May 13: Friday the 13th, Travelling, Swimming

The trip down to my daughter's dance competition was, for the most part, uneventful.  About an hour into the trip, my two-and-a-half-year-old son decided to throw up the milk he'd just drank.  There is nothing worse than the smell of curdled milk vomit.  It ranks right up there with dogshit on your shoe.  Well, that mess took me about 15 minutes to clean up.  My son was thrilled.  He got out of his car seat and ran around a gas station store the whole time.  He acted like he'd won a trip to Disney World.

One of the highlights of the day was having lunch with one of my best friends, who is a Methodist pastor in Roscommon.  I haven't seen him since last July, so it was a really good visit.  I realized, sitting and eating pizza with him and his wife and nine-month-old daughter, how much a really miss having him close by.  Unfortunately, because of his profession, moving every seven or eight years is part of the job description.  It sucks, but so it goes.

It wasn't until about mid-day that I realized it was Friday the 13th.  By that time, it was too late to be superstitious.  I was already half-way to Detroit.  I'm not a very superstitious person, anyway, but it might have made me a little nervous.

Once we got to our hotel, we unpacked and decided to scope out the school where the competition is happening tomorrow.  After almost 500 miles of travelling, we got lost trying to find the local high school.  Unbelievable.  We circled and circled for almost an hour.   By the time we finally found the school, everyone was a little crispy--tired, hungry, and cranky.

After a quick bite to eat, we finally got back to our hotel room, and then my daughter decided to start pestering me to go swimming.  Basically, all I wanted to do was climb into the crib with my son, pull the covers over my head, tap my heals together three times, and say, "There's no place like home.  There's no place like home.  There's no place like home."  But, I put on my swimsuit and went down to the pool.  One of my good friends from work was at the pool with her granddaughters, who go to the same dance school as my daughter.  So, I spent two hours talking with her while the girls laughed, swam, fought, and shivered.  The night ended when someone threw up in the pool.

Saint Marty is tired, and teenage girls with cell phones keep coming into the business center to e-mail boyfriends.  It's a little distracting.  It's time for Saint Marty to call it a night.

At least there weren't any machetes!