Sweet Home Alabama

This week, I will be reporting live from Ono Island, Alabama. When I tell people we are going to the beach, in Alabama, many people ask: Alabama has beaches? Yes, it does.

There is a 26 mile stretch of pristine sugar-sand beach along the southern tip of Alabama on the Gulf of Mexico. Dubbed “The Redneck Riviera” it is a haven for snow birds and family with second (and in some cases third) homes. Someone alert Candy Evans.

We, of course, stay at the Tackett Tern. I just love the cute and clever names of the houses on the island. There is my favorite, The Shangri-La, an Asian-inspired beach house, and The Lone Star. The Lone Star is owned by a Texas resident and retired one star general. See what I mean? Cute and clever…

Speaking of the Lone Star, everywhere I go, I see Texas cars. Ono Island, Orange Beach, Perdido Key, and Gulf Shores look like a suburb of Dallas (with sunburn and floating flip flops, but a little slice of the Metroplex, no less). Dallasites are everywhere.

Many of the homes in the area were destroyed by Hurricane Ivan. They were demolished, re-built, and almost all were redecorated. I will be posting some pictures and reports on that later in the week, as well as some shopping destinations to check out. After the storm, a real estate frenzy drove prices up 2-3 times of pre-storm values. With the credit crunch, though, things have stabilized. This means on thing: BARGINS. This area has increased in value over 500% in the last 15 years. Those wanting a second home, or income from rental properties…look no farther.

It’s an easy drive, about 10.5 hours, and after fourteen grueling years of marriage, fourteen blissful years of marriage, okay, just fourteen years of marriage, I could do it in my sleep. Jump to read the “blow by blow” of our most recent family trip.

The Trophy Husband issued a series of edicts governing our trip. No dogs. The Spawn only gets one suitcase. Driver chooses the music. We will only stop twice. And, we would be leaving no later than 5 a.m. Using my handy conversion calculator of Trophy Husband time, I knew this meant 7. (He says, I’ll be home for dinner at 6, that means 8. My flight arrives at 4, that means 6, etc.)

Our first attempt had us backing out at 5:45 a.m. The Starbuck’s closest to our house wasn’t open…the baristas were late, and scrambling to open. We visited another Starbuck’s, and this one was a bit slow. We merged onto 635 at 6:30 a.m.

As we passed the Land of Gar, the Trophy Husband said to me, “Wifey, did you get my black bag?” His black bag is equivalent of a 747’s black box. It’s really nothing more than a man purse (a term that the causes the Trophy Husband to bristle).

His man purse holds his Blackberry, wallet (a wad of plastic and bills), and other accoutrements which keep the Trophy Husband in a manner of which he has been accustomed. We exited, and discovered, halfway through Mesquite, that the black bag man purse was MIA.

We headed back to The Dream House. I viewed this serendipitous turn of events as a sign from God. As the Trophy Husband scurried around trying to locate his man purse, I quickly gathered Lola, the Chihuahua, her crate, bed, beanie babies, toys, etc. Lola has her needs after all… What Lola wants, Lola gets.

At last, at straight up 7 a.m., we backed out of the driveway for real. Family Road Trip. I told you so.

Everything was fine until we rolled into Shreveport. They opened one of those new roadside Starbuck’s. I insisted we stop. The Trophy Husband pouted, but Lola was able to # 1 there on the side of the road, thus amazing and challenging all Louisiana dogs in perpetuity.

We stopped in Natchitoches (pronounces NAK-EH-TISH) for fuel, and for “meat pies” a Cajun delicacy filled with mystery meat, and for Lola to # 2.

I took over driving. The Spawn was quiet. In her third piece of luggage, she stuffed every possible piece of electronics for her backseat perch. About halfway down the state, she came to life. She fidgeted, watched “The Office” Season 1 on DVD, played some DS games, etc. And then, she suggested we play an alphabet game. She would name a city, state, country, or continent, and we would have to take the last letter of the submission of the previous player, and have to come up with another place starting with that letter. I decided not to play, but to be a “consultant” for the game.

The Spawn knows only 4 “e” entries: Europe, Euless, Ennis, and Enid. The Trophy Husband continued to offer only “e” ending submissions, which frustrated The Spawn. She suggested that we play “free style” and “with duplicates” a motion which was not carried by the Trophy Husband. Finally after several more abortive attempts to identify another “e” place, blurted out, “Dad, YOU SUCK.”

Now, let’s pause for a moment. Disrespectful? Yes. Inappropriate? Yes. I immediately recognized this for what it was: A Teaching Moment.

Most of my parenting skills came from listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and sometimes Young, which may not bode well for society, but even I know you have to nip this kind of behavior in the bud.

The Trophy Husband said something like: That’s so rude. You shouldn’t say your Dad ‘sucks.’ You shouldn’t say anything ‘sucks.’ I can’t believe you did that…I’m really offended. My feelings are hurt…

I was concentrating on the road people, my hands in perfect ten and two position. The Trophy Husband looked to me for some back up. As his parental wing-“man,” I often have to step into these little fracases…

I said something like, well exactly like, “Dear Spawn, it’s not nice to say your father ‘sucks’…EVEN IF IT’S TRUE…” The remainder of my teaching moment was aborted as the Trophy Husband with swift and deadly accuracy, reached across our family car to THUMP me on the ear. Anyone wishing to file a domestic abuse report on my behalf should contact the Hammond, LA police department, the scene of the crime.

I retaliated under the “driver picks the music” edict with a mixed CD of disco music for the next three and a half hours. The Spawn and I had several duets, wrapping our set with “We are Family.”

The Trophy Husband threatened to jump from the passenger window in Gautier (pronounced GO-CHAY), Mississippi, and was furiously texting his little friends, who in turn texted me, begging to eject the disco. When we stopped for gas, I was able to safely respond to their pleas. Apologize, and the disco dies.

Finally, as we crossed the Alabama state line, forced contrition, was forthcoming. I let him listen to Coldplay. All in all, I would say it was a successful journey.