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Wit Love, Kath

~ My love letters about the funny side of life

Wit Love, Kath

Category Archives: Vacation

What a Phoney

10 Thursday Sep 2015

Posted by Kath Carroll in Humor, Satire, Shopping, Travel, Vacation

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humor, robocalls, satire, telemarketing, theme parks, vacation clubs, vacation packages

I thought my relationship with Tim was going so well. For weeks now, he’s called me every morning and every evening with a regularity and attentiveness shown only by the most committed. I imagined him sitting in his cubicle over at “Customer Service (925) 374-1188” pining to talk to me. In my mind I saw his tousled brown hair and his bright, clear eyes—green, I think. He’d be wearing a wrinkle-resistant plaid or, maybe, chambray shirt and brown, tan, blue, or black pants from Gap.com because—you know—Tim’s a guy.

Whenever I answered his calls, I loved to hear Tim’s synthetically young, eager voice—his enthusiasm never dimmed by repeated rejection or the cruel words of people rushing to get out the door or just sitting down to dinner.

But tonight things didn’t go very well, and I’m afraid it might be over between us. I answered as I always did: “Hello.”

“Hi,” he nearly sang. “It’s Tim. Can you hear me okay?” See how sweet? His first thought was always for my welfare.

“Yes,” I answered cheerily. Tim’s passion was infectious. Here, Tim usually paused for awhile, and before I hung up I always thought how nice it was that we could just spend some quiet time together. I felt secure enough in our relationship to know that Tim would call again.

So tonight when Tim called and considerately asked, “Do you have time to talk?,” I leveled with him: “I don’t really have time tonight, Tim,” I said.

“I’m sorry. I can’t hear you clearly,” he yelled into the phone. Hey, Tim, I thought, you’re the one with the hearing problem, not me.  “Do you have time to talk?”

The term “selective hearing” flashed through my mind. “Not really, Tim…” I began, but he plunged on, oblivious. He invited me to take a fantastic vacation worth eighteen hundred dollars at a luxurious resort and with discounted theme park tickets. As his warm, sunny patter washed over me, I relaxed and was transported to that tropical clime. I saw myself lounging under the palms, sipping a piña colada.

“Do you have a credit or debit card?” I heard him inquire through my reverie.

Whaaaat? Abruptly the island mirage vanished and reality loomed—dishes in the sink, laundry to fold. A credit or debit card? Could Tim only be after money? What, I scolded myself, do I really know about Tim anyway?

“Tim, I lost my credit card,” I lied, determined to know the truth. If Tim truly cared about me, this shouldn’t matter, right?

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you clearly,” he repeated, his jovial tone suddenly acquiring a frantic edge. “Most resorts accept a credit or debit card. Do you HAVE a credit or debit card?” His friendly manner was gone, replaced by an accusatory incredulousness.

It was true then. I had his number, but he wasn’t getting mine. “Tim,” I said, the lie coming easier the second time, “I lost my card.”

Hearing this Tim was a changed man. “Well!” His voice was rushed now and heavy with the scorn of one whose time has been wasted. He longed only to end this conversation and move on. “I didn’t mean to bother you,” he sniped. “Good Night.”

Goodnight, Tim. And goodbye.

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Dipping into the grab bag of life

04 Tuesday Aug 2015

Posted by Kath Carroll in Baking, Driving, Humor, Inspiration, Shopping, The Formative Years, Travel, Vacation

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grab bags, humor, Inspiration, nostalgia, vacation, Volkswagen beetle

In the 1960s to early ’70s, my mother, sister, and I were living the cliché. Packed into a red Volkswagen Beetle, we took to the open roads snaking across the country from Hollywood, Florida to St. Louis, Missouri for our annual summer vacation. We stuffed the frunk (front trunk) with sturdy suitcases and bags full of mangoes, grapefruit, and avocados from our backyard that steadily ripened in the searing heat. The odor each morning was so repellent we had to air out the car before driving away from the motel.

But once we got underway, the meandering back roads led us through quaint country towns like we never saw in Florida, over rolling farmland lush with summer crops, into one-radio-station no man’s lands where a farm auction or Paul Harvey was the only thing on, and to hours of charades, license plate games, car bingo, daydreams, and imagination.

WitLoveKath - Corn Dish - car bingo III

One and a half days into our 3-day odyssey, in Hardin, Kentucky, stood The Hitching Post & Old Country Store—an oasis of marvels with cool drinks to quench our thirst, a Conestoga wagon and stocks for fun photos, and shelves and shelves of trinkets and knick-knacks to mesmerize any child with an allowance to spend. But all those wonders paled in comparison to the mysteries of the grab bags heaped in a basket near the cash register.

I was always enthralled by the unknown: Nancy Drew was my heroine and Adam West’s Batman was my muse (what could be more enigmatic than a superhero with his eyebrows on the outside of his mask?). So, I was instinctively drawn to those unmarked, brown packages. By the age of 8, I was a hard-core grab bagger. Picking each up in turn, I carefully weighed the pros and cons of every box. The long one could be a doll or maybe a necklace; the short one a smaller doll, earrings, or maybe a stuffed animal….such wonderful treasures danced in my imagination.

As we pulled away from The Hitching Post, I’d open the box and peek inside. Of course it was never something as magical as a doll or a secret box. My mother, watching through the rear view mirror as tears rimmed my eyes, always had ready comfort: my father would like the reproduction antique bottles; the corn dish would be perfect for pickles and olives on the dinner table.

Ah, the corn dish!

WitLoveKath - Corn Dish - dish

One year, to my elation, I actually did discover a doll in the package, and back at home I added it to my collection. I now realize that it was one of those celluloid numbers with the glued-on clothes, creepy open-and-close eyes, and nightmarish haircut. It is long gone, but the corn dish still stands on a shelf of my kitchen breakfront.

Its shiny paint has not been faded by pickle or olive brine or from repeated washings. The rim has suffered no chips. In fact, the dish may only have been used once or twice—that first summer. But the corn dish is one of my favorite possessions. For me it symbolizes many things—and what kind of reader/writer would I be if I did not find symbolism in even the most common household objects?

Dipping into a grab bag represented everything life is supposed to be: unknown and unknowable until you explore, a little scary but thrilling, random, sometimes disappointing, always surprising…

And the corn dish? For me it symbolizes persistence in the face of disappointment (the life blood of any hopeful writer), longevity, compassion, idealism, hope, and humor.

I joke with my kids that the corn dish will one day be their inheritance, but really I couldn’t wish to hand down a better heirloom.

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