If HomeCare.com says the blog is one of the best, I’ll listen. Thanks!
https://www.1800homecare.com/blog/baby-boomer-bloggers/
Blog
Go, Dogs Go, to a Resort Hotel!
My children loved the book Go, Dog. Go! by P.D. Eastman with its colorful story about big dogs and little dogs, red, green, and blue dogs, dogs going up and dogs going fast. I was reminded of the popular children’s book this week as my husband and I enjoyed a rare opportunity to stay at a luxury resort that had gone to the dogs.
In the lobby, we couldn’t avoid yapping dogs on leashes, whiny dogs in fancy leather cases, shivering toy dogs that resembled skinned rats, dogs trying to smell and pick up a partner for a one-afternoon stand, and even a massive Great Dane that made me want to holler, “Go, Dog. Go – Outside!”
I saw dogs in fancy carriages of a better quality than I used for my own babies. Pampered pooches were tucked into designer bags in the elevators and toted around the grounds by their servant owners as if they were exalted possessions to be adored. Sorry, but I don’t want to smile at, pet, or coo over a pet, even if it has a sparkly bow, matching scarf, and brings its own therapist.
I don’t want to offend dog and cat lovers, but some of us belong to happy group of people who don’t have indoor pets for a variety of reasons. I’m highly allergic to cats, and I’m uncomfortable around dogs, due to my daily paper route at age 11 when several dogs chased, snarled, and tried to bite me every day as I peddled my bike as fast as I could. Also, I prefer to travel light without needing a pooper scooper.
Airports have become public zoos, catering to people carrying an assortment of creatures, birds, and dubious animals of unknown origin. Traveling is stressful enough without enduring a dog peeking under my stall in the airport restroom. I’d rather not sit in the waiting area battling with the smells and sounds of unhappy animals locked into portable cages. Yesterday in the airport, we watched a woman in the waiting area chew several bites of a hamburger, spit it into her hand, and feed the mess to her large dog. In what civilized society is this normal?
Caveat: I respect those who need indoor animals for comfort and companionship. And, I’m a firm supporter of service dogs and police canine units. These animals earn their keep and provide an important duty.
Ten Luxury Hotels that Pamper Pets
I may be a lone voice barking up the wrong tree in the wilderness because more people are taking their pets into luxury hotels. An article in Condé Nash Traveler published a frisky article titled: “ Pet-Friendly Hotels: The Ten Best Luxury Stays in the U.S.” This list will be saved for reference of where not to stay, ever.
One such hotel is the Park Hyatt Chicago, Chicago, IL. Dogs 50 pounds and under have free reign throughout the rooms, lobby, restaurant, garden, and library of the hotel. Gag me with a caviar dog biscuit. It’s only a matter of time before someone brings a therapy pony into the resort elevator.
In The St. Regis Aspen Resort, Aspen, CO, dogs receive a daily turn-down surprise and can snooze in comfort on their very own St. Regis dog beds for an additional $25 per day. I wish I got a turn-down surprise.
Not to be limited to man’s best friend, the Cypress Inn, Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA, co-owned by actress and animal-rights champion Doris Day, is pet friendly, welcoming all domesticated creatures from iguanas to pot-bellied pigs ($30 fee). Their promotional literature claims: “Hang with your four-legged bestie on the patio, in the lounge or in front of the library’s crackling fireplace, and make new friends during the daily “yappy hour” from 4-6 p.m.” Nothing makes me feel finer than to sleep in a bed that recently was used for the night of the iguana.
The next time I make a reservation for a room at a luxury resort or any hotel, I’ll ask for a non-pet room. In my opinion, that’s just as logical as asking for a non-smoking room. The thought of crawling into a bed with a mattress that could be crawling with residue and fleas from a dog or offensive odor of a pot-bellied pig makes me want to stay home in my pet-free house and watch travel documentaries.
For more of my pet-free rants, here’s the article that was featured on HuffPo Live from New York. It’s titled “My Fish Won’t Hump Your Leg.”
The Joys of Traveling with Kids (Over Age 30)
If given the choice between traveling with small children and having a root canal, I’d be at the dentist office sucking laughing gas before noon. I adore kids but the logistics of getting them more than 100 miles is too much to endure unless they can be shipped like golf clubs or crated like pets.
After my baby filled his diapers with an adult-strength load during takeoff on a three-hour flight, I finally realized there was no reason to ever travel with youngsters. At least not in the same airplane.
Children under five years old don’t know what a vacation is, so tell them that the city park is just like Disneyland except without grinning pirates shooting guns, drinking booze, and chasing women on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Better yet, turn on the sprinklers in the backyard, sit down with a glass of wine, and watch the little darlings giggle and wiggle until they’re tired enough for a nap. Then invite your hubby to swill some whiskey and chase you around the yard. Yo ho ho! Everyone will be happy and you’ll save thousands of dollars. This is a win-win situation.
Traveling with little children requires parents to lie in order to survive the ordeal. Here are a few of my desperate but necessary distortions of the truth I coughed up while attempting to orchestrate the illusive perfect family vacation when my kids were under 10 years old.
Driving in rush-hour traffic near Disneyland.
“Of course, it’s okay to pee into a potato chip can, Honey, because it’s against the law to get off the freeways in Los Angeles.”
Trapped at the airport during another flight delay.
“Please stop whining and you can have a new puppy/pony/playhouse if we get home before you’re in high school.”
After four hours of driving through a desolate desert.
“Stop hitting your brother/sister or I will park this car right now and we’ll live off the land and eat scorpions until you can learn to behave.”
After two hours of “Are we there yet?” and “How much longer?”
“Sorry, kids. Mommy is going away for a while.” Then I would pull over, stop, and play dead. Worked every time.
I still mutter like a curmudgeon when I see young parents in airports juggling a small mountain of luggage that includes diapers, food, enormous strollers, DVD players, toys, and clothes that could stock a child care center. My ancestors walked for months to Idaho along the Oregon Trail, and they didn’t transport a jungle gym, play-n-pac, IPad, a breast pump, or a bottle sterilizer. Their kids and clothes were bathed once a week in the river, air-dried on a log, and stored in the wagon for the day’s journey. They survived just fine.
Imagine if any pioneer child had complained:
“Pa, the wagon’s too bumpy!”
“Hush, Child, and go trap a rabbit, skin it, and help your Ma make dinner. We’re walking ten miles tomorrow.”
The first time I saw the movie The Sound of Music I yelled “Fraud!” at the end as the family climbed over the Alps singing in perfect harmony in clean clothes. When my kids were little, we couldn’t walk from the house to the car without someone falling headfirst into a mud puddle or instigating a belching contest.
And forget about taking a hike together. Any incline more than two inches would cause howls of dismay with repeated pleas to be carried. And that’s when they were teenagers! But, in deference to the movie, if evil Nazis were chasing us, we would manage to escape together, with or without matching lederhosen.
One splendid advantage of getting older is that family trips are easier and less hectic. My kids are in their thirties and have their own children to handle, so I just need to pack yoga pants, t-shirts, and a wine opener. We recently traveled with 11 family members on a week-long vacation. I was overjoyed to play with the grandkids and sing songs and tell stories. Then came Happy Hour and their parents could take over.
As they walked away with the boisterous brood, I overheard one of my adult children say, “Stop hitting your sister or we’ll go live in the desert and eat scorpions until you learn to behave.” My work here is done.
This article was featured on several sites, including The Huffington Post and Vagabonding with Kids.
Flying the Flag of Freedom
Warning: I may call upon my friends for money to get me out of jail. That’s because my overconfident use of the freedom of speech often gets me into trouble. I predict that at the July 4th parade there will be some punks (young and old) who don’t stand up, don’t remove their hats, and don’t place their hands over their hearts when the flag goes past. That’s when I’ll admonish them to show respect or don’t come to the party, and then a fight could start and I’ll be hauled off to jail.
I was raised by parents and teachers who shared a love of country and a reverence for the flag of the United States. I realize that’s not taught much anymore, and that’s too bad. Too many people have fought and died for that flag, and I’m not ashamed to get teary eyed when the band plays “Stars and Stripes” as the flag waves in the breeze. Yes, one of the many advantages of getting older is that I don’t need to be politically correct about anything, and I can declare that I truly do love this country. And when the music starts, I will sing out loud that I’m proud to be an American.
So, we’ll go to the parade, and we’ll raise and lower the flag at the cabin, and we’ll enjoy barbecue and beer because we’re free to do so. Then we’ll raise a glass of exquisite wine and toast the brave patriots who finished the final documents on the Declaration of Independence on July 4, 1776. Happy July 4th!
To celebrate our nation’s independence, we’re having a fabulous bottle of 2009 Caymus Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley. This rich wine is so good we might organize our own parade. If I’m still in jail, I hope someone smuggles in a glass for me.
Elaine Ambrose
If We Could Turn Back Time, We Wouldn’t
I read an online article that declared women over 45 shouldn’t wear bling jewelry or jeans with decorated pockets. I read these silly rules while wearing my brilliant, dangling earrings with my favorite fancy jeans. I can only conclude that middle-aged women have earned the right to wear whatever they choose, and advice columnists under 45 should remember that.
After several decades of being told what to do, what to wear, what not to eat, and how to behave, I join a growing group of proud and loud women over 50 who gleefully proclaim: I can do what I want to do. (We can’t scream our independence because that would be perceived as being bitchy and obnoxious.) We acknowledge that lolling around in jammies isn’t appropriate all the time, but there are glorious days when we pull on the sweat pants and mismatched sweaters, curl up with good books, and revel in our ability to say “Bite me” to every young, skinny critic wobbling past on five-inch heels and toting exaggerated self-importance.
If a mysterious tornado suddenly swooped us to an alien land and some powerful wizard offered us the power to turn back time, we’d probably decline. Given the choice of being 30 and reliving the demands of young children, new careers, weak relationships, and financial problems, we’d take the chance to be our age and continue living in our sweats and enjoying a glass of good Cabernet. Really.
I do miss the energy of my youth, and there are countless times I wish I could rock my sweet babies one more time. But, now I get to spoil my grandkids. And, they love my bling.
Did you know women over 50 can laugh?
