Goin' Camping

The Partner, The Boss, the dog, and I rode over to Rhode Island last night to take a gander at a 1989 27' Gulf Stream Conquest motor home we discovered on Craig's List. After The Boss jumped all over the queen sized bed in the back, after I inspected each and every crack and crevice of closet or cabinet space, and after The Partner took the behemoth for a spin, hands were shaken. Words like "title," "insurance," and "license plates" floated easily through the crisp dusk air. We pledged to return the next day to bring the big baby home.

New England is now our oyster. We already have plans for one or two weekend trips in October and all kinds of dreams for a lakeside site next summer. When I really want to get grandiose, I imagine a cross country trip that a young family will never forget.

Our Gulf Stream's got a pinky-mauve velour interior. There are two seats in the cockpit and a captain's chair behind. At loft level, foam pallets come together to form a queen sized sleeping area. A table and bench convert to a bed next to the refrigerator and across from the sink and stove. There's a shower on one side and a toilet on the other. Behind it all is a traditional queen bed surrounded by narrow but serviceable closets. I can lay back in the 80s grandeur of it all and imagine that Bon Jovi just might have traveled this way.

On the way home, The Partner patted our dog Roxie's head as she nosed her way over the center console of our car and nuzzled him from her spot in the back seat. We had been talking about the placement of car seats in the camper and assorted logistics. "Roxie's going to sit in the shower," The Partner joked.

"Droxie ridin' in the shower!" The Boss sang out. Her voice was a melodic taunt. I wondered if she was evil or just enchanted with the out-of-context image of her dog bouncing around a waterproof stall beneath the shower head as New Hampshire hills flew by.

"Roxie is NOT riding in the shower," I said, running my hand over the dog's smooth forehead. I felt the scar she'd earned the morning she decided to run under a chain link fence in pursuit of the neighbor's cat.

We were silent for awhile as our mind's eyes took us beyond seating arrangements into our own personalized realms. I pictured myself in a lounge chair next to the camper. I had a book in my hand and a lake to my side. The Partner was probably envisioning the race car he'd tow each month to the RallyX events he loves to participate in.

Then we heard The Boss behind us. A maniacal giggle indicated her train of thought had not left the station. "Droxie ridin' in the show-er!"

The dog turned and gave our daughter the hairy eyeball. That long, jagged scar ended right where her pointed gaze began.

Orbiting the Evil Empire

No matter how much many of us talk about Boston and Providence as our big hubs, we all know that it is out there! A major economic and cultural center that is not only a "must see" location in and of itself, but blocks the highways that we New England Mamas need to traverse if we want to get to Sesame Street Place, Washington DC, or the Jersey Shore. Yes, I am talking about the Big Apple, New York City.

I have to admit that I have slightly mixed loyalties when I lock arms with my fellow New Englanders to glare south. Not only did I live in Hoboken, New Jersey for two years while working in Manhattan, but my husband lived in and around "The City" for almost 30 years, and he still proudly calls himself a New Yorker. (In fact, he was joyfully cavorting around the house earlier today yelling something about "Only 4 games out! And at least two-and-a-half up!" for some baseball-related events that I am sure were less happily received by most of my neighbors.) But neither of our New York associations make driving through the City seem any more enticing.

My friend and her husband generously invited my family to spend the week with them in Ocean City, New Jersey. Unfortunately, my husband couldn't make the trip. I figured it would be no problem for me to take the boys by myself. However, as the trip got closer, I began to feel like I needed to breathe into a paper bag every time I thought about the drive. Being stuck in a car with a 3.5 year old and a 13 month old isn't fun at the best of times, and everyone I knew said the Jersey Shore traffic was simply a nightmare. It looked like the 7 hour drive would really be a 10+ hour drive.

Due to my complete laziness shear brilliance, we ended up leaving much later than expected. Originally I had wanted to leave at 6 am (that makes me laugh just to write it), however, that definitely didn't happen. In fact once 9 am had rolled around, I figured it was better to wait until the afternoon anyhow. We ended up leaving at around 3:15 pm. Other than some traffic delays getting onto I-84 (if my FastPass had been working it would have been no problem), there was basically no traffic on my trip. We stopped for an hour for dinner. The whole trip took us 8 hours total, inclusive of the stop. The boys slept through most of it since I wouldn't let them nap before we left.

Tonight when I am welcomed back into the arms of my fellow New Englanders as I go out with the moms from my playgroup, my first toast will be to Newark Airport. Because they overbook their airspace, there were plenty of airplanes coming and going when we drove through. The boys got a good half hour out of talking about the different airplanes and their "sizes".

White Knuckles, Knotted Shoulders

My daughter Olivia has type 1 diabetes. She's had it for nearly 10 years and for 8 of those 10 years, we've made the drive in to Boston so that she can be seen four times a year at Joslin. It's one of the leading diabetes centers in the country and they take top notch care of her and her diabetes.

But, and there is a big but (and not just mine), the drive in, from the hinterlands of western Massachusetts, is most decidedly Not Fun. It's all smooth sailing until you hit the illustrious 95/128 interchange on the Mass Pike. That's when all hell breaks loose. Invariably, some moron, usually from out of state *coughNewYorkcough* gets in the Fast Lane when they don't have a Fast Lane tag. There's usually a couple of confused tractor trailers trying to figure out if they need to go north or south. And me, cursing 'em all out, like the good little Masshole that I am.

Then there is the garage. Any of you familiar with the Pilgrim Street Parking garage in the Longwood area? It's over there behind Children's and Beth Isreal. Turns are so tight that every ramp has dozens and dozens of bumper scrapes on it. The up and down ramps are about six inches apart, so you need to have quick reflexes and new brake pads when you use this place. I don't know how people with honking SUVs manage - I have all I can do to get my little Honda Accord thru there unscathed. The rates are ridiculous, even for Boston and Joslin no longer validates parking tickets. Between the tolls, the gas, lunch and parking, it's easily a $60 day. Olivia's currently involved in a study there, so we get free parking (yay!), but once that's over, we'll be taking the T in again. Much easier. And I don't have to navigate the car-killing potholes that pop up along Route 9 in Wellesely and Chestnut Hill. What's up with those things? Rich suburbs like that and you can't keep the potholes filled? Or is that your way of saying "Come, shop at the Atrium, wander thru Chestnut Hill Mall, but don't even THINK about going anywhere else or your chassis is ours. Suckahs!"

I'm glad to be back out here in the Happy Valley, behind the Tofu Curtain, but now I need a massage. And a drink. Thank all the little fishes I don't have to do that again for another three months.