Showing posts with label Cannon Beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cannon Beach. Show all posts

Monday, July 21, 2014

Oreos for Breakfast.

Summer Vacation Blitz 2014 is in the books, and all that’s left are a bug-streaked windshield, one bottle of warm IPA and a lazy attitude.

After our four-day junket to San Diego, we joined seven other family members down in Manzanita Oregon. It’s about twenty minutes south of Cannon Beach, that legendary hamlet where a buck will still buy a scoop of ice cream, but if you want a dish or cone with it, you’ll need to toss in a five spot.

Just to give you an idea of the situation in our rental house, picture the setting of Dan in Real Life, where a large extended family gathers in a picturesque locale. That’s exactly how this was, except we didn’t have a talent show or morning aerobics and my brother didn’t punch me in the face this time.

But other than that it was crazily similar. 

Oh, yeah, and I’m not a widower and my teenage daughter didn’t accuse me of being a murderer of love, but everything else was exactly the same.

I don’t want to give you the verbal equivalent of your Aunt Melba’s Little Big Horn slide show, so I just thought I’d share a few of the lessons I’ve gleaned from shacking up with family for a whole calendar week. In the workplace these are known as “learnings, “takeaways” or “knowledge soak,” if you happen to work at Microsoft. Maybe you’ve gathered some of the same findings:

1) I eat too much. For God’s sake, when else but vacation do I slither out of bed and grab a couple of Oreos on the way to the cinnamon rolls? Throughout the week, I singlehandedly transformed a five-pound jar of Red Vines into a smudgy husk coated in Red Dust Number Forty.

2) I sleep a lot, but not well. You know how it is—the bed feels a little off and the covers have a slight skeeviness, like that coating your fingers accumulate while browsing through the jeans rack at Goodwill. The room was painted a shade of blue made famous by cadaver genitals, and smelled slightly of kelp and pork roast.

3) I drink too much. Beer-Thirty arrived early most days, and on others, even earlier. Consequently, please see Takeaway #2.

4) Hiking is fun—but I’m not good at it. A 1400-foot vertical climb means there’s a good chance I’ll be tripping over up to thirty exposed tree roots. Not to disappoint, on the way back down, I rolled my ankle and ate trail. I currently have a bruise on my outer butt that resembles a chubby Mother Mary with one eye.

5) Family vacations keep improving as the kids get older. Let’s face it—it kind of sucks to travel with little children, especially when your idea of a vacation doesn’t include getting up at 6:30 to play Candyland, a game you could despise just as much without the nice ocean view. Nowadays, those girls of mine sleep more than house cats on Ambien.

6) It’s great to hang out with my dad, brother, sister and all the in-laws I know my older brother was disappointed that I didn’t want to share a bunk bed like the old days, but the dude’s bladder isn’t exactly the elastic parcel of youth it once was. I told him I’d be willing to try if he’s willing to invite a thousand daily Kegels into his life.

7) Nothing beats laughing so much that your gut aches for seven straight days. There’s a washboard stomach somewhere under there from nonstop guffawing. 

Trust me, because after last week, I’m not lifting my shirt in public for a while.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Don't forget the sunscreen

I believe it's about time to stick a big, four-pronged fork in the 2009 Tim/Terri/Zoe/Lauryn family summer vacation season. It really did end with a bang, rather than a whimper, as we headed down to Cannon Beach, Oregon, for a three-day extravaganza. 
I've already touched upon the zeitgeist of the long-distance car trip, and the fragile ecological balance that must be maintained over a four-plus-hour drive, the four of us confined to an area the size of a large convection oven. The kids weighed themselves down with every manner of amusement, from portable DVD player to iTouch to cell phone to trashy teen magazines. However, no matter how enrapt they appeared to be in their various diversions, the second Terri and I engaged in any kind of adult conversation, the girls were all over it. 
"Who are you guys talking about? Why is she so annoying?" That was an average query from Lauryn.
Zoe could've had her iPod turned up to 11, and the minute she heard her name mentioned, it was, "Why are you talking about me? Can't you leave me alone? Why don't you just talk about yourselves? You've both been around five times as long as I have, which gives you plenty of material." She's always making really good points. 
After a while, we forced the girls to disengage their various forms of media, and tried to plan out a loose agenda for our brief time in the cool, little beach town. "What do you guys want to do down there?" I asked. "We've brought our kites, our sand castle supplies, our football and maybe we can rent out some of those low-rider tricycles for cruising around on the wet sand."
I could see the excitement on Lauryn's face. "Dad, since we don't have cable at home, I want to watch Jon and Kate Plus Eight and Hannah Montana and maybe What Not to Wear." I hadn't realized this was a Comcast-sponsored event.
I changed the subject. "Okay, so what kind of food should we get down there? They've got pizza, and  a really good burger place and Osburn's Ice Cream is awesome." 
"You know what I want for dessert?" proclaimed Lauryn. "I'm getting gilletto."
"You mean gelato, Lauryn?"
"No dad, I mean gilletto. Come on. You've had it a lot."
I gave up the fight, as usual. And no, I've never eaten anything that has shaving cream as it's main ingredient.
When we finally arrived in Cannon Beach, it was easy to start having fun in that incredible setting. The kids were allowed to watch TV in the mornings and a little at night, but the rest of the time, we reveled in wholesome family events, like the fourteen-year-old wrestling the nine-year-old on the beach for all to see. Terri and I sat in chairs and watched them wearing our black, hooded sweatshirts, the hoods pulled up over our heads. I mentioned to Terri that we looked like a couple of satanic parents training their daughters in all ways violent. After a while, it creeped me out a little too much and I got out the football and sand shovel.
We're all back in Seattle now, basking in the afterglow of a successful family vacation. And since I have a little spare time tonight, I think I'll whip up some gilletto with my extra can of Edge.