Tag Archives: vacation disasters

The Case of the Missing Guitar

We both agreed to pack less for this trip than we usually do, as we have the habit of not using at least half of what we take.  This is why I got a bit upset (OK… bitchy) when Kevin insisted on taking his bigger guitar on this trip.  He has a Martin Backpacker for these occasions, but he was adamant that he needed his full-size guitar for Key West.  I finally bit my tongue and let him have his way.  I’d just save my energy for plotting revenge.

 

He packed extra strings and flaunted the entire extra bag he needed just for his music lists.  I refused to give in to the bait and just mentally snarled, planning on getting even with a shoe-shopping extravaganza once we hit our final destination.

 

We loaded the car and left for parts south.  When it was finally my turn to drive, the first thing I noticed was that the damn guitar case was on its side, blocking a substantial part of the view through the back window.  I asked him if it couldn’t be laid flat, and he hemmed and hawed for a bit before finally laying it flat the next time we switched drivers.  Now he was concerned with the fact that he’d laid it strings-down and feared he was hurting his baby.  I was internally growling and thinking, “why didn’t you just lay it down the right way to begin with!?”  but I realized it would be spitting into the wind to bring it up again.

 

With stops to visit family on the way down, we were gone for four nights before he actually removed it from the car and took it into our hotel room.  During these four days of travel, he rearranged it in the rear of the car repeatedly; moving suitcases around to keep it appropriately cushioned and checking that it wasn’t being jostled about too much.  I remained quietly exasperated, but accomplished one helluva lot of eye-rolling. I was certain that if I had to watch him fussing over that thing for much longer, my brains would leak out of my ears from all the unreleased pressure.  Finally, after spending an entire day with his parents, he was ready to haul his precious love out and unwind with a little strumming.

 

I was decompressing by reading out on our room’s little patio, when he burst out, ashen faced, wide-eyed and yelling, “SOMEONE STOLE MY GUITAR!”  (OK, call me a bitch [again], but his expression totally reminded me of a lemur.)

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What? How could someone steal his guitar?  It’d been in the car for four days, and that car was always locked when we weren’t in it.  Back into the room I went, and saw the empty guitar case on the bed.  After about thirty seconds of pondering where and how this could have happened, I asked him if he had actually even put it in the case.  He looked at me like I’d suggested that he would look smashing in a pink, sequined tutu, and then became adamant that he did, and that someone broke into the car at one of our stops, took the guitar, and left just the case, “to throw us off of their tails!”  Yeah, I was having trouble swallowing that one immediately, but he was totally inconsolable and irrational.  His vacation was ruined, and he refused to call home to our house/pet sitter to see if he’d left it behind, because he was certain there was no way he would have done that.

 

With just a bit of coaxing (OK, maybe I was bitching again), he did finally call home.  Yes, his Martin guitar was safely beside his computer on its stand in the corner, and our house-sitter had enjoyed playing it very much.  We’d just traveled 1200 miles with an empty guitar case that he’d fiercely protected all along the route.  Now it was my turn to become hysterical, but I was hysterical with laughter.  I was out of commission for at least twenty minutes with tears pouring down my face.

 

The next morning, we Googled used guitar dealers in the area, took a couple of hours to find the place, and I bought him a replacement.  I mean, how can you go to Key West without your muse?  I felt like I was a true Guitar Hero.­­­­

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Oh, but the payback was really a bitch.  😉

 

(Lemur image courtesy of Google.)

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A Disastrous Start

We were a little over an hour away from home with just under two hours until our flight departed, when Kevin realized he’d left his passport at home.

With the feeling of dread roiling around in my belly at crisis proportions, we parted company with the intentions for him to try to get home and return, and for me to finish the check-in procedure and wait. On his way out of the airport, he came up with the absolutely brilliant idea of calling my son to try to make the journey in to the airport instead. Matt was thrilled to be of service, even though he wasn’t home and was suffering a hangover when he got the call. His twenty mile race back to pick up the passport and get it through the hour and ten minute trip to the airport began., while I was frantically trying to figure out ways to delay our boarding. I’d been considering upgrading to first class, faking a seizure or blowing the captain, when Kevin made it to our gate with six minutes to spare. I barely avoided vomiting gallons.

We raced on board and took our seats, trying to stop the relentless surge of adrenaline that was coursing through both of our bodies, only to be hit with a fifty minute flight delay. The captain announced that we needed de-icing, then that we didn’t need de-icing. Now, we were waiting for some kind of ground delay. As we started moving forward after the ground delay was cancelled, he then told us there was a mechanical difficulty that meant we would have to disembark and reschedule our flights. Of course, we were freaked once again, as we had a connecting flight to catch in order to make it to Ft. Lauderdale in time for the scheduled departure time of our cruise. Once the plane started moving back toward the terminal, we were told the mechanical problem cleared itself and we were scheduled for take-off. I insisted on my complimentary parachute.

We arrived in Charlotte, and absolutely ran on the people movers, dragging our four carry-ons, in an attempt to make our flight. We once again had just minutes to spare with no possibility of stopping at a restaurant for even some kind of fast food sustenance. We raced to the correct gate and boarded, only to be met, this time, with a forty-five minute delay due to the weather.

By this time, we were both frazzled and completely sure that we weren’t going to make the departure time of the cruise. The fact that our luggage was among the last pieces off of the carousel just reaffirmed that fact.

Due to the skill of the speeding shuttle driver, we once again made our destination, just in the nick of time. We raced up the gangplank, dragging our carry-ons behind us with only ten minutes until departure. But we made it! We quickly found the elevator banks and punched the up button, to be met with…nothing. Standing there bedraggled and starved, we realized that there must be some kind of elevator malfunction. We decided to actually make the climb up to the sixth floor where our cabin was.

As we started climbing the stairs, we were met by all of the already boarded passengers walking down the stairs, wearing life jackets. I realized that the ship could very well be sinking, but decided that at that point, I didn’t give a flying fuck! All I knew was that I was getting to my mother fucking room and going down with the mother fucking ship!!

We made it to the sixth floor and dropped our carry-ons, which seemed to have begun to weigh at least thirty pounds apiece. We hadn’t eaten all day, my make-up was MIA, my hair was hanging in strings in my eyes, our clothes were plastered to our skin with sweat, our nerves were jangled, and my breath could have knocked out a prize fighter when I dove for the mini bar. I had just pulled out two bottles of cognac when we heard the knock on the door. Our cabin boy had come to tell us that the mandatory life boat drills were going on and we must participate.

The tears immediately fell from my eyes as I told him we’d just gotten on the ship, climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, hadn’t eaten all day, I needed to pee and that there was no fucking way in hell were we leaving to walk down the stairs for a fucking life boat drill and if he insisted, I hoped his CPR certification was up to date, because this old woman was certain to go into cardiac arrest!!

He agreed that it was a pretty good idea for us to stay in the room. He thought our attack on the mini bar was a spectacular idea.