By Patty Clark
Come listen to a story ‘bout island slummin’, and how we shared the burden of beachside bummin’. We said paradise is the place we need to be, so we loaded up our suitcases bound for Hawaii. Kaua’i that is. Tidepools.TV stars.
"Fun to read. I would enjoy reading more adventures like this." 5 stars by Anita
NoteStreams are readable online but they’re even better in the free App!
The NoteStream™ app is for learning about things that interest you: from music to history, to classic literature or cocktails. NoteStreams are truly easy to read on your smartphone—so you can learn more about the world around you and start a fresh conversation.
For a list of all authors on NoteStream, click here.
Read the NoteStream below, or download the app and read it on the go!
Please Prepare for Takeoff
I reckon I do like travelin’ with my feller. Before we made it to the verdant oasis, I had to endure a six hour plane ride with an eight year old caterwallin’ and kicking the back of my seat.
It was a bolt to my nearly balanced Chakra. I could easily imagine him as future president—of a terrorist group. Far be it for me to turn into a troll officer. And yet I morphed into one of those sexagenarian tarts who became balsy enough to confront the lil varmint.
I proposed that if he didn’t kick my seat for the rest of the flight there would be a buck in it for him. He wasn’t very entrepreneurial. He lost the bet within the first five minutes. Maybe the amount I offered was not his idea of wealth. I was ninety-nine percent positive the rascal was Eddie Haskell’s grandson. Luckily all the other younguns’ we encountered this trip were far more delightful.
‘I feel like a Clampett!’
Checking into the hotel, we were generously upgraded to a spacious suite. This is where my centeredness became more sufficiently stabilized.
Unbeknownst to us, we walked into elaborate accommodations and experienced myocardial infarctions, that necrosis of the pulmonary muscle secondary to seeing a heart stopping hotel room.
Eyebrows arched, jaws dropped, and we were as happy as two gophers in soft dirt. I especially loved the expansive foyer with Tuscan column aesthetics that mirrored Roman times. My boyfriend said, “I feel like a Clampett!” I didn’t feel at all l like Granny Clampett since she has more wrinkles, and rheumatism. We were impressionable vacationers who received our cultural education from camping and dining at In-N-Out.
The whirlpool bathtub ranged from tender sprays to slamming you sideways with jet propulsion that was likely created by NASA. The only things missing were a rooftop heli-pad and wine cellar stocked with thousand dollar bottles of Chateau Margaux.
Hillbilly Happy Hour
Not one to namedrop, I wondered if this was how Rob Lowe felt his last visit here.
And if he loved the heated toilet seats and bidets as much as I did. I was waiting for some harbinger of front desk doom to show up at our door the last day complaining, “I’d like a few words with you about the massive use of water.”
It was a good thing we didn’t bring any long showering teens. Before long it was hillbilly happy hour and us podunkers asserted our squatters rights. Although we didn’t have our moonshine served in mason jars. They were delivered in fine glassware worthy of a five star hotel. I asked the waitress, “Can you recommend something that will cure my dependency on laziness?” She suggested motor oil.
Now normally, drinking alcohol causes pregnancy. In my case, it caused me to tell the company around us all about my fetish for certain furniture polishes and the wonderful frozen waffles I make.
Every day was the same.
Eatin’, drinkin’, sunnin’, sittin’ beside a salt water pool, gittin’ into inclining positions and speed racing down the water slide as if we were bobsledding for Olympic Gold.
Therapy was available for anyone too traumatized in hearing my screams and seeing people over sixty plunge off the edge. Kids must have thought they were vacationing in haunted Sag Harbor.
Here to Eternity
We hit the beach and found ourselves re-creating sultry forms that fashioned From Here to Eternity, entwining our bodies on the sand until those tiny morsels of quartz and marine sediments made their way inside our bathing suits, killing the passion.
We mosied yonder to a picturesque cliff where waves bashed against rocks. My guy proceeded to take a snapshot of me when a gal standing nearby said, “You’d better get that picture before the waves take her away.”
Since my smooth operator can’t pass up the opportunity to humor everyone, he said, “If that happens, wanna go to dinner tonight?” She responded, “I’ll ask my husband!”
Dining was the most delight, even though sinful gluttony compromised my religious beliefs. Frank Sinatra serenaded us in the hall leading to terrace breakfasts.
How lucky can a hundred miner birds be, when our peacefulness was broken by beaked flyers dive-bombing our plates for free buffets. But the pineapples and papayas were spectacular. My suitor should never see me without my morning fruit and java. It isn’t pretty.
Vittles were superb, until one night when we ate with such disappointment. Donkey ears would have been more satisfying. My mate was served overcooked Ono with lemon sauce so potent he wondered where the twist of tequila was. I had lobster pasta and detected the distinct piquancy of Cheez Whiz, which completely ruined my crustacean.
The Last Supper
Our dismay caught the curiosity of the restaurant manager who ended up supplying us with enough wine if we stayed to sample their other dishes, insisting that our cooperation as taste testers would help them establish a much finer cuisine.
It turned our lousy meal into loads of fun. Although we couldn’t be responsible for anything we said while we were hungry, we agreed that they should stick to sumptuous tempuras of cod nesting on beds of pommes frites, otherwise known as fish and chips.
We epitomized what some people call food snobs. And our drinks resembled the wine that was doled out at The Last Supper. It’s when I start pouring it over corn flakes that’ll get me in a heap-o-trouble.
Better Homes & Hotels
Desperate elevator wait times called for desperate measures of rearranging furniture. My funny decorating sweetheart decided to take that time to shift every wastebasket perpendicular to the walls.
I didn’t know he had such Feng Shui and silly finesse. He should start a magazine called Better Homes & Hotels. I told him he was my kind of man. The place really needed to be re-designed by an unlicensed fashionistic apartment owner. Maybe he can do something with landfills. I stuck to fluffin’ room pillows, and ended up re-hanging the hotel drapes I was ready to steal.
Upon leaving, I was pretty sure the hotelier pitched, “Y’all come back now, hear?”