Captain’s log, Stardate: 7232011 – This is the last voyage of the family ship – WTF. Under my command we have secured a rental transport unit and are proceeding to our final vacation destination. As per our other previous expeditions we seem to be having technical issues with our guidance support system. It’s confused and keeps repeating inaccurate directions in a tone that I now perceive as excessively surly. For the record, a GPS rapping “re-calculating” for 20 miles is neither helpful or instructive. Also, the integrity of our vessel has been breached with an unidentified noxious fume that even a cocktail of Gain Febreze and Lysol Citrus Neutra Air Sanitizing spray can’t eradicate. Due to this concern we will be docking at the nearest support station.
Too bad for us the nearest support station was the “The Big Rig Gas & Go” Serving Truckers for 60 years and from what I could see out the car window most of the truckers had been patronizing the The Big Rig for as long as it has been in business. I was seriously confused. All the truckers look not just old, but grizzled like they were in the advanced stages of their AARP membership for tattooed, arthritic, osteoporosis bad asses. Then to what do my wondering eyes do appear but, a real live cowboy the size of a troll give or take a couple of inches.
This mini wrangler hops out of his 18 wheeler and he’s styling in a straw Stetson, a big old curly stache, a denim western shirt with fringe and one of those bolo things at the neck. The very best part of his outfit was and I’m not exaggerating, the manly version (I’m using the term manly here very loosely) Daisy Duke denim shorts with you guessed it cowboy boots, but wait there’s more, – spurs. Spurs that “jingle, jangle, jingle” as he walks into the truck stop with what looks like a towel.
My husband says to me, just a bit freaked out, “Did you just see that guy?”
“By that guy do you mean the mini dude that was cowboy on top and Dukes of Hazard on the bottom, then yes, I saw him. Quite the visual treat” I added. There was no time for further discussion on the most disturbing sighting, so far, of the day, as the car stench was making us all nausea.
I had my family commence an evacuation of our shuttle pod so I could make a through search for the odor that had permeated the interior. It took 30 seconds. My son, inhabiting the 3rd row of seats had removed his shoes. It’s important to note that in my earlier quest to track down the odor I had asked him if he had taken his shoes off. He had replied in the negative. Apparently, ladies and gentlemen of the jury at that juncture his shoes were “only half way off his feet, not technically all the way off.” If that wasn’t bad enough he placed his shoes right under an a/c vent thus constantly re-circulating the reek of teen boy feet through out the vehicle. Before I could take off one of my flip-flops and beat him with it he had hurried inside The Big Rig to use the restroom.
My son, the alleged honor student, goes into the Big Rig and instead of heading into the restroom he somehow finds himself in the truckers shower area. There he’s an eyewitness to not just naked old man body parts, but the genitalia of the midget cowboy, which according to my son would rightfully earn Mr. Daisy Duke the moniker of “hobbit balls”.
He comes running out the truck stop into the parking lot. I’m so concerned about the high rate of speed my son is clocking that I’m afraid he’s been molested or something. But at 15 and 6 feet tall, I’m thinking that probably isn’t it. When he gets to me standing at the back of car still vigorously Lysoling he begins to tell me, not his father, (oh his father never gets any of the delicate life questions, it’s always me that gets asked the guy stuff) about the horrors he saw in the trucker’s shower.
My first response is, “Why in God’s green earth did you go into the showers!?”
“I dunno, I just followed where the other men were going,” he said in one of those so very special teen “whatever” voices.
I then get regaled with his tale of seeing “old guys without their clothes” and how “disgusting” it was. He then asks me, “Why does that happen to your junk when you get old. It’s just wrong.”
I break it to him that I’ve never seen, thank you very much, a naked old guy and couldn’t answer his questions, but his father could probably help him on the subject. I enlist the aid of my husband who gives him the sage advice of “Not to worry about it.”
I look at my husband and say, “That’s all you got, a not to worry about it?”
He says, “Yep, that will do for now.”
On those pearls of wisdom we all climb back in the car which is not odor free, but the toxicity has been knocked down a couple of levels and continue on our journey.
We finally reach our destination 9,000 feet above sea level a couple of hours later. My husband craves being in the mountains. At least once a year he has to experience the beauty of some mountain range. The only problem with it is he turns into what I call an A.H.D. – Aging Hipster Doofus. First, it’s the clothes. He puts on Keen mountain sandals and Patagonia cargo shorts with 10,000 zipper compartments for essential hiking gear. Then he stops shaving.
The worst, the very worst is his music. He breaks out his “mixed tapes” from the 80’s, rolls the windows down and starts “jamming.” It’s not that I don’t like me some Talking Heads, but sweet baby Jesus seeing my husband turn back the hands of time to 1984 is a disconcerting sight. In fact, the whole mountain resort is chock full of A.H.D.’s. Some of these middle-aged goobers wear their bike shorts or their mountain climbing gear 24/7. I’m afraid the only mountain most of these guys are climbing is the big step up into their SUV’s. Also, gentlemen, if you own a pair of “reading” sunglasses perhaps you’re not quite as cool as you think.
What’s worse is that my very own Aging Hipster Doofus guilts me into doing mountain activities like hike for hours in the wilderness. (Say hello to being attacked by black bears.) Ugh. My whole family, except me, of course suffers from freaking vacation A.D.H.D. They can’t sit still. My idea of vacation perfection would be a beach, a paperback book, and a drink with an umbrella. But nooo, my brood has to keep on moving, like they’re sharks or something. If I sit still and try to read I get told, “C’mon you can read at home.” Relaxation isn’t a part of any of our family vacations. So, as not to be a party pooper, I soldier on, encased in Deep Woods Off.
Nestled far away from any hiking path and shrouded by pine trees we take a break in our hiking marathon to savor a spectacular lake. I was looking forward to catching my breath and enjoying the wonders of Mother Nature except after we had been lakeside for 10 minutes we become surrounded by a posse of Aging Hipster Doofuses. My husband, at first, becomes noticeably excited that his tribe is near. Then this species of A.H.D. shows that perhaps they are from a much different branch of the Gen X family.
They start blasting 80’s hair band music from their solar-powered jam box. Music and bands in particular are like your children, you love them, but for sure not everybody else does. I was getting ticked off. Their music was ruining my nature vibe and really it was just rude. It was time to take action. I had the perfect opportunity when my husband took both kids deeper into the pine forest to hunt for good fishing sticks. (Yes, I had to wait for him to get beyond the sound of the my voice. He doesn’t approve of me confronting groups of people. He’s sure I’m going to get killed someday, but that’s a chance I’m usually willing to take.)
Just to make sure I wasn’t over reacting I let the guys play their tunes for a while thinking they might leave soon. Although, here we are in a National Park and I can’t understand why everybody doesn’t spread the hell out. The 40 something dudes seem very comfortable and then they get so comfy they start smoking weed. That was my cue to take them on for Smokey the Bear’s sake, if nothing else.
I walked over and went for their taste in music first. “Look,” I said, “Could you please lower the volume on your music?”
They chuckled and said they were “chilling.” But, I could tell their whole attitude was that I was busting their chops and needed to take off. Please, please world at large quit thinking you can dismiss me because I have on my capri track pants and Famous Footwear buy one get one free tennis shoes. My less than cool kid attire doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass.
“Okay,” I said. “Here’s what I’m thinking you either turn off your music or I’m going to hook up my portable iPhone speakers and blast Justin Beiber and some vintage Jonas Brothers your way and just so you know I have Justin Beiber My World and My World 2.0 on my phone. Plus, I have a 10 year girl who will stand on this rock and belt out each song word for word.”
The aging hipsters looked disgruntled, but before they could get a word out I added, “And your, I’m taking a wild guess here, non medicinal marijuana is inappropriate.”
Here’s the thing, I have no patience for inhalants. The only think I inhale is chocolate cake. If someone wants to partake of the weed they sure need to do it out of the visual and olfactory range of my children. Plus, I had noticed that some of the ski bums that worked retail in this mountain town might have been overdoing it on the summer grass. The first brain acuity that must go with smoking pot is the ability to make change. Seriously, the act of adding and subtracting stumped them.
So, these frat rats turned corporate suck ups on their “reliving the 80’s mancation” needed to get gone. They all just set there on various rocks and logs and stared at me. I had no other choice but to pull out the big guns and threaten to take pictures of them smoking and put it on my Facebook page. Oh, that scared them alright because two of the jerk wads had backpacks with their companies logo on them.
I said I would also be sure to “like” their company’s FB page and then post my photos on it as well. That meant for infinity and beyond they would be “tagged” in cyberspace smoking a dubie. Well, that, of course, did the trick. After being called bitch or worse I’m guessing, “you’re as bad as my wife,” a couple of times they took off and I removed my discount tennies and soaked my cankles in the fresh, pure mountain water. Celebrating the fact that a middle-aged woman whose thighs rub together can still bring it every time over a bunch of Aging Hipster Doofuses.
Next Up the Final Installment of I Hate People – A Travelogue of a Snarky Vacation. Also stay up-to-date on new posts and take part in my not so deep thoughts click on this Facebook link – http://is.gd/iEgnJ (That’s the abbreviated link to my FB page) or I twitter @snarkynsuburbs.
Snarky in the Suburbs 