Every time someone calls me a snob (something of a thrice a week phenomenon at its slowest), I mutter to myself: “diner coffee.”
That’s right. I’ve travelled. I’ve tasted. Hell, I even lived in Seattle. You can have your espresso-based drinks with foamy whatever-milk. Give me a steaming mug of American diner coffee. In fact, give me 3 mugs of it. No milk. I like it best when I don’t even know my mug is being filled and I can pretend its one loooong cup of coffee.
M and I were on the Jersey Shore this weekend with some friends when I fell upon this:I don’t know what makes diner coffee Jersey-style, but I do know this stuff is roasted in Asbury Park, which brings me one step closer to Springsteen. (Asbury Park, by the way, is definitely worth a visit, even if you don’t worship at the shrine of Bruce.)
The last time I was on the Shore, I ended up on TV. This time I found some coffee. I’m brewing a cup of it in the French press this morning.
Once you’ve packed what you think are the entire contents of your home, the second step of summer road tripping (if you survived the car ride), is the trip to Home Goods to buy the things you thought would be in your rented cottage, but aren’t: BEDDING.
Last night at 10.30 pm, when the kids were already a hot mess, we discovered that even know there was a quilt on every bed, there was nothing under the quilt. We made do with what we could find last night and huddled together for warmth, but this morning M. took the boys fishing and the girls and I headed to Home Goods. We thought about Walmart, but it was 20 miles away, and it’s Walmart.
And Walmart, while it has its uses, does not provide your children the opportunity of waiting in the mile-long checkout line and finding things like this to beg you to buy:What the hell would I even do with that?
Or, Dear Lord, this: Once they have declared you the meanest mother on earth, you shuffle to the checkout, pay and leave. You may not have two sets of press-on nails, but at least you’ll all be warmer tonight.
It’s never as much fun driving home. We are all a bit deflated. We have none of the anticipation that propelled our way out … ten days ago. We have seen all the movies on our devices many times over. We are running out of food, on the last dregs of our supplies. We are grating on each other’s nerves. Sort of like the Donner Party. But not.
I brought our last pack of frozen cold cuts for the trip but forgot to defrost them. Here they are sunning themselves on the dashboard.
(Loud child in the way back: I cannot currently attend to you. I am blogging. Hush.)
It seems we have all been together forever. Other than M, I can’t remember the last time I spoke to someone I didn’t birth.
It seems that everyone is peeing a lot more than usual.
It seems that I didn’t fully clean off all of Sidney’s puke off my t-shirt.
It seems we are subsisting on Pirate Booty and stale water.
It seems that I have not explained to these children the importance of silence during a Springsteen song.
It seems like I might need a vacation from this vacation.
Here are a few things I have learned in the three days of summer vacation we have had thus far:
1. If you let your kids do all the work at the Apple Store, you will be less hassled. To them, the people behind the bar really ARE geniuses.
2. No matter what a child says while you are all piled into the effing minivan listening to craptastic Top Forty music (why the caps?), a song that was popular last summer is NOT an oldie.
3. It’s ok to fall asleep in all your clothes, and a dirty apron. Believe me.
4. Taking selfies of yourself with your seven year old daughter will not make you feel good about your skin.
5. Planning a six hour (plus?) road trip to Montreal may have seemed like a really good idea at the time, but 48 hours before the trip, it will seem like the absolute worst idea you have ever had.
6. Six hours is a really long time.