Tuesday, March 29th
I’m guessing that the people who design RV’s don’t ever bother to ride or sleep in them. Otherwise, our toilet would have a seat belt. I can’t say that somersaulting into the shower when James made that sharp left turn was on my bucket list, but at least I can empathize with others who’ve dealt with this type of trauma.
We’re now barreling west on I-4 from Orlando to Tampa. To see the Yankees play the Pirates at George Steinbrenner Stadium.
Yesterday the RV’s generator stopped working. James spent a good hour staring at it, flipping various switches and cursing. Jenna and I stood a safe distance behind him looking concerned. Because that’s what you do when someone close to you is trying to fix something and you’re incapable of making the situation better. If you’re over 15 and can’t actually help, then you’d better, by gosh, assume the “concerned position.” But under no circumstances should you ask him if he’s consulted the manual or called the RV rental place.
While standing there, staring at the generator, as if it was Uncle Fred in his casket, I couldn’t help noticing our neighbor camper’s x-rated houseplant out of the corner of my eye. What the heck! Put that thing away! I hope I’m never on the road long enough to feel the need to carry houseplants around with me. Especially a cactus! Imagine falling off the toilet onto that thing!
Killing time before yesterday’s ballgame, we visited Orlando’s Sea Life Aquarium. It was obviously designed as a low budget alternative to Sea World, for vacationers with more time than money.
The first exhibit was simply called Bait.
As James, Jenna and Jack (the J’s) spent time contemplating each exhibit, reading the educational summaries and having PBS worthy conversations, Andrew and I skipped ahead. As we approached a huge clown fish and blue fish exhibit, I heard a little girl screech
ME: Do you think these fish ever wonder why people always mistake them for someone named Nemo and Dory? Who are these mysterious Nemo and Dory people that they’re always mistaken for? Do they swim up to the glass and make elaborate fin gestures trying to explain to the tourists:
“No! I’m Marianne. And this is Russell! We don’t know these Nemo and Dory people that you speak of.” Of course the humans can’t hear them, which must be terribly frustrating.
ANDREW: Yeah, the people who run the place ought to show them a courtesy viewing of Finding Nemo so they’ll know what’s up. It’s the least they could do.
The next exhibit was all about seahorses and how the males of the species are the ones to get pregnant and give birth.
I began to wonder if dad seahorses suffer from morning sickness and get all weepy and hormonal, craving strange combinations of plankton and seaweed at 2 am. I wonder if the child bearing role reversal is a strain on seahorse marriages. There’s probably no data on their divorce rates to consult.
Monday, March 28th (sorry for skipping around, but I write whenever I can.)
We’ve got incredible seats right behind home plate. But being in a new place with such people watching opportunity and my Adderall wearing off, I’m having trouble focusing on the game. Plus, the woman sitting right in front of me has a string in her hair that shifts slightly with every breeze. Andrew dares me to pluck it out. Removing the string without her feeling it should be an easy enough task if it weren’t for her companion who keeps glancing back at us. I wonder if he has a hidden camera and the string was placed there as bait for OCD audience members. If I were to reach for it, would John Stossel pop out of nowhere and congratulate me for being on 20/20 OCD Edition?
Oh good, it just fell down on its own where I easily retrieved it.
“That’s not fair,” said Andrew. “You were supposed to get it out of her hair, not off her shirt.”
It’s been raining a lot. And the Tropical Palms Carefree RV Resort would be much more carefree if we were, perhaps, a family of swine. I’m learning that some lots are muddier than others, so you should ask about drainage when making reservations. It also lacks the lovely canopy of live oak trees and short palms that Nova Family Campground had. If you’re going to name your RV park, Tropical Palms, then it should darn well have some palm trees. This place is like a boggy Nascar overflow parking lot.
Time for lunch. More later.