How is luxury travel defined? Taking a seven-day exploration of Saudi Arabia by helicopter and camel might be described as extravagant. For the cold-weather loving set, a stay at the Ice Hotel, complete with dogsled transportation could be considered indulgent. A month spent with extended family in an Italian Chateau with a personal chef and glorious views could also fall into the affluent category. Hotels have always been included in the luxury travel concept. And many of them have the stars to prove it. On a recent weekend stay at Hotel ZaZa, my mother, Carolyn Rhea, and I, experienced our own memorable posh escape.
You know how when a relationship begins, there is that weird sharing stage where each person talks about his/her various scars and the outlandish (or stupid) causes for them?
Maybe we’ve arrived to that stage in our relationship, dear blog reader. I’ve got scars galore, which I attribute to a life lived adventurously. Is that a word? I’ll risk it. Heh. See? I’m bold like that.
There’s the elbow gash that resembles a gun shot scar, but was actually procured from riding (against better judgement and previous parental warnings) on a moped during the summer of my 8th grade. Luckily I wrote a helmet, or I’d have even more lovely gravel-laced scar stories spread across my forehead to explain.
There’s the lawn mowing attempt scar, which occurred when my dad allowed me to try to ‘mow along with the boys.’ I quickly hit a rock, which left its mark nicely on my knee. Today I leave lawn care to the professionals.
The first grade stitches incident happened when I decided that chasing a boy around the room was a good idea. I knocked a chair off of a nearby desk, which crushed my index finger, leaving me in stitches (not in a funny way) and missing out on the everlasting, monumental end-of-the-year party festivities. I still have the misshapen finger to prove it.
I have a new scar to add to the collection. This summer we visited a wonderful place called the Country Woods Inn in Glen Rose, Texas. It’s a fabulous wonderland of farm yard animals, fresh air and fire flies. It’s also got the Paluxy River, which includes the most slippery, algae-covered rocks I’ve seen in a long time. Let’s just say don’t attempt to wrangle a wild two-year-old with one arm. Ever. This mistake landed me in the water, with a torn (shoulder) rotator cuff.
A month later, I’ve had surgery and on the mend. All that remains is stiffness and a small scar. Regrets? I’ve replayed that fall a few times in my mind. Maybe I would have chosen a different route, or kept Charlie out of the river. But what fun is that? Such is life. It’s an adventure, and scars are our souvenirs. I’ll need those reminders when I’m 80.
Today was the first day of kindergarten for our first born. Backpacks were purchased, lunch boxes packed, clothing styled and today we were initiated into 2010 version of kindergarten. He was super excited, and first to arrive in his classroom. His teacher looks 15, but isn’t, and is completely sweet and nurturing. It’s going to be a great year.
Last night, a few friends were reminiscing the wonder years over dinner. I was disturbed to find that many of the memories were not warm and fuzzy, but more like dirty and dark. Funny what the mind remembers.
“During nap time in the third grade, we were resting on our mats and my teacher was wondering amongst us,” said one guy. “She was wearing panty hose, and she walked over me and I peered up her skirt. She wasn’t wearing any underwear. That’s what I remember about the third grade.”
What. I thought third grade boys had an aversion to all things girl. Wrong.
“I remember my sixth grade teacher had moved from Chicago to Austin and proceeded to scare us to death about the seventh grade,”another guy remembered. “You have no idea what’s coming. Those guys are packing guns, knives….you better get ready.”
So much for easing them into the whole ‘real world,’ allowing them to enjoy the last days of childhood before plunging headlong into the ugliness that is adulthood.
While childhood is wrought with its own set of perils, my arts magnet school days were magical, creative moments. Later there were ‘mean girl’ episodes and other adolescent rights of passage, but elementary school was a safe haven: paper-mâché erupting volcanoes, “Eye of the Tiger” dances and “The Story of Ferdinand” performances are the stand outs. No death threats or nudity involved.
How do you remember those days?
Do you go to a gym? I’m not really a ‘gym’ person, but I’ve signed the contracts, deducted the money and dutifully stepped onto the treadmill a few times over the years. I’ve resigned to play the game, all in the name of getting in shape. Of course living in a state where the thermometer logs 104-degrees without a blink also contributes to the indoor gym decision.
Lately I’ve noticed something about the televisions at the gym. When you’re running on the elliptical or treadmill or (insert name of another machine designed to trick yourself into thinking you’re exercising outside) and mindlessly watching the 10 television screens blazing in front of you, the programming is bizarre.
I don’t know if it’s the fact that there are 10 different programs and commercials buzzing together simultaneously, or if TV has really gotten that bad. (What am I saying? Duh, it’s the latter.) I always listen to music while working out, so maybe the lack of audio adds to the weird factor. While jogging yesterday, I actually witnessed a poor sap baring his abs on that drag queen of a talk show “The Wendy Williams Show.” That is clearly not a woman. Then there was “The View” which I don’t even have to begin deconstructing. The local morning shows are equally disturbing with guests pimping books about cheesecake and fashion tips for schauzers. And on the screen next door, a commercial promoting a neck basket began.
Shocked, saddened and sweating, I stopped in my tracks and laughed out loud. Which I’m sure made my fellow gym goers think me odd. You too can purchase this piece of plastic that hangs from the neck for three easy payments of $7.99. And just when I was convinced that the world had officially come to an end, I saw that it’s not a real product. The commercial is actual for a survey company, who was trying to be ironic. Too bad it took me about 10 times watching that piece of work (with lightbulb moment happening with the sound off) to get the joke.
Mom was right — television will rot your brain.
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