I just got back from the Wisconsin Dells, and I fully expected to have a disaster to tell you about. Often I wonder when I write these missives if I’m actually making my life more prone to physical injury and personal disaster just by writing them. And am I making bad things happen just by tempting fate with these little tales?
Nah. Not if this weekend is any indication. This time fate bizarrely stepped in to make every part of the story better. Strange, but true.
Well, close to true. I have to make these interesting.
It started well. Went out Sunday in the morning to no traffic. All the way to the Dells it was smooth sailing. Got there an hour before check in, bought some new aqua socks, checked out the Big Wolf, or whatever it is called and decided it will be the next one, and checked to see if the German restaurant downtown was open (it wasn’t).
Got to the Kalahari at check in of 11:00 a.m. and registered. My reservation was not lost (very un-Captain-y) and I was invited to enjoy the waterpark until my room was ready. “Use any house phone,” the front desk lady said, “and ask about your room.”
OK, said I. I grabbed my swimming garb and pranced toward the indoor waterpark. I purchased a locker for the day and noticed in the locker room…no private changing stalls.
I’ve told you how I hate changing in public or even semi-public spaces, right?
So I sneak off, like a fricking seven year old, to the toilets…nab the handicapped stall. Lots of room. I begin to change and I’m thinking, here we go. The Captain will rise up out of this toilet and pull me in somehow.
Closed the lid. Disaster averted.
I’m kind of ticked off about changing–I paid $160 for a darn room afterall–but I soldier on. I get on a number of slides, but some are for “two or more” again, so I’m getting a little frumpy. After about two hours, I’m tiring and decide to seek out a house phone.
I can’t find the thing anywhere. I can actually feel the Captain breathing on my neck…but alas I find one. My room is ready. A deep sigh of relief. The Captain vaporizes…
I get to the locker and change back…well as much as I can. I go to the front desk and the lady there says, “Congratulations! We’ve given you a free upgrade.”
“Oh.” I answer waiting for the catch. The free upgrade costing $20. Or the lecture on time-shares I have to endure. Or…
“No catch.” Front Desk people apparently can read my mind.
“I’m all alone. Couldn’t they give it to a family? I don’t really need it.”
“We’ve upgraded almost everyone today. Just enjoy it.”
Never tried that before. Guess I’ll give it a try. I march down the hallway to the secret door I need to swipe my key on. The pad says “For Royal Suites Only.” I, of course, figure this must mean “Royally Screwed Up” or something. I looked behind me and saw the ghostly shape of the Captain appear in my shadow.
I get to the room, gulp, and swipe the key. My shadow disappeared.
This suite has 1 king bed, 2 queens, 2 bathrooms (separated by a door), a natural gas fireplace, 2 televisions and a couch (with sofa sleeper.) And it was immaculate.
As I move the car nearer the hotel entrance I am now near, I pop open the cell phone. “Ma, Dad; you have to see this.”
Dad responds, “Okay. I’ll pack the bags.”
I leave the room and realize I locked the key card in the room.
I see out of the corner of my eye the Captain doing some kind of Irish Riverdance thing.
Just as I realize this, a maintenance guy walks by. “Hey, I just locked my key in my room. Can you help me?”
He answers, “Well, why did you do that?”
“Because I’m, like, really stupid.”
They notice my clothes and deftly agree. “How do we know this is your room?”
“Who else would have clothes like these in their suitcase?”
The Captain, discouraged, sighs.
As I wait for them to drive up, I walk over to the Damon’s next door and grab a bite to eat. I peruse the menu and find myself wieghing the $12 pork chops or the $19 filet mignon. After some going back and forth with my remarkable cheapness, I decide to go for it and order the 9 oz. filet mignon.
Ever eat alone? Every minute stretches to 13 times it’s normal size. So I was growing impatient when the waitress comes with my lunch. There was a pile of onion straws, some strange green substance (she referred to as a “vegetable”–whatever that is), and what appeared to be a scrawny pancreas in the center.
I squinted at it. Peering, I got the waitress’s attention, “Uh, miss?”
“Yes?”
“Does that look like 9 oz. to you?”
She very deftly said, “Hmmm. I think I’ll have the chef take a look at this.” She scoops up the meal. Another five minutes pass, or using my formula, 65 lonely minutes–and the waitress returns with the meal–as is. “It weighed in at 5 ounces,” she announced.
I blinked. The Captain had joined me for a round of Coca-Cola.
“The manager,” she continued, “will be right with you. We have a new steak on the grill, but please feel free to eat this…”
So I felt free.
Two minutes later (26 in the new math), the manager drops by my booth and plops herself down next to me. Had she been attractive, I probably wouldn’t have minded but as the situation was, she was taking her personal safety into disregard. I did have pointed utensils in my hand and I just discovered I was paying $4/ounce for steak.
“I’m ashamed to say that came out of my kitchen,” was her start. All I could think was, “I don’t blame you,” but I just kept kind of eating. I was hungry already.
“It was actually only 5 ounces, but we have a new one on the grill and we’ll have that out here for you–okay?”
“Fine. I’m not going anywhere.” Thinking back, that was probably more of a threat than it was intended to be.
Later, forty some lonely minutes later, she sat back down. Apparently she doesn’t get enough breaks and has to keep sidling up to me. Again, if only she were cuter. “Ah, bit of bad news…”
I’m thinking, “For who?” Again, I shut up.
“We don’t have any more Filet Mignon back there. Is there anything else on the menu…?”
I’m thinking this 5 oz. actually kind of filled me up so I’ll be escaping without a doggie bag. This is kind of cool. “Actually, I’m okay.”
“I’ll tell you what,” she states like a used car dealer, “your lunch is on me. Why don’t you choose a dessert, too?”
I was really ambivalent about the whole thing. I was so upset I nearly couldn’t finish my Apple Cobbler, but I soldiered on. I got the check for $2.11. I gave the waitress $10, and instructed her to keep the change or whatever and left. I figured that 5 oz. was roughly half of 9 oz. so this seemed about right. At least, I’d be able to sleep knowing I spent that much on it. Seemed fair.
My parents come and we go to the waterpark. I had pleaded with the front desk and they coughed up two more waterpark passes and an extra key. Had a blast and we went back the next morning.
First thing in the morning, I went on this surf “Waveblaster” deal. It shoots water up a special hill to simulate the perfect wave.
The Captain was watching from the distance.
I hop on this boogie board or whatever and I drape my arms over the top of it. I’m laying down on it, obviously. I slide down the hill and off the end. They push me back in, like a beached whale, and I slip around some more. They then tell me I have to have the board out in front of me more. So now my trunks are right in the water flow. With the super powerful jets.
The Captain inches forward.
I notice, pull my trunks back up and safely dismount.
Captain throws down his coconut drink and stomps off.
Then I tried the “Pro Bowl.” You go down this slide and they leave you spinning around the big bowl. When you run out of lateral kinetic energy, you drop through a hole in the center of the bowl six feet into a nine foot pool.
The Captain even helped me up the steps this time.
I spin around this bowl and helplessly notice I’m going out the hole, but not feet first. Not even some sideways configuration.
Head first. SPLASH!
The Captain is handing the life guard some soda. He’s distracting him.
Somehow, I swim up–without much drama–and get out of the pool.
The Captain is clearly not understanding this.
We check out–again without incident–and we go to Ho-Chunk. My parents are teasing me because no “Captain-like” incident has occurred. I stated a desire to try my luck.
So I did. I plunked $1.00 (cash) into the video poker machine. About a dozen hands later, after landing a straight and a full house within three hands of each other, cashed out with $1.15.
Oh, yeah. I teased the cashier and told her she might need to call a manager over to approve the payout. Without missing a beat, she said, “Would you like me to call security and have them escort you to your car?”
I thought, that happens all right but not with these circumstances.
A great weekend. I just wonder what the Captain has in store for me next time. I’m a little scared. See–I’m judging the Miss New Berlin/Miss West Allis thing next week . . .