Before I dive into the rest of the story I need to address something that makes little sense to me.

Blue jean baby, L.A. lady, seamstress for the band
Pretty eyed, pirate smile, you’ll marry a music man
Ballerina, you must have seen her dancing in the sand
And now she’s in me, always with me, tiny dancer in my hand

Jesus freaks out on the street
Handing tickets out for God
Turning back she just laughs
The boulevard is not that bad

Piano man he makes his stand
In the auditorium
Looking on she sings the songs
The words she knows the tune she hums

But oh how it feels so real
Lying here with no one near
Only you and you can hear me
When I say softly slowly

Hold me closer tiny dancer
Count the headlights on the highway
Lay me down in sheets of linen
You had a busy day today

I may have referenced the fact that for a significant portion of my life I thought it was “hold me close I’m tired of dancing” instead of “hold me close I’m tiny dancer”.  Why am I bringing this up now?  Because I have Sirius radio and they played this song and it made me think of how my version of the song makes way more sense.  I am so exhausted (intoxicated to the point that I am actually dancing, those who know me well realize this is one of the first warning signs that my alter ego Steve is about to come out) from dancing that I need assistance if I am to continue dancing (what I do on a dance floor, or should I say what Steve does, isn’t exactly dancing but it’s close).  Makes complete sense right?  What the hell does hold me close I’m tiny dancer?  How did Elton John get away with this terrible writing that makes no sense?  How did this song become so popular?  Is he referring to a midget?  Is her referring to a child?

The Tuesday Shirley and I were leaving for Florida I had two court hearings that I had to cover.  They were at 9 and 9:30 downtown.  No sweat, our flight didn’t leave until 12:30.  However, Shirley is a firm believer that you should arrive three hours prior to the time of departure and had her parents drop her at the airport.   I thought she was going to wait for me to get back from court but when she called to see where I was and revealed that she had already been dropped off at the airport it was quite a relief.  Shirley and pretty much everyone in her family has flight anxiety.  They start to perseverate at least 24 hours prior to every flight they take, worrying that they will be barred from their upcoming flight.  Now, I will admit, I am the opposite, I try to utilize every minute I have before embarking to the airport.  Why?  Because I hate the airport, it entails doing something that drives me crazy, waiting around.

First you wait in a line to check in and check your bags, then you wait in a line to go through security, then you wait to get into a line in which you wait in a  line to board the plane.  It’s mentally exhausting.  Furthermore, why are people in such a rush to get on the plane? There is nothing to do on a plane!  I can’t wait to get on that plane and breathe the contaminated air and sit next to some complete stranger. Granted, it’s always fun to try and figure out who farted, was it the person next to you? Behind you?  In front of you?  Possibly the stewardess as she passed your seat?   Wether you are the first to board or the last to board you are going to get to your destination the same time as everyone else.

I’ll admit, I have missed a flight, and boarded a flight 30 seconds before it was set to depart, having to sprint through the Jacksonville airport to get to my plane.  But that’s the risk I am willing to take for those extra few minutes of not waiting around.  So, when I arrived to check in at the airport flying solo it was amazing.  No kids to look after, no Shirley in a state of complete panic frustrated that I am stress free and show no concern about the upcoming flight.  Guess what?  There was no line, I walked up and checked my ski, and they didn’t even charge me for it.  I strolled through security and the cherry on the sundae was that Shirley and I were one of the last people on the plane.

In hindsight I wish I would have booked a separate flight from Shirley for the trip home. We ended up stopping at her aunt and uncle’s on the way to the Clearwater airport (an airport roughly the size of Gerald R. Ford).  Their condo has a nice pool so I decided to go down and catch some sun figuring we had a couple hours to burn.  Our flight left at 2:48 and I was leisurely hanging by the pool when at 12:06 I received “better come up now”

My response “I’ll head up at 12:15. Flight doesn’t leave until 2:48”. I just can’t bring myself to feed into Shirley’s flight anxiety, I realize happy wife happy life, but hey, I was only going to be stuck next to her on a plane for 2 hours and 45 minutes what’s the worst that could happen?  Besides there was lots of business time on vacation so what reason did I have to be nice to her?  It was quite obvious there was going to be a large gap between my next business trip regardless of the way I treated my wife.

Her response “ok, but it sure would be nice to visit with Pat and Stan a bit, we are on the porch”

“Jumping in the pool real quick and then I will head up”. (I’m such an asshole)

Now of note is the fact that we were just with Pat and Stan the previous day, so nothing new transpired between our time with them and our return visit prior to the airport so I didn’t see the need to “visit”.  This, in Shirley’s mind confirmed what she has known for quite some time, I’m a selfish asshole.  On top of that, I’m not sure why she felt the need to text me that they were on the porch, they live in a high rise condo, pretty sure I would have found them sooner or later.

To Shirley’s credit she didn’t get on me for being a selfish asshole until we were in the car and on our way to the airport.  We left the condo at 12:30 and Shirley immediately started checking traffic and indicated there were traffic issues on the way to the airport.  I am quite certain I broke the record for fastest trip from Bradenton to Clearwater Airport by at least ten minutes, not because I was worried we were going to miss our flight, but so I could prove Shirley wrong by arriving with a large window of time prior to our flight leaving.  We pulled into the vicinity of the airport at just a hair past one and tried to eat at Chick Filla, but it was Sunday so we had to settle for Wendys.  I should have just hit the drive thru but we went inside, only to find a huge line, the theme from mission impossible started playing in my head and I could see that fuse quickly burning and closing in on igniting the stick of dynamite.  “Lets just go through the drive thru” I hastily said to Shirley.

This is where things could have gone way wrong, and I would have had to hear it from Shirley repeatedly for the rest of my life, probably even in our golden years when we couldn’t stand the sight of one another but also couldn’t stand the thought of being alone.  “Remember that time when we missed our flight from Clearwater because you are a selfish asshole?”  I would likely respond “which time?” Now, it is important to note, the place I got the car from advertised a Toyota Camry (or similar model) with a picture of a brand new Toyota Camry.  Sounded good to me, they are the ugly cousin of a number of Lexus models, I can live with that.  Unfortunately, what we ended up with was a 2014 Hyundai Sonata (I think Sonata is latin for death trap). The thing was a pile of shit, and in the moment when we needed it the most, the key wouldn’t turn in the ignition.  I could see the stick of Dynamite igniting and only having memories of vacation sex to rely on to satisfy my libido.  I was just waiting for Shirley to tell me “this is exactly why we need to leave for the airport four hours ahead of time” but she didn’t and I was able to get the key to turn after 90 of the longest seconds of my life.  We made our way through the drive thru, grabbed some gas, and dropped the car at the offsite rental place.  Unfortunately, the rental place only had one shuttle van and it was operated by the little old lady from Pasadena.  She took her sweet old time getting to the airport, I discovered that everyone in Florida seems to take their sweet old time because the only place they have to go is the after life.

We ended up making it to the airport at roughly 1:45 and made our way to check our luggage.  You would think at this point, having made it to the actual airport the stress level would deescalate, but it only intensified, as if we were in the eye of a hurricane.  Every statement had an air of panic to it, every gesture and action was done with the understanding that when we did miss the plane, which was inevitable, it would be entirely my fault.  There was a check in line that was fast and there was one that was slow.  We jumped in the fast line but were redirected to the slow line because I had brought my water ski and it needed to be checked through the other line.  As we waited in line the panic grew and Shirley became incensed as she attempted to pay for my ski through allegiant’s website (we had already prepaid for our suitcase).  Now what every experienced traveler should realize at this point is that once you have checked in via the allegiant app, which we had, you are getting on the plane, regardless of how long it takes to get your luggage checked.  This was of no significance to Shirley but I remained calm as I typically due in the face of adversity.  Sure enough, “Is there anyone going to Grand Rapids?”  Shirley raised her hand before they even completely enunciated Grand.  We checked our bags and headed to security.   Once again we were one of the last passengers to board the plane and as we approached our assigned seats we were greeted by a really fat guy sitting in the aisle seat, I said to Shirley “You can sit by the window if you want”

“No, you take it, it’s fine.”

What a gal!

 

“Hey dad, who is going to be our new president?”  asked Aiden on our way back home after he and Parker had spent an entire day at Colt Care due to the kids being on winter break.  Parker was slumped over on the arm rest that divided the two of them, sound asleep.

“New president, what do you mean new president?”  I thought he might be wondering who was going to unseat Donald Trump in three years, which seemed a bit advanced for a seven year old.

“Don’t we get a new president, it’s presidents day today.  Is it going to be that women that mom likes?”

“You mean Hillary Clinton?  Don’t go telling your Grandma Jansma that, she is liable to never speak to your mom again.  Unfortunately, your mom was one of the few people who actually liked her which explains why she lost to Donald Trump.  I don’t think she can be president buddy.”

“What about Abraham Lincoln can he be the new president?”

“He’s dead so probably not, but if they exhumed his corpse I am sure he would do a lot better job than our sitting president.”

“Who is going to be the new president then?”

“President’s Day is to celebrate all of our former presidents but at this point is not a platform to put a new president in to office.  Also, on the list of holidays, it falls right between Arbor Day and Columbus Day in terms of significance.”

I’m not entirely sure how my seven year old even found out it was presidents day, and I have no idea why he thought it meant we were going to get a new president, maybe it was wishful thinking on his part, or maybe he just thought you get new shit on Christmas maybe you get a new president on President’s Day.

I mentioned winter break, and Shirley and I had a winter break of our own that was relaxing for the most part, but did have it’s moments of stress, at least for Shirley, and displeasure for myself.  I actually booked our trip to the Tampa area as a postlude to Shirley’s 40th birthday.  What I forgot about Florida is that even I, as I quickly approach the ripe old age of 44 (this Friday) feel like a spring chicken once I enter the state.  While it is great to feel young again, it is utterly depressing to go out to eat and be the youngest couple there by thirty years.  However,  if you go to dinner past 6pm there isn’t much of wait, so I guess we had that going for us.

Of importance is the fact that my kids did not accompany us on this trip, I have been to Florida the past two years with my wife and kids and have never fully appreciated that the average age of a Florida resident is somewhere north of death, I believe this was due largely in part to the gigantic distraction my children can be anytime, but especially on vacation.  I had some grand plans for my Florida trip, hit the driving range, maybe even golf, water ski a couple times, business time a couple times a day.  However, once I realized how nice it was to just hang out by the pool, read a book, and not have to pay attention to anyone, not even my wife because she was immersed in the Harry Potter series, I found it difficult to justify doing any structured activity.

My kids were with my in-laws and we called them a few times as well as face timed them, they showed about as much interest in us as Shirley had in business time twice a day.  Did it make me feel bad?  Hell no, I didn’t miss them either.  I could have easily made it another seven to ten years not seeing them, screw them!  There are a number of reasons my kids didn’t miss me, the primary one being they never hear the word no when they are with my in-laws.  To be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way, I don’t remember my grandparents saying no to me either, (My grandpa Rozema never said anything to me, which was likely more traumatic than him actually saying no to me).  It is a blessing to have someone that we can leave the kids with and know they are in good hands, will it take weeks of deprogramming to get them to the point that they are tolerable?  Of course it will, but that’s a trade off I am willing to make to get away from them.

There was one thing we did on the trip that is a guilty pleasure of mine (it didn’t involve answering a Craig’s list ad and meeting up with another couple with similar “interests”) It was even more shameful than engaging in that type of activity, we went to the Cheesecake Factory. Man do I love that place.  People who live in cities where they have Cheesecake Factories act so damn superior to those who don’t, pretending like the Cheesecake Factory is beneath them because they could eat there 365 days a year (is it open on Christmas?  Well, at least 364 days a year) “I guess we can go to the Cheesecake Factory, if you really want to”  You know deep down they regret making fun of the Cheesecake Factory and are dying to go eat there but can’t because they drew a line in the sand and crossing it, while being quite gratifying, would also be humiliating if any of their friends and relatives who don’t have year round access to the most amazing chain restaurant known to man, found out they ate at such a trivial eating establishment.  And I’ll be honest, I could eat there 365 days a year, there are that many menu options, I guarantee you that no other restaurant has that diverse of a menu.  Mexican, Italian, Asian (without the fear of eating cat disguised as chicken) all under one roof.  I had their meatloaf once and I couldn’t eat it all, not because it wasn’t amazing, because there was so much and it was so filling.  You know how hard it is for a Dutch person not to eat all of their food at a restaurant?  I waddled down Michigan avenue back to my hotel that night in complete and utter regret because I ate too much but didn’t eat enough.

I am convinced that if a Cheesecake factory was to come to West Michigan it would be one of the few that didn’t need to rely on tourists as the primary source of revenue.  Dutch people wouldn’t be able to get enough of the factory, reasonable prices, large portions, incredibly tacky decor.  Love it!  After we hit the Factory we toured the mall that it was attached to and were awe struck.  Let me start out by saying this, it had a Tesla dealership in it.  That right there sent off a warning that pretty much any store in that mall was likely out of my price range.  I have learned that its best not to go into stores in these high end malls if you have little to no familiarity with their product.  This is especially true if there is no one in that store.  Why?  Because, at least in my case, if I go in a store, look at a price tag and it’s ten times the highest price I have ever paid for an item of clothing I have a hard time remaining calm, and usually run out of the store, or at the very least, break into a light jog.  (Not sure why this embarrasses me, because I will never see that retail clerk again, but it does).

They had a Robert Graham store:

This is a Robert Graham shirt I pulled off the internet.  It’s currently for sale at Nordstrom’s for $348.  Now when I went into their store, which admittedly I shouldn’t have, I had an inkling that their shit was expensive but had no idea their clothing cost more than a fun filled night at a high end gentleman’s club, I guess at least you have something tangible when you shop at a Robert Graham store, but that shirt can’t elevate your self esteem as effectively as a high class stripper.  Furthermore, Shirley was with me, and I knew there was no way she would green light a Robert Graham purchase, even if it was on a deep discount.  She had no idea what price range the shirts would fall in and pointed to a shirt she thought was snazzy, as did I.  I fumbled with the shirt and pulled out the price tag only to discover it was going for a reasonable $198.  I made a joke about it to Shirley since we weren’t the only ones shopping in the store as we quickly proceeded to exit the store.  Upon leaving the store Shirley wanted me to assure her that I wouldn’t go and buy a Robert Graham shirt from Nordstrom’s rack just so I could have a Robert Graham shirt.  She constantly tells me there is a reason stuff finds its way to the Rack, and that reason is because no one in their right mind would wear it.  However, to my credit, I have made some amazing finds there, also some mistakes, but the keepers outweigh the items I have never worn prior to donating them to Goodwill.

There was one store I knew wouldn’t be out of my price range, Banana Republic, plus everything in the store was 40% off.  (makes me wonder how much of a profit margin they have on their regularly priced clothing).  I managed to find a pair of pants originally priced at $170 marked down to $82.99 with another 40% to be taken off at the register.  I am no math whizz, but I am pretty sure the price of the pants would get me maybe one of the sleeves on that hideous Robert Graham shirt pictured above.  Furthermore, it was about time my go to Banana Republic slacks (that seems like something my wife’s grandma would say) were supplanted and these were just the pair of pants to do it.  When I was checking out I mentioned to the clerk what a screaming deal the pants were, and in the back of my mind I was wanting to ask her for the names and phone numbers of all the people who paid full price for those pants, so that I could call them and gloat.  Seriously, who pays full price for anything?  Typically when I enter a real store (not TJ Maxx, Marshals, or The Rack) I immediately head for the sale racks without even bothering to look at the the clothes that are not discounted.

While finding such a deal on pants as well as 40% off on three shirts was extremely gratifying, those deals coupled with the stuff Shirley bought at the outlet mall we also visited resulted in our one suitcase being over the specified weight limit by tens of pounds.  The overpacked suitcase, my slalom ski, and Shirley’s desire to be at the airport three hours prior to boarding was hurling us towards  a sequence of potentially catastrophic events………(To Be Continued)