Never Ending Story

Today is the last day of the worst vacation ever. So far,  the sky nearly fell on me, I escaped a near poisoning, and I might be returning to Vancouver with a travelling salesman. That's just the gist of it all.

When last I wrote, I was down with a wretched stomach flu that was doing more rounds about town than Wee Willie Winkie. Every one from the town crier to the village idiot had fallen victim to this nasty bug. My poor five year old, Lanes, was up chucking for at least a week.

Staying put seemed like a good plan during most of our holiday, but my mother was getting some construction done at the house. Lanes was in between bouts of vomiting, happily stringing along some beads to make a dapper dolphin necklace for her grandfather in not so masculine pastel shades of  pink and lilac, and I was huddled on the floor next to her trying to figure out how to use my phone. Yes, I'm challenged that way sometimes.

Suddenly, I felt like someone was beating my back.Water was oozing from the roof, and straight onto me. And just me. Like a bulls eye! I mean someone might as well have peered in from above and cut a hole and targeted me specifically.

Lanes and I were under a ceiling fan that was on full speed like a stationary helicopter and I screamed and squealed like a pig being chased.  By that time Lanes, who had no idea why her crazy mother was flailing about, decided she had to join in the frantic squawking and jumping about I was doing while hustling to get her out of the room.

I had an instant fear of electrocution and electrical appliances falling from ceilings. Some theatre is really missing a drama queen. Maybe I should audition for something when we get back to Canada. I do need to find employment after all.

My trip has been fraught with events such as this, although it was peppered with fun events like birthday parties and a weekend trip with friends and family. One the days Lanes was not sick, I woke up with a rash on my arms that stung and itched. 

I looked like I wrestled with a giant angry octopus that was trying  to knock some sense into me. This had to flare up at its worst during our weekend trip to the beach with family and friends. I knew from the alarmed look on my friends faces that my upper arms, which I could not see without a mirror due to my lack of flexibility (one of my many charming attributes), were a ghastly sight.

Luckily for me, my nutty sister who pretends she is a doctor of medicine, got tired of me floating around the house in a cloud of melancholy claiming to have the plague. Before I started googling my symptoms and prophesying doom, she took matters into her own hands.

She dragged me to the pharmacy and medicated me with much delight. The pharmacist is probably still sitting with his mouth open. I begrudgingly have to admit that although I thought she was trying to bump me off to get custody of Lanes, I am rash free--for the moment.

Meanwhile, my super efficient, airline mile savvy spouse, P, realized we had some frequent flyer miles that were about to expire and he exchanged them for vouchers to a spa.

My maternal aunt and I were rather excited about it, and considering the time I was having, I opted for a stress relief massage.  We were going to get our treatments done with P, hoping to leave Lanes under the care of my sister and her children. Sadly, they got the stomach flu too, and I was about to cancel to hang out with Lanes!

P felt sorry for me because I couldn't catch a break on this trip because I was more or less home bound so he changed his appointment time and my aunt and I were dropped off and instructed to have a good time. In our heads we were going to luxuriate and relax in plush surroundings.

However, we were placed in an Aryuvedic hospital! We gingerly did surveillance on the place, with it's lack of air conditioning, open doors and windows and dim natural lighting. We were petrified of being chased my mosquitoes given the surroundings (due to dengue scares) and we were not so keen when we nosily peeked into treatment rooms. To make matters worse, we were told we had to see a doctor!

We sat in the waiting room, my aunt with her purse on her lap and her eyes wide open and eyebrows up so high, she was able to see from the back of her head. She sat in stunned silence and I finally voiced what we were both thinking--we needed to break out. We called P to put a feeler to see if we could get a refund on our vouchers.

P, ever matter of fact, told us we were there for an Aryuvedic treatment, not some sort of fancy nancy spa experience and that we should basically just zip it and enjoy it. Rightly put in our place, we pasted ourselves to each other and went for our consultation together.

We were then separated and any hopes of absconding where put to rest. I was taken to a darkened room, with a lonesome wooden window and one leather bed. I felt a little like I was in the prison room from some archaeological site.

I decided to stop thinking of mosquitoes and worrying about the stuff that looked like mud on my hair. I was dreading having to wash my hair there because I can't deal with public washrooms--so many mental issues at such a young age. 

As I was finally letting go of my anal retentive nature, suddenly some hot seeds were placed on my back. After twenty minutes of feeling like a cow that was being branded, I left feeling more stressed than when I came in. So much for that.

Meanwhile, my native vocabulary being as rudimentary as my surroundings, I had been referring to my aunt as my mother-in-law the entire time we were there. They must have thought us to be a rather odd pair. 

That night, after several failed attempts to wash the gunk from the massage out of my hair, I went for a meal with a good college buddy smelling a little like the spice rack at an Indian buffet. Rather used to my uncanny knack for getting into situations, he was kind enough to enjoy the story and ignore the odor. 

We had the craziest waiter on the planet. I asked for a chicken burger and he asked me if I wanted it well done. I was rather confused, because the menu said it came with a side of fries, not salmonella.

I reiterated to him that I don't eat cows, on account of them being cute and all, and so I would prefer the chicken to be well done, feathers off and so and so forth.  

I didn't want to wind up in the hospital. He batted on, asking me if I was sure I didn't want the chicken medium done and if it's ok if it was hard and well done. I felt afraid at that point, and I thought perhaps the fumes from my Aryuvedic treatment were causing me to misunderstand the situation. Sadly, my friend was equally alarmed.

That should have been my clue to order something else. Five minutes later he presented me with an orange juice instead of the iced coffee I asked for and eventually when I got the burger, it tasted weird (perhaps it was in my head) and I ate the fries and an ice cream to fill myself up.

The manager came over and asked if we liked our meals and I said the chicken burger was not to my liking, and then he asked me if I had a problem because it was well done! At this point, it was too much for my confused brain and my friend chimed in 'but it's CHICKEN!'.

I spent the rest of the night queasy and my stomach was in pain and I was back to having an upset stomach. I snapped out of it quick fast because just when everyone else in the house was recovering from the stomach flu, I was chasing Lanes to eat an omelette in the morning when I found she had red bumps all over her arms and feet. To make it worse her poop was green!

I was turning all colors of the rainbow and a lighter shade of pale at the same time.I wish I was one of them fainting dames. I could have used the time out.

I was so engrossed in Lanes that I forgot to call friends I promised to meet. While I was fluttering around nagging my only child, P, ever on the pulse of getting things done, decided we should hand carry some of the ornaments and glassware we left behind because we had some extra luggage allowance.

I was left to fret and fume and bubble wrap like it's 1999. When the bags go through the scanners we're going to look rather like travelling salespeople. I told P if we are taking 24 wine glasses, he is to drink from each and every one to justify their transport.

All we need is to have a tiny monkey wearing a vest and fez clanging some cymbals to herald our arrival. I really feel rather stressed about the entire episode. The customs people are going to think we are eccentric at best.

It doesn't help that Lanes has been having rather unusual bowel movements (sorry future Lanes--this justifies you wanting to put me away). I'm sure I'll go on to do and say far more embarrassing things. 

Other than that, few hours to departure, I slashed my arm shoving stuff into a suitcase. I really think now is a good time to start drinking--if only I didn't have a bum liver. I feel rather anxious about flying in a couple of hours. Please send good vibes our way and hopefully the next blog will be from BC...