Day 3

(I'm behind in copying these on here because Grandpa Sefcik has no internet...)


9:49pm – it has been a rockin day. We actually got to sleep this morning—quite a surprise. Did some last minute shopping, etc. Highlights of the day below.

The Amazing Italian Food Experience
Walked into a corner market (“Gary’s Italian Market”) to buy lotto tickets. We had to go to this particular market, which comes complete with old-timey Pepsi sign out front, because my mom was friends with the owner back in high school. Of course. Everyone knows everyone in Dover or shares some DNA. It’s impossible to go anywhere there without some kind of connection. We take one step inside the door, and Stacey’s and my noses go into hyper-sniffing overdrive. It smells like Heaven met Nirvana and they decided to have a baby, and my stomach told me that baby was born a meatball. We followed our noses over to the deli counter and pretty much drooled all over everything until the woman (Gary’s wife) came out and started talking to Mom. We must have looked desperate and underfed (it’s true we hadn’t had breakfast) because she gave us each a meatball in the most delicious sauce. After some chit-chat with Gary and Gary’s wife, we got down to brass tacks:

Gary’s Wife: Would you like some meatballs?
Me: Yes, please.
Gary’s Wife: How many would you like?
Me: (eyeing the pan on the stove) How many do you have?
Gary’s Wife: We have 18 that just came out of the oven.
Me: (big smile) Yep. That’ll do.

Let me tell you—those were some beyond delicious meatballs. I wish I could say that I ate all 18. Sadly, I cannot. I did eat five, though, and I have big plans for the rest of them.

Kyleigh and Poopy Pants
My cousin, Mark, and his wife, Shelley, have a more-than-adorable two-year-old daughter named Kyleigh. We only get to see Kyleigh once or twice a year, but she’s the kind of kid who can charm you into giving her total adoration in about two seconds. Kyleigh loves Minnie Mouse and Thomas the Train. I’ve heard, on good authority, that she can name all 300 Thomas the Train characters.

Mom’s been crazy excited about seeing Kyleigh for months now, because she bought Ky a giant stuffed bear that’s 5 feet tall and so squishy you can almost hide inside it. Kyleigh was really enthusiastic about the bear, running from across the room and jumping on him, hugging him, and squealing with laughter when we would move his arms and legs, but she was also excited about another present—a train made out of plastic-structured needlework (it’s hard to describe) and yarn.

A really cool feature of playing with an almost-three-year-old is that she repeats everything she hears. We discovered this when I jokingly said, “Hey Kyleigh, look! It’s an air train!” as I ran the train through the air instead of on the ground. She immediately picked up on it and began running with the train above her head, “air train! air train!” or my favorite, “air choo choo.”

Later on in the night, Stacey decided to get creative and play some games with Kyleigh’s vocabulary. First, she taught Kyleigh to answer “whiskey” when asked what she was drinking in her train-topped sippee cup.

I really should have known that all of this would come around eventually to a horrible nickname for me. Over the years, I have battled against several terrible nicknames, including (for no reasons in particular) “trash can” and “street rat.” Yes, my sister is a bad, bad person. I had the misfortune tonight to choose a seat on the couch where one of the dogs had been licking his foot and had left a wet mark on the material. Knowing this spot was merely saliva, it didn’t faze me—I simply laid down a towel and sat over it. No one else was willing to let the issue rest, however, and came up with the usual teasing that would arise in such a situation (oh, Steph peed her pants, why the towel, etc.). The fly in the ointment was this little talent for repetition that Kyleigh has. Stacey, thinking she was hilarious, I’m sure, pointed at me and said “Stephie poopy pants!” What do you think Kyleigh did? Yes. She pointed at me and said, “Poopy Pants!” Well, I was sunk after that. Everyone was laughing so hard that there’s no way I’ll ever be known as anything other than Cousin Poopy Pants for years.

The (Not So) Memorial Candles
So, this year has been a tough one for my mom’s family. My grandma died in April and my aunt just died in November. This being our first Christmas without them, we decided to light these two candles in remembrance. Now, I was led to believe that there would be some kind of commemoration or something. In other words, it seemed like one of those things that we should all sit up and take notice.

I was surprised but not upset to walk into the kitchen a few hours into the party to find that the candles had already been lit and burning. Actually, I was a little relieved, since I’m not super awesome with pomp and circumstance anyway. They’re both red with some white Christmas-y type decorations on the sides and are identical.

I didn’t feel too much seeing them at the time, and it wasn’t until much later when Mom began discussing the candles that their true meaning shone through.

Mom: (pointing at one candle, then the other) That one is Grandma, and that one is Bobbi.
Uncle Robert: Oh. They don’t look anything like them.
Me: They definitely look related, though, you can tell.

It will surely take years of philosophizing to break down the emotional implications and layers of meaning in this conversation. For now, though, we must be patient.

Day 2

10:33am – So tired. Got to the hotel by 2am last night. Of course, when we said we would be sleeping in, Mom took that to mean that 7:00 was more than acceptable as a wake-up call.
Hearing deficiencies abound in this family.

Mom: He already has Tiff with him.
Dad: Limping? Why is she limping?
Mom: Who’s limping? What are you talking about?

Stacey and I are somewhat concerned with the level of deficiency and dysfunction that the next 10 years will bring. People not sleeping, not hearing, saying the wrong words in general conversation, and dare I mention the constantly changing technology that will surely drive them insane before they naturally get there.

8:43pm -- Drinking and talking at Grandma's old house, which is now Uncle Robert and Aunt Tammie's house. Tiff just told us the most hilarious story of the day. My uncle, who is the former police captain of this town (Dover, OH), called the police on a few kids yesterday.

The crime? Projectile-throwing twinkies and muffins at the house. Yes, people, these are the crimes of Dover, OH.

Apparently, it all began two days ago when Uncle Robert raked the leaves of the next-door neighbor's yard and some kids from down the street jumped in the piles and messed them up. He asked the kids to stop and explained why they were wrong to mess up his hard work, which I'm sure made these middle-schoolers quite peeved. So yesterday, the kids were walking by the house and saw Robert and Tiff inside. Hearing a "thunk" against the side of the house, my uncle ran out to yell at kids for throwing snowballs. Two of the three kids ran away, but the third was quite portly and therefore couldn't make it. After several minutes of grilling the fat kid, the kid was crying and Robert called the police.

Robert: Why were you throwing snowballs at the house?
Kid: We weren't throwing snowballs, I swear!
Robert: What were you throwing?
Kid: Twinkies and muffins, that's all.

In fact, as this exchange was occurring, the kid was stuffing his crying face with twinkies from his bakery bag. The kid's mom got there with the other two and the cops, and this 45-minute affair made the city paper in the crime section. Were the twinkies mentioned? No, but I think we'll all remember the dangers of over-processed pastries.

10:33pm -- Playing Mad Gab. No description needed beyond the video posted here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXa8oqVW8jA

Day 1

11:39am – We are in the car. Finally. It is a shit show. Stacey is slamming herself against her seat, complaining that I did not leave enough room for her to rest her seat back. I didn’t. Mom has already picked up her cell phone and is blabbing away about things we don’t care about, effectively rendering the rest of us silent and bored, since we can neither talk to each other or turn on the radio (she can’t hear if we do). Much to my dismay, in the midst of gloating about getting the good seat, I threw my head back, laughing, to find that my seat is missing a headrest.

Me: Dad! Where’s the headrest?
Dad: What headrest? What are you talking about?
Me: The headrest for this seat. Where is it?
Stacey: hahahahahahahaha
Dad: I don’t know, it’s probably in the garage somewhere.
Me: What?! If we get in a car wreck, I could break my neck. I could get whiplash.
Stacey: Just use this pillow.

While more comfortable, I am fairly positive that a pillow will not save my spine were we actually involved in a crash.

12:01pm – In 22 minutes, we have traveled approximately two miles. Made requisite Barnes & Noble and Panera stops. Stacey, in a fit of pure desperation, shifted the suitcases in the back and can now lean her chair back. I am annoyed.

3:57pm – Calamity has struck. We find ourselves in Bumblefuck, TN. Shell gas station parking lot. The food is gone. Mom is about to begin driving after recently engaging in a brief but loud altercation with Stacey. Tensions are high.
Mom: What is wrong with this seat? I can’t drive—this seat is broken.
Dad: What the hell are you talking about? Get—get out of that seat.
Mom: This is just ridiculous.
Dad: It’s not broken (hits the seat for good effect)
Mom: I can’t drive like this.
Dad: (gets in his seat) My seat won’t move. It’s broken.
Mom: How come you broke both of these seats?
Dad: Me? Who was just sitting here? You broke this. Do you hear this girls? She says she didn’t break it—she was the only one sitting in this seat.
Mom: Well, maybe you jammed this one and now you jammed that one.
Dad: I didn’t touch this one.
Mom: Maybe you’re the problem.
Dad: Well, maybe you’re the problem. Give me that damn pillow.

My naiveté abounds. Silly me, I expected to escape pre-adolescent arguments, but alas, I forgot that our family is dysfunctional on road trips.

I did not realize until this hour the degree to which a person needs a headrest. I feel nauseous, but is that really surprising? Stacey continues to gloat. Mom and Dad continue to discuss whose fault the quasi-malfunctioning seats are.

We are moving again. God help me. Is it too late to go to Jamaica?

The Gum Incident:
Apparently Mom has no qualm with distributing gum to the driver—her reluctance lies entirely in the unwrapping of the gum. Result: a five minute argument in which Dad, driving, is holding a piece of gum in his hand, and Mom, passenger, refuses to unwrap it. This one is simply over (or under) my head and begs the question, is this the beginning of senility?

Stacey Writes
Oh dear god. Stephanie is now driving and it is a COMPLETE SHITSHOW. Mom is in the backseat, can’t hear anything, and is just spouting madness. I think at this point she’s just talking because she likes the sound of her voice. Let me go back to the beginning of this takeover. After dinner, dad and I went out to the car to attempt to fix the fuse that mom blew when she broke both front seats. Dad began this procedure by looking under the driver’s seat for the fuse box and then when unable to find it, thought that under the hood was the next best place.

Stacey: Why are you looking under the hood?
Dad: I can’t find the damn thing.
Stacey: Where does it say it is?
Dad begins reading from the book “In the passenger seat footwell…
Stacey: Passenger seat, Dad.

Anyhow. Skipping to the situation at hand. Steph started driving after dinner and missed the fact that we were supposed to be getting onto 71. After driving for about ten minutes she asked whether or not we were supposed to be getting on 31. This of course raised much debate and when we realized that she had in fact missed 71, complete panic followed. Dad was the worst offender. He immediately gave the battle cry that everyone turn on their phones and start mapping! Mom started reading out directions and continued reading them even after we knew where to go. She has also become quite obsessed with words with friends. If you don’t play a word within five seconds she will repeatedly tell you that she went and it’s your turn. I blame Stephanie. She created a monster.