg itself. (Well, the stuff that was open, at least, which wasn't much. In fact, about the only folks doing major business were the time-share sales people who lurked on every corner, leaping out to offer you riches beyond imagining if only you would consent to spending three scant hours of your time listening to their sales pitch. After one particularly aggressive sales guy kept after us, I had to explain to him that it was the final day of our honeymoon trip and there was no way in hell we were spending any more if it with him, so he needed to back off. Reluctantly, he did.) So we'd headed to pigeon forge and decided to stop at the gem-panning place. It was a pretty simple setup, in which the gem-panning clerk, dressed in overalls, brought us each a sieve and poured a box of rocks and bits into a long trough of running water and we got to sift through it to look for crystals and precious stones, probably none of which were native to the area, but what do I know? This trough was located outside, but under an awning, surrounded by parking spaces. Our car still had all of the wedding decoration my groomsmen had bestowed upon it, including the traditional cans tied to the bumper and shoe-polish painted windows that read "PORTRAIT OF A MARRIED COUPLE" on the windshield and "DONE GOT HITCHED" across the back window...
"And when did you get married?" they asked us, smiles beaming.
"Oh, about four days ago," we said.
At this, their faces fell into a state of appalled disbelief, particularly the girl's. She cast a glance back at our still fully decorated car and curtly explained that they had washed all of the decorations from their car immediately after the wedding. They'd not even made it out of the city limits of their home town, let alone all the way to Gatlinburg with so much as a single can still affixed. After this revelation, we could tell that their estimation of us had clearly been dialed down to about a 2, for they didn't seem to have much more to say to us. Meanwhile, the wife and I both quietly thought their offense at our aged decorations was quite funny and we could hardly contain our mirth until we were finally able to bust up laughing once we'd finished our panning and returned to the confines of our offensive car.
We not only kept the decorations on for the rest of our honeymoon, but made it back to Charlotte with one surviving can tied to the bumper and it was another full week after our return before I bothered to wash off the shoe-polish.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
During our honeymoon in 2000, we went panning for gems. It was probably four days into our trip and we'd done everything we had a desire to do in Gatlinburg itself. (Well, the stuff that was open, at least, which wasn't much. In fact, about the only folks doing major business were the time-share sales people who lurked on every corner, leaping out to offer you riches beyond imagining if only you would consent to spending three scant hours of your time listening to their sales pitch. After one particularly aggressive sales guy kept after us, I had to explain to him that it was the final day of our honeymoon trip and there was no way in hell we were spending any more if it with him, so he needed to back off. Reluctantly, he did.) So we'd headed to pigeon forge and decided to stop at the gem-panning place. It was a pretty simple setup, in which the gem-panning clerk, dressed in overalls, brought us each a sieve and poured a box of rocks and bits into a long trough of running water and we got to sift through it to look for crystals and precious stones, probably none of which were native to the area, but what do I know? This trough was located outside, but under an awning, surrounded by parking spaces. Our car still had all of the wedding decoration my groomsmen had bestowed upon it, including the traditional cans tied to the bumper and shoe-polish painted windows that read "PORTRAIT OF A MARRIED COUPLE" on the windshield and "DONE GOT HITCHED" across the back window...
DIGRESSION: Some of my friends are infamous for truly heinous wedding car-decoration, to the point that when my friend John was married, his parents hid the car they would be journeying to the honeymoon in at the home of friends of friends of people they were pretty sure none of us knew for fear that we would do something horrible to it involving inflated condoms. So, instead, we just did those things to the vehicle in which they were leaving the church--which was all the same to us. Oh, and while his parents were asleep, we also rearranged all of their living room furniture so that each piece was 180 degrees from it's usual position--as if the room itself was on a giant turntable. This wasn't actually done out of any kind of revenge against them, but more to screw with the head of John's cousin Mike, who'd passed out drunk on one of their sofas and who we thought would completely lose his shit when he woke up in the middle of the night and nothing looked familiar. To say John's mother was "not pleased" is probably putting it lightly, because every stick of furniture was back in its original location and an icy stare was turned in our direction for the rest of the following day. Having heard some of these tales, my wife had instructed my best man, Joe, that he was welcome to do whatever he wanted to my car, but if anything they did made her grandmother cry, she would find all responsible parties and her revenge would be long and unpleasant. We therefore got off light.While we were panning for gravel, another couple arrived to do so, saw our car and asked us if we were newlyweds. We said we were and it turned out they, too, were newlyweds. Naturally, the subject of our respective weddings came up and we asked them how many days ago they had been married. They replied that they'd been wed just the previous day.
"And when did you get married?" they asked us, smiles beaming.
"Oh, about four days ago," we said.
At this, their faces fell into a state of appalled disbelief, particularly the girl's. She cast a glance back at our still fully decorated car and curtly explained that they had washed all of the decorations from their car immediately after the wedding. They'd not even made it out of the city limits of their home town, let alone all the way to Gatlinburg with so much as a single can still affixed. After this revelation, we could tell that their estimation of us had clearly been dialed down to about a 2, for they didn't seem to have much more to say to us. Meanwhile, the wife and I both quietly thought their offense at our aged decorations was quite funny and we could hardly contain our mirth until we were finally able to bust up laughing once we'd finished our panning and returned to the confines of our offensive car.
We not only kept the decorations on for the rest of our honeymoon, but made it back to Charlotte with one surviving can tied to the bumper and it was another full week after our return before I bothered to wash off the shoe-polish.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 4)
Beyond all the changes to Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge, we already knew this trip was going to be different for us in another major respect: cash.
During our actual honeymoon, in February of 2000, I was only doing weekend work in radio in Charlotte (not precisely lucrative) while my wife was in transition as a retail clothing store assistant manager and was only then about to start in a new position in Charlotte, though not at the good store she'd been promised when she agreed to stay on as manager for a store that had closed in Shelby, but instead the assy store, where the customers regularly let their kids shit in the dressing rooms. We didn't have a lot of dough going into our marriage. (In fact, we didn't have a lot of food for that trip, either, because while our family had quite thoughtfully assembled for us an enormous sampler pack of the grub from our wedding reception--none of which we'd been able to get more than a bite of during the actual reception because we kept getting shuffled around to cut cakes and open presents and pose for pictures--they'd also quite thoughtfully put it in the wrong car. I still have a craving for Lil' Smokies to this day.) So while we had splurged a bit on our honeymoon cabin (or so it seemed at the time), we were still trying to keep to a budget for the rest of the trip were very careful when it came to actually buying anything while we were there. Within a year and a half after our marriage, the wife was accepted into med school here in WV and we were soon living even poorer than before, in a depressed job market in an already financially depressed state and my job at the "liberry" was, again, not exactly lucrative. However, for the past year and a half, the wife has been a practicing physician. And while that's certainly not as lucrative a job as most people think it is, (one word of advice to future docs whose goal it is to make a buttload of money: specialize) vacation impulse purchases are not so much of a problem.
Probably the best example of this, for me, was when we came to a shop in the mall selling cigar box guitars. I'd seen the tiny shop earlier during my solo run and thought it was interesting, but it was closed. And it had remained closed even when the wife and I passed by again. Then, while browsing a different store two shop spaces down, I heard the most wonderful music and followed it back to the shop where the proprietor was playing away on one of the cigar box guitars. The method he was using was to rest the guitar on the table in front of him, its neck nestled in a cloth-lined notch cut into a block of wood, then strum the strings with his right hand while his left hand held a three-inch section of copper pipe, which he used as a slide, moving up and down the strings to change the notes in the chord. For a three stringed instrument, there was a lot of complex sound pouring out of this one, cigar-box or not. He also clearly had a lot of skill at it.
I stood and listened for a bit, then went and fetched the wife. After he'd finished playing, we struck up a conversation with the man and soon learned that the shop was kind of a side project to another job he and his wife had running a candy store in the mall itself. He made all the guitars himself, buying his cigar boxes from a lady in another state whose house was apparently filled floor to ceiling with boxes. I suggested that this seemed to be a case of a positive hoarder, though this is just my theory.
Now, I'd seen cigar box guitars before, but had never given them much thought. But the shop owner explained their significance in early blues in the Mississippi delta, as well as in Appalachia. Suddenly, owning such a historic and beautiful instrument (despite the fact that I can't yet play it) seemed a no-brainer.
"Which one do you want?" the wife asked. I picked out a guitar with a glossy red neck, made from a gorgeous wooden Manolete cigar box. He pulled it from the wall and played it for me to show me how great it sounded. It certainly did.
"Happy anniversary," the wife said.
I still haven't learned to play it, of course, but thing it's all around awesome all the same.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
During our actual honeymoon, in February of 2000, I was only doing weekend work in radio in Charlotte (not precisely lucrative) while my wife was in transition as a retail clothing store assistant manager and was only then about to start in a new position in Charlotte, though not at the good store she'd been promised when she agreed to stay on as manager for a store that had closed in Shelby, but instead the assy store, where the customers regularly let their kids shit in the dressing rooms. We didn't have a lot of dough going into our marriage. (In fact, we didn't have a lot of food for that trip, either, because while our family had quite thoughtfully assembled for us an enormous sampler pack of the grub from our wedding reception--none of which we'd been able to get more than a bite of during the actual reception because we kept getting shuffled around to cut cakes and open presents and pose for pictures--they'd also quite thoughtfully put it in the wrong car. I still have a craving for Lil' Smokies to this day.) So while we had splurged a bit on our honeymoon cabin (or so it seemed at the time), we were still trying to keep to a budget for the rest of the trip were very careful when it came to actually buying anything while we were there. Within a year and a half after our marriage, the wife was accepted into med school here in WV and we were soon living even poorer than before, in a depressed job market in an already financially depressed state and my job at the "liberry" was, again, not exactly lucrative. However, for the past year and a half, the wife has been a practicing physician. And while that's certainly not as lucrative a job as most people think it is, (one word of advice to future docs whose goal it is to make a buttload of money: specialize) vacation impulse purchases are not so much of a problem.
Probably the best example of this, for me, was when we came to a shop in the mall selling cigar box guitars. I'd seen the tiny shop earlier during my solo run and thought it was interesting, but it was closed. And it had remained closed even when the wife and I passed by again. Then, while browsing a different store two shop spaces down, I heard the most wonderful music and followed it back to the shop where the proprietor was playing away on one of the cigar box guitars. The method he was using was to rest the guitar on the table in front of him, its neck nestled in a cloth-lined notch cut into a block of wood, then strum the strings with his right hand while his left hand held a three-inch section of copper pipe, which he used as a slide, moving up and down the strings to change the notes in the chord. For a three stringed instrument, there was a lot of complex sound pouring out of this one, cigar-box or not. He also clearly had a lot of skill at it.
I stood and listened for a bit, then went and fetched the wife. After he'd finished playing, we struck up a conversation with the man and soon learned that the shop was kind of a side project to another job he and his wife had running a candy store in the mall itself. He made all the guitars himself, buying his cigar boxes from a lady in another state whose house was apparently filled floor to ceiling with boxes. I suggested that this seemed to be a case of a positive hoarder, though this is just my theory.
Now, I'd seen cigar box guitars before, but had never given them much thought. But the shop owner explained their significance in early blues in the Mississippi delta, as well as in Appalachia. Suddenly, owning such a historic and beautiful instrument (despite the fact that I can't yet play it) seemed a no-brainer."Which one do you want?" the wife asked. I picked out a guitar with a glossy red neck, made from a gorgeous wooden Manolete cigar box. He pulled it from the wall and played it for me to show me how great it sounded. It certainly did.
"Happy anniversary," the wife said.
I still haven't learned to play it, of course, but thing it's all around awesome all the same.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Friday, February 19, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 3)
A few days before we left for Gatlinburg, which would make it a few days before our anniversary, I surprised the wife with her anniversary present. Now you might think that the trip to Gatlinburg was the present. And, originally, that had been the intention. But, as I chronicled back in August, the wife, as usual, figured it out barely two weeks after I'd made the reservation, and without seeing the credit card statement. I was not to be outdone, though. Two weeks before our actual anniversary I ordered her something a little bit smaller than a trip to Gatlinburg, but something she'd wanted for YEARS, but which we'd not really been able to afford. It was, perhaps, the perfect gift, but I can't take complete credit for thinking of it.
Each year in a marriage is supposed to be marked by a traditional gift made from a certain material. We all know that the 50th anniversary is supposed to be gold and 25th is silver, but without research it gets a bit more murky below that. We used to joke that the 5th year anniversary was probably something like paper plates, and this is not too far off, as it's wood. The wife and I haven't really paid any attention to these gift categories, though, but I decided to see what the 10 year mark gift was in order to find inspiration. Turns out it's tin or aluminum. Being only 2 weeks from the anniversary day, though, I decided to shop exclusively locally or via Amazon.com where I have free Amazon Prime trial through March. I did a search for "tin" and immediately found the perfect gift: a magnetic spice rack.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "Dude, that's hardly a romantic gift. I mean, kitchenware? Really?" To this I say, "Is too! So, shut it!" See, the wife is a very good cook and knows from spices beyond salt and pepper, having been trained by some Indian friends in their use. This being the case, our spice cabinet has three full shelves that are constantly glutted with jars of spices, not to mention the others that are stored in the freezer. A few years ago, back when we lived in Tri-Metro, the wife saw a magnetic spice rack set on Food Network and fell in love with it. The concept is pretty simple, consisting of a stainless steel sheet on which magnet-backed stainless steel spice tins can be adhered, each opening with a twist to allow for easy spice sprinkling. Trouble is, they're not exactly cheap and, being poor college students for nigh on the past decade, we could never quite justify the expense. Seeing it come up when I searched for tin, though, seemed like a good sign. (Never mind that there's neither tin nor aluminum in them, but merely the presence of the word "tin" in the description--I think I win on a technicality.)
I ordered it, hid it upon its arrival and waited. I knew I wanted to surprise her with it before we left for our trip, but could never find a good time to install it. The day it arrived, I was going to be out of town until late. The following day the wife had off, except for having to pop in to work, but she made me take her, so I couldn't put it up then. That afternoon, I had to go pick up my parents and sister for their visit and then she was around us all for the rest of the weekend. Then, on Sunday night, the wife announced she was popping out to Wally World to pick up a few things and left the rest of us watching TV. She'd been gone for 10 minutes before I realized my opportunity.
"I think I'm going to put up the spice rack," I told my sister, the only other person who knew about the gift. "I'm going to need help."
"Go for it," she said.
At that point, though, I would be extremely pressed for time, as Wally World is really just down the road. I nearly broke my ass running down the garage steps to fetch the rack and the tools I'd need to put it up. While I measured, eyeballed, leveled and pencil-marked the proper place for it on the wall above the stove--a space that had been crying out for something like this since we moved in--the sister and my step-mother tore all the plastic off of the spice tins. It was not a perfect installation, because the screw anchors for two of the bottom screws wouldn't sink into the wall properly and then buckled under my attempt to hammer them in. I wound up just installing the rest of the screws, deciding to come back for the others later. In the end, it looked fine. We chunked the tins onto it arranged them pleasingly, then fled back to the living room to continue our movie.
The wife came home, groceries in hand. She walked into the kitchen to put them away and then paused. I crept behind her and watched as she stood and stared at the shining tins of the spice rack. It was perfect and, more importantly, a complete surprise.
"But I didn't get anything for you," she said.
"This is for us," I said.
"The trip is for us," she said.
"That, too."
She would, however, get me back.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Each year in a marriage is supposed to be marked by a traditional gift made from a certain material. We all know that the 50th anniversary is supposed to be gold and 25th is silver, but without research it gets a bit more murky below that. We used to joke that the 5th year anniversary was probably something like paper plates, and this is not too far off, as it's wood. The wife and I haven't really paid any attention to these gift categories, though, but I decided to see what the 10 year mark gift was in order to find inspiration. Turns out it's tin or aluminum. Being only 2 weeks from the anniversary day, though, I decided to shop exclusively locally or via Amazon.com where I have free Amazon Prime trial through March. I did a search for "tin" and immediately found the perfect gift: a magnetic spice rack.
Now, I know what you're thinking, "Dude, that's hardly a romantic gift. I mean, kitchenware? Really?" To this I say, "Is too! So, shut it!" See, the wife is a very good cook and knows from spices beyond salt and pepper, having been trained by some Indian friends in their use. This being the case, our spice cabinet has three full shelves that are constantly glutted with jars of spices, not to mention the others that are stored in the freezer. A few years ago, back when we lived in Tri-Metro, the wife saw a magnetic spice rack set on Food Network and fell in love with it. The concept is pretty simple, consisting of a stainless steel sheet on which magnet-backed stainless steel spice tins can be adhered, each opening with a twist to allow for easy spice sprinkling. Trouble is, they're not exactly cheap and, being poor college students for nigh on the past decade, we could never quite justify the expense. Seeing it come up when I searched for tin, though, seemed like a good sign. (Never mind that there's neither tin nor aluminum in them, but merely the presence of the word "tin" in the description--I think I win on a technicality.)
I ordered it, hid it upon its arrival and waited. I knew I wanted to surprise her with it before we left for our trip, but could never find a good time to install it. The day it arrived, I was going to be out of town until late. The following day the wife had off, except for having to pop in to work, but she made me take her, so I couldn't put it up then. That afternoon, I had to go pick up my parents and sister for their visit and then she was around us all for the rest of the weekend. Then, on Sunday night, the wife announced she was popping out to Wally World to pick up a few things and left the rest of us watching TV. She'd been gone for 10 minutes before I realized my opportunity.
"I think I'm going to put up the spice rack," I told my sister, the only other person who knew about the gift. "I'm going to need help."
"Go for it," she said.
At that point, though, I would be extremely pressed for time, as Wally World is really just down the road. I nearly broke my ass running down the garage steps to fetch the rack and the tools I'd need to put it up. While I measured, eyeballed, leveled and pencil-marked the proper place for it on the wall above the stove--a space that had been crying out for something like this since we moved in--the sister and my step-mother tore all the plastic off of the spice tins. It was not a perfect installation, because the screw anchors for two of the bottom screws wouldn't sink into the wall properly and then buckled under my attempt to hammer them in. I wound up just installing the rest of the screws, deciding to come back for the others later. In the end, it looked fine. We chunked the tins onto it arranged them pleasingly, then fled back to the living room to continue our movie.
The wife came home, groceries in hand. She walked into the kitchen to put them away and then paused. I crept behind her and watched as she stood and stared at the shining tins of the spice rack. It was perfect and, more importantly, a complete surprise.
"But I didn't get anything for you," she said.
"This is for us," I said.
"The trip is for us," she said.
"That, too."
She would, however, get me back.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 2)
Arriving in Gatlinburg on Thursday evening meant we pretty much had an extra day on our hands for Friday that we wouldn't have had if things gone to our original plan. We thought this was awesome and soon headed out into the rainy Friday weather to find ourselves some breakfast, choosing a flapjack establishment that had caught our eye the previous evening. I don't know if this was one we had eaten at during our trip 10 years back, but the food and service were good and soon we were filled with flapjacks and bacon.
We looked over a few of the pamphlets advertising some of the shows available to see in Pigeon Forge and began making a list of things we'd like to do and see. But because we had this "extra" day on our hands, we decided to just take things at a leisurely pace. So often vacations can be even more hectic than everyday life, with deadlines to meet if you want to fit in all the things you want to do. As far as we could tell, though, our only real deadline was getting back to Borderland by 2p on Monday, so the vet didn't charge us an extra day for jailing our dogs. Our philosophy became, as the wife says, "If you feel froggy, jump."
After breakfast, we drove closer to the downtown area where we spotted a bead shop in one of the store-clusters present throughout downtown Gburg. The wife is a jewelry-maker in her few spare moments and adores nothing more than spending hours in bead stores imagining the potential things she will create. She warned me that I might as well leave her there unless I too wanted to look at beads. I did not, so I fled, but no other shops in that particular store cluster were open. I hoped this didn't bode ill for the weekend. During our previous visit to Gatlinburg, we'd found a great many of the stores and restaurants to be closed for the off-season and those that were open (the flapjack establishments) often closed after lunch. We'd been forced to eat more than one Gatlinburg meal in what has become known in our household as "the shitty Shoney's." I don't know if the place is still shitty, but we didn't have a good time there 10 years ago and were in no hurry to return. Turned out, though, that this particular shut-down shop cluster was one of the only such ones we saw during the trip. It was located on the outer edge of the touristy area, and as you approached the center of said area the shops were all open (at least, after 11a) and seemingly doing decent business.
Through the semi-rainy, blustery cold, I made my way past Cooter's Dukes of Hazzard Museum (presumably owned or endorsed by Ben Jones, who played the character) then the Ripley's Aquarium until I came to a multi-leveled mall we'd visited 10 years back. I seemed to recall a decent music store there and I quickly found it on the first level. They even had Beirut's "Gulag Orkestar" CD I'd been looking for. Further up the levels, I came to a tobacconist where I decided it would be prudent to purchase a cigar. I explained to the man that I don't regularly smoke cigars, but do have one on special occasions and this weekend certainly qualified. He led me into the humidor and graciously did not attempt to get me buy anything obscenely expensive, but instead directed me to some of their milder, starter-cigars in the $6 range. I could just see myself back at the cabin, standing on the rear deck, cigar in mouth, beer in hand, a snow-covered Smoky Mountain tableau spread before me, hottub at the ready, warm wife of 10 years at my side. My purchase of said cigar, however, was to eventually prove a fateful decision.
My next and more immediately demonstrable fateful decision came after I'd picked up the wife at the bead store and returned with her to the mall to wander. We came to the Pepper Palace, purveyor of all things hot sauce. One of their sauces is called the Hottest Sauce in the Universe and Pepper Palace has a challenge for it whereby if you take a taste of it and survive, they'll take your picture and put you on the online Wall of Flame. Now, this sauce is rated at merely 3,500,000 Scoville units and allegedly the hottest sauce chemically possible is around 16 million, so it's technically a misnomer. However, I didn't know any of that going into it. I just knew that my historically evil wife had challenged me to the task and I figured "How bad could it be?"
At first, I wasn't even interested in the photo part of it and was about to have a taste without alerting the clerk, but the wife insisted I let her know first. I'm glad of it, because let me tell you after downing a corn chip one corner of which was liberally dunked in the Hottest Sauce in the Universe, I deserve every bit of that picture. Hell, I deserve a T-shirt! At first bite, the sauce wasn't all that impressive. It was spicy, sure, but didn't immediately kick you in the stomach. The clerk just grinned at me and said, "It's a grower." That's when I realized that the sauce didn't need to kick me in the stomach, because it had already kicked me in the nuts. Squar'. And, just like getting kicked squar' in the nuts, the pain wasn't going to hit all at once, but would grow and grow and grow over the course of several minutes. By the time the clerk snapped my picture, it was all I could do not to bolt for the coin fountain bubbling nearby.
The clerk grinned in the wife's direction and said, "Yep, he's gonna be feeling that for a half-hour, I'd say."
"I'm gonna need something. Quick," I told the wife.
Naturally, the Pepper Palace didn't have jugs of milk at the ready, so I booked it for a hotdog place where I ordered the largest fountain drink Diet Coke they had and supped deep. It was sort of like throwing water on a grease fire. There was the briefest of subsidences of pain as the cool liquid crossed it, but then it flared up even taller.
True to the clerk's prediction, it took about half an hour for the pain to go away, though it did diminish to a dull and kind of enjoyable level after only 15 minutes or so. It might not truly be the Hottest Sauce in the Universe, but it's about as hot as I want to get.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
We looked over a few of the pamphlets advertising some of the shows available to see in Pigeon Forge and began making a list of things we'd like to do and see. But because we had this "extra" day on our hands, we decided to just take things at a leisurely pace. So often vacations can be even more hectic than everyday life, with deadlines to meet if you want to fit in all the things you want to do. As far as we could tell, though, our only real deadline was getting back to Borderland by 2p on Monday, so the vet didn't charge us an extra day for jailing our dogs. Our philosophy became, as the wife says, "If you feel froggy, jump."
After breakfast, we drove closer to the downtown area where we spotted a bead shop in one of the store-clusters present throughout downtown Gburg. The wife is a jewelry-maker in her few spare moments and adores nothing more than spending hours in bead stores imagining the potential things she will create. She warned me that I might as well leave her there unless I too wanted to look at beads. I did not, so I fled, but no other shops in that particular store cluster were open. I hoped this didn't bode ill for the weekend. During our previous visit to Gatlinburg, we'd found a great many of the stores and restaurants to be closed for the off-season and those that were open (the flapjack establishments) often closed after lunch. We'd been forced to eat more than one Gatlinburg meal in what has become known in our household as "the shitty Shoney's." I don't know if the place is still shitty, but we didn't have a good time there 10 years ago and were in no hurry to return. Turned out, though, that this particular shut-down shop cluster was one of the only such ones we saw during the trip. It was located on the outer edge of the touristy area, and as you approached the center of said area the shops were all open (at least, after 11a) and seemingly doing decent business.
Through the semi-rainy, blustery cold, I made my way past Cooter's Dukes of Hazzard Museum (presumably owned or endorsed by Ben Jones, who played the character) then the Ripley's Aquarium until I came to a multi-leveled mall we'd visited 10 years back. I seemed to recall a decent music store there and I quickly found it on the first level. They even had Beirut's "Gulag Orkestar" CD I'd been looking for. Further up the levels, I came to a tobacconist where I decided it would be prudent to purchase a cigar. I explained to the man that I don't regularly smoke cigars, but do have one on special occasions and this weekend certainly qualified. He led me into the humidor and graciously did not attempt to get me buy anything obscenely expensive, but instead directed me to some of their milder, starter-cigars in the $6 range. I could just see myself back at the cabin, standing on the rear deck, cigar in mouth, beer in hand, a snow-covered Smoky Mountain tableau spread before me, hottub at the ready, warm wife of 10 years at my side. My purchase of said cigar, however, was to eventually prove a fateful decision.
My next and more immediately demonstrable fateful decision came after I'd picked up the wife at the bead store and returned with her to the mall to wander. We came to the Pepper Palace, purveyor of all things hot sauce. One of their sauces is called the Hottest Sauce in the Universe and Pepper Palace has a challenge for it whereby if you take a taste of it and survive, they'll take your picture and put you on the online Wall of Flame. Now, this sauce is rated at merely 3,500,000 Scoville units and allegedly the hottest sauce chemically possible is around 16 million, so it's technically a misnomer. However, I didn't know any of that going into it. I just knew that my historically evil wife had challenged me to the task and I figured "How bad could it be?"
At first, I wasn't even interested in the photo part of it and was about to have a taste without alerting the clerk, but the wife insisted I let her know first. I'm glad of it, because let me tell you after downing a corn chip one corner of which was liberally dunked in the Hottest Sauce in the Universe, I deserve every bit of that picture. Hell, I deserve a T-shirt! At first bite, the sauce wasn't all that impressive. It was spicy, sure, but didn't immediately kick you in the stomach. The clerk just grinned at me and said, "It's a grower." That's when I realized that the sauce didn't need to kick me in the stomach, because it had already kicked me in the nuts. Squar'. And, just like getting kicked squar' in the nuts, the pain wasn't going to hit all at once, but would grow and grow and grow over the course of several minutes. By the time the clerk snapped my picture, it was all I could do not to bolt for the coin fountain bubbling nearby.
The clerk grinned in the wife's direction and said, "Yep, he's gonna be feeling that for a half-hour, I'd say."
"I'm gonna need something. Quick," I told the wife.
Naturally, the Pepper Palace didn't have jugs of milk at the ready, so I booked it for a hotdog place where I ordered the largest fountain drink Diet Coke they had and supped deep. It was sort of like throwing water on a grease fire. There was the briefest of subsidences of pain as the cool liquid crossed it, but then it flared up even taller.
True to the clerk's prediction, it took about half an hour for the pain to go away, though it did diminish to a dull and kind of enjoyable level after only 15 minutes or so. It might not truly be the Hottest Sauce in the Universe, but it's about as hot as I want to get.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Anniversary Adventures (Part 1)
This past weekend, the wife and I made good on my formerly secret plan from last August to return to our honeymoon cabin in Gatlinburg, TN, for a mini-vacation in celebration of our 10th wedding anniversary. And while the weekend was largely an enjoyable one filled with great food and fine spirits (not to mention other typical honeymoon activity--AWW YEAHHHHHH!) it was not entirely without incident.
The plan as I'd conceived it was to pack the car up Friday morning, drop the dogs off at Doggie Jail, go eat a leisurely breakfast and then hit the road for G-burg, with the intent of arriving around the time of check-in for our cabin. The only major roadblock to this plan, however, was the impending blizzard that was scheduled to hit Borderland Friday morning and bury it under what was rumored to be a sheet of treacherous black ice. Thursday afternoon, the wife phoned to suggest that it might behoove us to depart a day early to avoid the risk that we might be trapped at home altogether. Sounded like a plan to me. I figured we could get as far as Bristol and get a hotel for the night, but she was all for going the full distance and checking into our cabin for an extra day. I got to packing and made arrangements for the dogs to head to Doggie Jail a day early.
We didn't leave town until after dark and didn't make it to Pigeon Forge until 10:30 or so, but I thought we'd made excellent time. The rainy weather for driving wasn't the greatest, but at least it wasn't icy.
The trouble with being away from a touristy spot such as the Gatlinburg area is that over the course of a decade they have a tendency to expand and shape-shift in the interim. This was especially true for Pigeon Forge, which had apparently decided that it no longer wanted to be a quaint little Appalachian town with Dollywood as its only major attraction, but instead aspired to be Myrtle Beach with every bit of the tourist trap crap that comes with it. Whereas 10 years ago there were some touristy places, such as gold and gem panning stations and a few miniature golf places, now there were seemingly dozens of sprawling theaters (one of which was impressively built upside down), gigantic prefab castles, and a full-size, building-in-progress replica of the Titanic. The place was almost unrecognizable.
We drove very slowly through the rain-soaked streets Pigeon Forge (average speed limit for the area is 35 mph, though it sometimes dips as low as 15), then slowly eased along the parkway at 45 mph (actually slower in some places, because the four lane had been reduced to two lanes because a chunk of a hillside had fallen and buried a section of the southbound side of it the day before) and on into Gatlinburg.
Our directions to the cabin led us through Gatlinburg and onto the outskirts of town along route 321. We noticed that this area had seen quite a bit more expansion in past 10 years as well, with more stores and businesses present. By then it was nearly 11:30 at night and we were ready to get to the cabin. Unfortunately, the directions for getting to the actual cabin had changed, taking us along a three mile stretch of road leading through the Arts and Crafts community before intersecting with Buckhorn road, the road off of which our cabin was supposed to be located. We could have reached Buckhorn via 321 directly, but we decided to take the suggested route instead. Unfortunately, we soon learned that the directions to the cabin, which had been written by the owners of the cabin, were factually incorrect. From the intersection with Buckhorn, the directions said it was 1.2 miles before we reached the road on which our cabin was located. In actuality, it was .5 miles, but because we were obediently following the readings of the odometer, we drove right past the road. And because we were coming at it from the opposite direction to a decade ago, we had no hope of recognizing it when we saw it--particularly since the road sign for that road was hidden in shadow, even beyond it being a dark and stormy night. We had to retrace our steps twice and finally go road by road by road looking at all the signs before we finally found it. And even when we found the correct road, I had trouble believing it led to "our" cabin, as in my memory "our" cabin had been located at the very end of a secluded, dirt road off of a scarcely-traveled rural route, with only one or two other cabins around. It was the very sort of place where you could walk around the exterior deck nekkid, as newlyweds are apt to do, with no fear of anyone seeing anything. The road as we found it that night, though, was paved, and lined with enough homes that we could see it was now practically a subdivision. Was this really the same cabin? Then we reached a familiar steep slope of road, one which my 1985 Chevy Caprice Classic automatic had been hard pressed to climb a decade back without manual down-shifting, and soon we were around the corner and there stood "our" little cabin--an A-frame tucked onto the side of the steep hill. Other than a new roof, its exterior looked pretty much as it had when we'd left it in 2000 and, other than some rearranged furniture, it looked pretty much the same within. Being nearly midnight, we soon tucked into the log-framed king-size bed, and snuggled up in the first bed we'd ever slept in as man and wife.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
The plan as I'd conceived it was to pack the car up Friday morning, drop the dogs off at Doggie Jail, go eat a leisurely breakfast and then hit the road for G-burg, with the intent of arriving around the time of check-in for our cabin. The only major roadblock to this plan, however, was the impending blizzard that was scheduled to hit Borderland Friday morning and bury it under what was rumored to be a sheet of treacherous black ice. Thursday afternoon, the wife phoned to suggest that it might behoove us to depart a day early to avoid the risk that we might be trapped at home altogether. Sounded like a plan to me. I figured we could get as far as Bristol and get a hotel for the night, but she was all for going the full distance and checking into our cabin for an extra day. I got to packing and made arrangements for the dogs to head to Doggie Jail a day early.
We didn't leave town until after dark and didn't make it to Pigeon Forge until 10:30 or so, but I thought we'd made excellent time. The rainy weather for driving wasn't the greatest, but at least it wasn't icy.
The trouble with being away from a touristy spot such as the Gatlinburg area is that over the course of a decade they have a tendency to expand and shape-shift in the interim. This was especially true for Pigeon Forge, which had apparently decided that it no longer wanted to be a quaint little Appalachian town with Dollywood as its only major attraction, but instead aspired to be Myrtle Beach with every bit of the tourist trap crap that comes with it. Whereas 10 years ago there were some touristy places, such as gold and gem panning stations and a few miniature golf places, now there were seemingly dozens of sprawling theaters (one of which was impressively built upside down), gigantic prefab castles, and a full-size, building-in-progress replica of the Titanic. The place was almost unrecognizable.
We drove very slowly through the rain-soaked streets Pigeon Forge (average speed limit for the area is 35 mph, though it sometimes dips as low as 15), then slowly eased along the parkway at 45 mph (actually slower in some places, because the four lane had been reduced to two lanes because a chunk of a hillside had fallen and buried a section of the southbound side of it the day before) and on into Gatlinburg.
Our directions to the cabin led us through Gatlinburg and onto the outskirts of town along route 321. We noticed that this area had seen quite a bit more expansion in past 10 years as well, with more stores and businesses present. By then it was nearly 11:30 at night and we were ready to get to the cabin. Unfortunately, the directions for getting to the actual cabin had changed, taking us along a three mile stretch of road leading through the Arts and Crafts community before intersecting with Buckhorn road, the road off of which our cabin was supposed to be located. We could have reached Buckhorn via 321 directly, but we decided to take the suggested route instead. Unfortunately, we soon learned that the directions to the cabin, which had been written by the owners of the cabin, were factually incorrect. From the intersection with Buckhorn, the directions said it was 1.2 miles before we reached the road on which our cabin was located. In actuality, it was .5 miles, but because we were obediently following the readings of the odometer, we drove right past the road. And because we were coming at it from the opposite direction to a decade ago, we had no hope of recognizing it when we saw it--particularly since the road sign for that road was hidden in shadow, even beyond it being a dark and stormy night. We had to retrace our steps twice and finally go road by road by road looking at all the signs before we finally found it. And even when we found the correct road, I had trouble believing it led to "our" cabin, as in my memory "our" cabin had been located at the very end of a secluded, dirt road off of a scarcely-traveled rural route, with only one or two other cabins around. It was the very sort of place where you could walk around the exterior deck nekkid, as newlyweds are apt to do, with no fear of anyone seeing anything. The road as we found it that night, though, was paved, and lined with enough homes that we could see it was now practically a subdivision. Was this really the same cabin? Then we reached a familiar steep slope of road, one which my 1985 Chevy Caprice Classic automatic had been hard pressed to climb a decade back without manual down-shifting, and soon we were around the corner and there stood "our" little cabin--an A-frame tucked onto the side of the steep hill. Other than a new roof, its exterior looked pretty much as it had when we'd left it in 2000 and, other than some rearranged furniture, it looked pretty much the same within. Being nearly midnight, we soon tucked into the log-framed king-size bed, and snuggled up in the first bed we'd ever slept in as man and wife.
(TO BE CONTINUED...)
Friday, August 21, 2009
Cruising off the Edge of Foiled Again
In this blog's previous incarnation, I chronicled several of my futile attempts to keep surprises a surprise for my wife when it comes to presents or special events. I also chronicled one or two times when I managed to actually pull it off. Often these adventures revolved around my attempts to keep special anniversary plans a secret and her near-psychic ability to see right into my wee brain and pull them out.
With our 10 year anniversary coming up in a few months, I knew my secret plans would need to be of a substantial nature, even more shored up than usual and prepared well in advance. In fact, I've been contemplating this plan for the past few years, but actually put it into effect within the past month. My plan was this: for our anniversary I would take my wife on a trip to Gatlinburg, TN, where we would spend a long weekend, staying in the exact same cabin we rented for our honeymoon, lo a decade ago. Now, from my spilling of the beans in the previous sentence, you can guess how secret this is now. Once again, the early reveal was thanks to my wife's meddling and my own dumb mouth.
Lemme back up.
The wife and I have talked about returning to our honeymoon cabin in Gatlinburg on many occasions over the past ten years. We originally thought it would be a good five year anniversary gift, but we instead went on a mission trip to Central America that year, so that was right out. And while we thought about the cabin for subsequent years, it seemed to me that it fit best for the 10 year anniversary, so that's been my plan.
Around a month back, I decided it would be wise to go ahead and reserve the cabin. Trouble was, I couldn't remember the name of the cabin rental company we'd used. I tried to look through various Gatlinburg rental places online, looking through pictures to see if I could find our, but there are dozens of rental companies online and none of the cabins looked right. Fortunately, I recalled that I had used the same rental company as my friends Matthew and Beth had used for their honeymoon a few years before mine. Matthew graciously dug around in his attic until he found some old records and was able to pull the name for me. Sure enough, a couple of clicks later and I'd found our honeymoon cabin. A phone call later and I had reserved it.
That accomplished, I began musing on how exactly I would actually surprise the wife with this knowledge. I didn't see an easy way to do it. I mean, I figured I could keep it a surprise for a while, but eventually she was going to start asking anniversary plan questions, which I'd have to admit to having made in order to avoid her making some of her own. And because my plan was pretty much the most obvious anniversary plan I could have made, she would instantly know the details of it. Worse yet, the longer I waited to tell her, the more likely she'd start making secret plans of her own that would compete with mine. Even in a best case scenario--say, I made it to January without the surprise being spoiled--how was I really planning to break the good news to her? Put her in the car and start driving south and NOT have her immediately know what was up?
No, my best bet would be to tell her the whole thing much earlier, but do it in a classy and romantic manner befitting the occasion. I could take her out to dinner one night, have a nice romantic meal, and maybe slip her a card at some point, one containing the reservation all printed up on nice paper. Yeah. That would be sweet.
About a week ago, the wife began making noises about a vacation. And not just a let's get out of town for the weekend vacation, but a full on let's GO somewhere, perhaps even out of the country, maybe for a week or two kind of vacation. I knew from the look in her eyes that she was serious. When she's serious she starts making plans and getting itchy for decisions to be made and things to be set in stone. Trouble is, our schedule's kind of tight through November, then there are the holidays getting in the way through the end of the year, and it's no good waiting til next spring when you want a vacation NOW, so I knew this proposed trip was soon going to fall solidly in our anniversary window. Sure enough, last night, after seeing an ad for Puerto Rico on TV, the wife began researching trips. Soon the word "cruise" was uttered. We're not really "cruise" sort of people, but then again we've never been on one. Also, we like water and boats and we understand there's food to be had 24/7. The wife began to research them. But because cruises run on schedules and schedules come with dates, there were soon questions to me as to when would be a good time, which conflicts we already had in place, etc., and then I heard the words I knew were coming: "Why don't we go for our anniversary?"
Now, in retrospect, there were probably a few things I could have done to deflect attention away from the anniversary, like developing a sudden infatuation with a Christmas cruise, or maybe faking a seizure. No good options occurred to me in that moment, though, so I said, "Um, someone might already have made plans for our anniversary."
To which the wife replied, "Oh, did someone rent a cabin in Gatlinburg?"
"Er... someone might have."
"You already rented it?"
"Maybe."
"When?"
"About a month ago."
The wife was instantly delighted. (In fact, a more suspicious person might suspect she cooked up the whole cruise thing as an excuse to get me to divulge anniversary plans, but this would be a suspicious person who had not seen that look of vacation desperation in her eyes earlier.) She said it was the perfect anniversary trip, to a beautiful place (left largely uncrowded by our choice of getting married in the off-season) and was the most appropriate place we could have gone.
Naturally, for the next couple of hours, I cursed my lack of brain power in not coming up with a suitable dodge, but really the information would have had to come out fairly soon anyway and she didn't care. As she pointed out, she could either be surprised now or later, it didn't really matter when.
We've still not planned our cruise, nor its destination, nor if it will be a cruise at all. We're not so much married to the cruise as a vacation concept, but would like to go somewhere that we can see cool stuff and eat good food.
Suggestions welcome.
With our 10 year anniversary coming up in a few months, I knew my secret plans would need to be of a substantial nature, even more shored up than usual and prepared well in advance. In fact, I've been contemplating this plan for the past few years, but actually put it into effect within the past month. My plan was this: for our anniversary I would take my wife on a trip to Gatlinburg, TN, where we would spend a long weekend, staying in the exact same cabin we rented for our honeymoon, lo a decade ago. Now, from my spilling of the beans in the previous sentence, you can guess how secret this is now. Once again, the early reveal was thanks to my wife's meddling and my own dumb mouth.
Lemme back up.
The wife and I have talked about returning to our honeymoon cabin in Gatlinburg on many occasions over the past ten years. We originally thought it would be a good five year anniversary gift, but we instead went on a mission trip to Central America that year, so that was right out. And while we thought about the cabin for subsequent years, it seemed to me that it fit best for the 10 year anniversary, so that's been my plan.
Around a month back, I decided it would be wise to go ahead and reserve the cabin. Trouble was, I couldn't remember the name of the cabin rental company we'd used. I tried to look through various Gatlinburg rental places online, looking through pictures to see if I could find our, but there are dozens of rental companies online and none of the cabins looked right. Fortunately, I recalled that I had used the same rental company as my friends Matthew and Beth had used for their honeymoon a few years before mine. Matthew graciously dug around in his attic until he found some old records and was able to pull the name for me. Sure enough, a couple of clicks later and I'd found our honeymoon cabin. A phone call later and I had reserved it.
That accomplished, I began musing on how exactly I would actually surprise the wife with this knowledge. I didn't see an easy way to do it. I mean, I figured I could keep it a surprise for a while, but eventually she was going to start asking anniversary plan questions, which I'd have to admit to having made in order to avoid her making some of her own. And because my plan was pretty much the most obvious anniversary plan I could have made, she would instantly know the details of it. Worse yet, the longer I waited to tell her, the more likely she'd start making secret plans of her own that would compete with mine. Even in a best case scenario--say, I made it to January without the surprise being spoiled--how was I really planning to break the good news to her? Put her in the car and start driving south and NOT have her immediately know what was up?
No, my best bet would be to tell her the whole thing much earlier, but do it in a classy and romantic manner befitting the occasion. I could take her out to dinner one night, have a nice romantic meal, and maybe slip her a card at some point, one containing the reservation all printed up on nice paper. Yeah. That would be sweet.
About a week ago, the wife began making noises about a vacation. And not just a let's get out of town for the weekend vacation, but a full on let's GO somewhere, perhaps even out of the country, maybe for a week or two kind of vacation. I knew from the look in her eyes that she was serious. When she's serious she starts making plans and getting itchy for decisions to be made and things to be set in stone. Trouble is, our schedule's kind of tight through November, then there are the holidays getting in the way through the end of the year, and it's no good waiting til next spring when you want a vacation NOW, so I knew this proposed trip was soon going to fall solidly in our anniversary window. Sure enough, last night, after seeing an ad for Puerto Rico on TV, the wife began researching trips. Soon the word "cruise" was uttered. We're not really "cruise" sort of people, but then again we've never been on one. Also, we like water and boats and we understand there's food to be had 24/7. The wife began to research them. But because cruises run on schedules and schedules come with dates, there were soon questions to me as to when would be a good time, which conflicts we already had in place, etc., and then I heard the words I knew were coming: "Why don't we go for our anniversary?"
Now, in retrospect, there were probably a few things I could have done to deflect attention away from the anniversary, like developing a sudden infatuation with a Christmas cruise, or maybe faking a seizure. No good options occurred to me in that moment, though, so I said, "Um, someone might already have made plans for our anniversary."
To which the wife replied, "Oh, did someone rent a cabin in Gatlinburg?"
"Er... someone might have."
"You already rented it?"
"Maybe."
"When?"
"About a month ago."
The wife was instantly delighted. (In fact, a more suspicious person might suspect she cooked up the whole cruise thing as an excuse to get me to divulge anniversary plans, but this would be a suspicious person who had not seen that look of vacation desperation in her eyes earlier.) She said it was the perfect anniversary trip, to a beautiful place (left largely uncrowded by our choice of getting married in the off-season) and was the most appropriate place we could have gone.
Naturally, for the next couple of hours, I cursed my lack of brain power in not coming up with a suitable dodge, but really the information would have had to come out fairly soon anyway and she didn't care. As she pointed out, she could either be surprised now or later, it didn't really matter when.
We've still not planned our cruise, nor its destination, nor if it will be a cruise at all. We're not so much married to the cruise as a vacation concept, but would like to go somewhere that we can see cool stuff and eat good food.
Suggestions welcome.
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