Ask My Kids I: Conflict Resolution

Some days I just can't find words to express how much I love my kids. They make me laugh 'til my sides hurt.

I was having a little trouble last week with my plans for traveling to the UK. First off, as you know, our housing arrangement in London fell through. S & I decided we're going to stay in a hostel. I told my kids. They think I'm insane. They insist I'm going to be robbed, raped, and strangled with my own intestines. They are genuinely concerned for my health and well-being. Of course, this all stems from the movie "Hostel" which they have seen and take to be Gospel truth.

A few days later, S emailed me and said her roommate, Tara, wanted to come on the trip with us. The more, the merrier, I always say, so Tara bought a ticket. The following day, we had a three-way conference call to discuss our plans. S and I had already decided we'd stay for a week in London, then spend a week in Dublin. We're both seasoned travelers and prefer spending more time in fewer places to rushing all around the countryside, so two weeks, two cities suited both of us fine.

Well, five minutes into our phone call, Tag-a-Long (which shall henceforth be the roommate's pseudonym) starts to whine about wanting to go to Paris. I've already been to Paris, and to be frank, I wouldn't cry if I never went back, but what bothered me about Tag-a-Long's little Detour de France was that it would add well over $500 to our expenses (each) and take time away from our stays in England and Ireland. Even that didn't annoy me nearly as much as her basic violation of vacation etiquette -- when you invite yourself on a trip and people are gracious enough to take you on, you do not whine about the itinerary. As a final straw, she insisted that she wanted to go to Paris because she'd never been there before. Unfortunately for her, that doesn't hold much water when you've never been anywhere before! I firmly believe everyone should travel, no matter who they are or what their station is in life. That doesn't mean I like traveling with rookies.

I tried to be diplomatic with her, but by the time we got off the phone I was seething mad. Naturally, the next day I told my kids. I asked them what conflict resolution suggestions they had. Their responses were as follows:

• "Aw, man, Miss G. You shoulda callt me! I'da come ovah there 'n busted her in'a face straight up!"
  
  
• "Naw, look, doh. Here's whatcha do, doh. She all like 'I wanna goda Paris" and you go "Fine. We goda Paris witchou. Da's coo. Butchou payin'.'"
  
  
• "She can't come 'round like that bustin' up y'all's trip! Tell her she can stay the f*ck home! She ain't invited!"
  
  
• "No, mira, Miss G, she ain't been like nowhere, right? So she don't know. So you jus' get to London and go like 'Wow, isn't Paris great? It's like so beautiful here in Paris.' And she won't wanna look, ya know, stupid, so she'll be like 'O yeah, it's so cool.' And she'll never know. Maybe pay somebody to like come up and pretend to speak French to her. That's what I would do."
  
  
• "No, see, here we go. I got 'is, doh. You tell ya friend 'Okay, since you bringin' somebody on 'a trip, Imma bring somebody too.' And 'en we all go witchou!"

Remarkably, their advice actually helped me a great deal. I didn't take any of it, but I did have a chance to cool off and see the humor in the situation. The actual way I'm solving this conflict is thus: If Tag-a-Long really wants to go to Paris, she can go ahead, and I'll just hang back in London on my own. S can do whatever she wants too. We're all big girls.

Spring Break Phase II: The Photo Recap

Even on vacations, I still seek to expand my mind. This time, I learned the difference between herons and egrets: there is no difference between herons and egrets. Just as I suspected! Here's a great white heron (also called a great egret) perched near our boat at Burnt Store Marina.




I will never get over sailboats. I love them. And true love lasts a lifetime.




This osprey had to be my favorite of the thousands of birds I saw this week. He literally sat on this branch for over an hour making funny faces and letting me as close to him as the terrain would allow.




"The Little Fisherman" -- another shot to add to my "Strangers' Kids" collection.




Heading to the beach at Boca Grande to play in the sun and people-watch.

Click any pic for a link to my Flickr page.

A Recent Development

So, as fate would have it, the bloke who S and I were going to crash with for two weeks in London a) doesn't (and won't) have a place of his own and is therefore unable to put us up, and b) won't even be in London for more than a couple days while we're there. That was a right good spot of planning, wasn't it?

No need to panic, but as the plane tickets have already been purchased, we can't simply reschedule. Instead, we'll be hoboing it in hostels and on park benches and such. Not a total disaster, but it does mean that I'll be attempting to survive for two weeks with only the contents of a small backpack.

Who knows? Maybe this will open doors to as yet unforeseen adventures. Wish me luck!

(I'm glad I still have a couple months to sort out exactly what not to pack. If you happen to be one of my faithful UK readers, please don't hesitate to offer suggestions. Thanks Ta!)

Spring Break Phase II: Livin' the Rough Life

After exhausting myself skiing, I need to go on an actual spring break to someplace with pools, palm trees, and lots of rum. The only logical solution is to go visit my aunt and uncle for a bit. They've recently finished constructing their dream home in Florida -- a lavish little number oriented around a graceful lanai. The front of the house opens up entirely to the lanai and faces a little canal, where the folks can conveniently pop down the dock for a little bout on their modest yacht. I'm sitting in the lanai at the moment, watching the sailboats passing, listening to the little frogs in the palm trees, sipping on a Rum Runner.

And snickering to myself about the snow that's still piled high at home.

I may live from paycheck to paycheck in the bitter North, but that doesn't mean I can't take advantage of my better-to-do relations in the Tropics.



For the next few days, I intend to do very little. When I return to work, we only have two months left in the year, and it'll be a mad rush to graduation. Once summer starts, my shenanigan schedule is packed from the first of June until Labor Day. So this little pause is a welcome Calm before the Storm.

Spring Break! Phase I

Dating a college student comes with a unique set of complications. While other women get hurt and huffy when their menfolk work 'til 5:30 or 6 (primarily because dinner's gotten cold), my Mr Right is in class until 10:30 in the evening at least twice a week. Other days, he's home before noon but barricaded into a corner by Statics & Structures, The Physics of Soil Composition, and fifteen volumes of Basic Real Estate Law. Leaving work at "the office" is a laughable impossibility. When he does make an honest attempt to get everything done at the library, he ends up in the library until midnight. If he brings it home, he spends all day Saturday hunched over the my Mac typing papers or doing the infamous CAPA problems. In short, it's not really the boozin' good time that I remember college being. This isn't exactly Boyfriend's fault. Given that he's completing six years worth of study in four years worth of all-nighters, he does a pretty remarkable job of managing a cumbersome load of responsibility, but he does stray precariously close to the All-Work-No-Play Zone on a regular basis.

Just when I think I can't take it anymore, he gets his Spring Break.



Spring break is a time-honored festival for high school and college students alike. They shake off the winter doldrums, go to Cancun, and spend a week throwing back shots of tequila diet Cokes*, listening to Jimmy Buffet, and getting sun-burned.

At least, that's my idea of a proper spring break, especially when it's still snowing in Michigan at the end of March. (Curse you, Global Climate Change! shaking fist at ozone layer)

Of course, Boyfriend's idea of a proper spring break is 180° different from mine. He insists on spending the week on the side of a snow-covered mountain, with brief but frequent breaks to play poker and drink brewskies. Nothing about this strikes me as "springy", but I go along anyway because I'm a pretty respectable poker player and I really do love to ski.



The fine art of downhill skiing is a new addition to my little Bag'o'Tricks. I went for the first time last year, but I haven't gotten in much practice this season due to the lingering effects of The Sickness. In the last couple of months, I've finally been feeling 100% and hearing the sweetly tempting call of The Slopes.

Skiing is the perfect sport because in it one finds the delicate balance between ecstasy and terror. On the one hand, you zip downhill with the wind in your hair and the snow crunching under your skis, all your being focused on carving your sassy way down the mountain. On the other hand, you could be killed or maimed at any moment. For a rookie skier, every run presents at least a dozen obstacles that might lend themselves to your untimely demise. If I had known how awesome it was, I wouldn't have waited so long to try it.

It's my duty to report that on this particular trip, I conquered my first Double Black Diamond -- a steep, narrow run lined by trees and littered with jumps (both excellent candidates for bringing Death and/or Maiming). I am told that I have chutzpah. Fortunately, Boyfriend and I both managed to cheat Fate and return home with all appendages attached, brains safely stashed in skulls, and only a few bumps and bruises.



After his brief sabbatical into the Land of the Living, Boyfriend is now buried back under his pile of books, and I'm packing my bags again. Next week, I head to Florida for my actual spring break, and I'm looking forward to some much-needed face time with Mr Sunshine.


*Part of my continuing campaign to be a positive role model for the impressionable youth. How am I doing?