Your smiles are thanks enough

Far be it from me that I should toot my own horn, so I shall merely state the facts of how, in spite of nay-sayers and skeptics, I organized the singular, perfect trip in the history of our family.

Just because the reservations went on without a hitch, I’ll not be the one to point this out. That the meals went smoothly with the minimum of discussion as to exactly where they will be consumed, for this I certainly won’t take full credit.

I merely refer to one of the first e-mail regarding the organization of the Blue Knob excursion which began, “I’m going to take matters into my own hands…” at which point I made reservations without consulting with the family at large.

No…no…the happy, content countenance on everyone’s face is thanks enough for me.

Even though the trip caused great personal trauma to me, it was certainly worth it to see the unbridled joy rippling through my family. (Who put the freakin’ alpine village so stinkin’ high up via an icy, winding road with only a yard of guardrail? Like for what we paid for the freakin’ condo they couldn’t find a way up that didn’t involve the danger of careening off the side of mountain and bouncing off rocks to a fiery death in the valley a bajillion feet below?)

I don’t even expect gratitude for the myriad of hobbies since taken up that were inspired by this trip. Why, as we speak, Dark Garden is busily assembling a scrapbook of pictures of every Sheetz in the greater Altoona area! They may all forget the perfect skiing, the glorious weather and the breathtaking scenery, but they will forever hold near to their hearts the images of corner after corner of glittering red convenience stores.

And no, no, John Boy, you don’t have to thank Dark Garden and me for spending an entire morning visiting every bakery and grocery store in Pennsylvania looking for a birthday cake with the very specific wording of, “Yappy Dib, Art.” And that the cake just happened to have Barbie on it, well, what are the odds?

I won’t even point out that the pre-selected restaurant for The Last Dinner was precisely the type of establishment for which we search in every town we visit. The complimentary tiny meatballs and garlic bread were mere kismet, for which I cannot take credit. (And if Spicy McFace, a.k.a. Heir II, doesn’t take that stupid hat off his head and stop making Harpo Marx faces, he’s going to find himself…well, it has been suggested we strap him to the roof of the car…)

As he is my spouse, it is only natural that Dirtman has come to expect such luxuries resulting from my organizational skills. (I wasn’t the one who claimed to know exactly where the stupid restaurant was. Nor was I the one who, when calling for reservations, was too proud to ask directions. So getting off the interstate two exits too soon and driving aimlessly around Altoona hoping we’ll just happen by was not my fault nor my doing.)

And it is only part of a wife’s duty that when aggressive ski clothing takes hold of her husband, that she leap to his aid. No thanks are needed under such circumstances and, of course, she can be excused if this situation should cause her to lapse into helpless laughter. She is not made of stone.

I would like to point out, however, that I am of the opinion thing went smoothly simply because I presented very little in the way of options. In other words, the more control everyone hands over to me, the happier they will be.

I like the sound of that: The More Control Handed Over To Me, the Happier Everyone Will Be.

Words to live by.

It may have come to your attention that I selflessly hid my disappointment at the lack of Oompah Bands, yodeling and Lederhosen in the alpine village. There were no happy villagers, only drunk college students. And one very tired waitress.