The Road Less Traveled, and There's a Good Reason for It

I have never been to Orlando. I have never been to a Disney property. I have never been to Graceland.

You know why?

Because I don't want to.

Like breasts, the flavor of chocolate, and diamonds, I greatly prefer Things That are Real.

There is nothing about Orlando that tells me that there are hidden gems to find. There are no historically valuable locations. There are no breathtaking natural views. There is no fresh air and vast expanse of meadow.

There are, however, a thousand motels. Busloads of corn-fed tourists. A barrage of Mickey ears. The Waffle House. Bedazzled flip flops. The arrogant and the ignorant, and they all want to be first, and loudest, and looked at, and I want no part of them.

Although the Kid's paternal grandparents have been promising to visit since her birth, and I schlepped an 8-month old premature child to Oregon so they could initially meet, they've never been here. Couldn't make it. Never call, because that would be awkward. And yet, in December, they are deigning to swing our way, on their way to a cruise that leaves from Orlando, three hours north of us. They wanted to take my child on the cruise, but didn't invite me. I respectfully responded that my child would not be leaving dry land without me, but thank you for the invitation.

So now we're going to Orlando for the weekend, and they've extended me an invitation to stay in their three-bedroom condo. With them, the Kid's Dad who hasn't sent any money since he lost another job three months ago and has never asked if she has enough to eat, and his 16-year old son, who is the only real reason we're going.

WHAT

THE

FUCK.

First of all, to invite a three-year old on a cruise with you for a week when she has no idea who you are is insane. Secondly, to never call, never visit, and then expect her and her mother to stay in the same hotel room with the rest of the disconnected family is beyond belief. Thirdly, we had planned to get together on Sunday. Now they're asking me to come on Thursday. On Thursday, I am meant to be on the island of Tortola with my delicious boyfriend, covered in suntan lotion and erasing any memory of my everyday life. Her dad knew this. He knew my boyfriend was coming to Orlando with me, because we're flying back in Friday night to be able to get to this satanic reunion. Did he mention it to his parents? No. A greater lack of communication has not been witnessed since someone tried to teach English grammar to George W. Bush.

Orlando. Disconnected grandparents. An irresponsible and selfish biological father. One hotel room.

There is not enough liquor on the planet.