The family decided we should take a trip in the motorhome. I say “the family” because it was a group decision; I voted “no, I don’t feel like spending my vacation emptying the poop tank in the RV,” while the rest of the family voted “yes, it’s not a fun vacation unless dad is dealing with our poop.” Democracy sucks, and I soon found myself piloting the 10-ton toilet with wheels that I call a motorhome southbound, heading to beautiful smog-smothered Southern California.
The family wanted to go to Disneyland, but the economy said otherwise—to get the four of us into the park was going to cost 600 big ones. So, instead of Disneyland, we decided to hit the other SoCal theme parks that dwell in the shadow of the mighty mouse ears. Our first stop on our motorhome vacation landed us at Legoland, the theme park based on the popular building blocks. At Legoland, my children spent most of the day reminding me “this isn’t like Disneyland.”
“I know, Honey, but look, they made a huge version of the Golden Gate Bridge out of Legos. Isn’t that cool?”
“Yeah, but I’d rather go on Space Mountain.”
To keep our trip on the inexpensive side, we ate all of our meals in the RV and camped at California State Parks along the coastline. Four people living in a small space can get a bit cramped and patience wears thin. I didn’t mind it much, since for whatever reason I don’t have the ability to notice the smell of my own socks. But my wife, whom I love, wasn’t enjoying the motorhome vacation as much as the rest of us, mostly because she needs her alone time—which is absolutely nonexistent in an RV—and because she cooked and cleaned the entire time she was aboard the 10-ton toilet with wheels.
Mom really lost her cool on night two after we spent the entire day at the San Diego Zoo walking uphill and listening to our kids say, “This isn’t like Disneyland.” My wife was trying to make a salad, and the kids and I were rummaging around the motorhome getting in her way. After working very hard slicing veggies, she set a huge salad bowl on the table. Because we were in her way she told us to “get out of the motorhome and I’ll call you when dinner is ready!” I could tell by her voice she wasn’t kidding. I told the kids to get their shoes on because we were going for a walk. This, of course, was met with 50 questions.
“Where are we going?”
“We are going anywhere but here. Mom needs some space.”
“But I’m hungry.”
“I know. That’s why we are leaving: so Mom can cook dinner.”
“This isn’t like Disneyland.”
“Get out of the motorhome! Mom is slicing tomatoes; let’s leave before she cuts one of us!”
Because it was pitch black outside, I needed a flashlight. I quickly opened an upper cabinet above the table, forgetting the cardinal rule about motorhomes—everything in every cabinet has shifted during the drive. I foolishly failed to check to make sure nothing was going to fall out of the cabinet and opened the door quickly. Sure enough, the heavy D battery flashlight I was looking for dropped right out. It fell three feet, did a perfect pirouette, and then hit the salad bowl right on the edge, flipping the bowl over and sending lettuce, fresh cut tomatoes, onions, peppers, bleu cheese chunks, and dressing all over the motorhome. As I saw the salad fly through the air, I knew I was a dead man.
I looked over at my wife, and she hadn’t seen what I had done. As fast as I could, I began to grab lettuce chunks and throw them back into the bowl—maybe she would never know. But, of course, one of the kids ratted me out: “Uh oh, Dad just spilled dinner.” My wife saw me sliding the salad remains off the edge of the table back into the bowl. She absolutely lost her mind.
“What are you doing!? That table isn’t clean! You’re ruining the salad I just spent an hour preparing in this damn motorhome. Do you know how hard it is to make a salad in a motorhome kitchen? How did this happen?”
“It was an accident! The flashlight … .”
“I don’t care! Get out! You and the kids get out of here!”
The kids and I scattered out of the motorhome. We hung our heads in shame as we walked along the beach looking for seashells and answers. I kept listening to hear if the RV started and drove off without us. Luckily for us, Mom hates driving the motorhome more than she hates cooking in it. Eventually, we were allowed back in and we ate dinner as a family. It was a quiet dinner, as you could guess.
The next day I got to do my favorite vacation thing: empty the black tank. We headed to Knott’s Berry Farm, where my kids had the opportunity to use their new favorite catch phrase: “This isn’t like Disneyland.”
Mom got mad at all of us again during another motorhome meal because somebody spilled a soda (it wasn’t me this time). Then, to top it all off, I enjoyed the pleasure of driving in L.A. commute traffic with an 8-foot-wide RV in a 7-foot-wide lane. And what thanks did I get for driving us home after a long day at a theme park?
The kids said, “Next year, I want to go to Disneyland.”
My wife said, “Next year, we’re getting a hotel.”
I said, “Next year, I’m going to watch television on my vacation. You guys have a great time.”
Rob Krider recently posted this listing: For sale: One 10-ton toilet with wheels—$35,000. Wife and kids come free.
This article appears in Feb 18-25, 2010.