Brunhilda, my bitchy inner voice is of the opinion that trips with one's adult children sound better than reality--excessive partying, drinking, no sleep, and finding out things you really don't want to know about your kids can spell disaster. It becomes a lose-lose excursion when you eventually have to pull out your mom hat and become the last line of reason. They experience "BF's"--otherwise known as bitch flashbacks from years of 'clean your room naggings' and end up resenting you for ruining a fun trip.

When my daughter asked me to tag along on a weekend trip to Nashville for her friend's wedding one January, I jumped at the offering. I should have listened to Brunhilda.  I hadn't been to Tennessee since the summer of 1971. I was thirteen years old and a small town named McEwen was the destination for my first ever plane ride. I was going to be the crappy housekeeper for my uncle; the newly installed pastor of St. Patrick's Catholic parish and school. McEwen has held a special place in my heart ever since.

My uncle inaccurately conjured up images of me emulating Hazel or Alice on the Brady Bunch, an epic assessment fail on his part.  The closest I ever got to achieving Alice status was my middle name.  At thirteen years old, home cooked meals and a spotless rectory eluded my job performance. Brunhilda suggested I was the biggest of my uncle's worst nightmares.  My little brother and six-year old cousin claimed his other two head traumas that summer.  At age eleven, my brother was supposed to turn the rectory's upstairs attic space into a usable room when, in reality, the kid could barely hold a hammer straight while struggling with serious bouts of home sickness.

I turned in an impressive effort as Faux Alice the first week. That was before I made friends and added a homeless dog to our household.  Harvey the resident collie was happy to share our home with Jenny the mutt.  We were inseparable.  Fr. John, not so much.  The canines added headache #4 and #5 to my uncle's stress level. The rectory's shag carpeting soon sported Jenny's turds. Then came Bronson, an abandoned orange kitten ringing in head trauma #6.  Soon after Bronson's arrival, my uncle had a Come to Jesus meeting with me.  The food costs for my growing menagerie would come out of my own paycheck, leaving me with a whopping $1.25 to spend at the local Dairy Queen each month. In hindsight, I believe my uncle was a little jealous the dogs and cat were eating better than he was.

Fr. John was mortified when I served up watermelon and green beans as the main course for a hosted dinner for a covey of nuns in full drag. It took another blow ten minutes into our cleansing meal when my six year old cousin observed with exuberance, that one of the apostles featured in the large oil painting of The Last Supper overlooking our scant dinner was flipping the bird finger, to coordinated gasps of three nuns and one uncle. Ensuing giggles from the kid zone; under-the-table kicks and a WTF stern stare-down from the uncle unit momentarily snapped my brother out of his homesick waterworks. Jenny the mutt added an exclamation point to the drama by pooping on the shag runway.

The last straw came when Father John snapped during Mass one Sunday toward the end of our summer mutiny when Harvey, Jenny and Bronson strolled right down the middle aisle of the little red brick church during his sermon.  It could have been a scene right out of The Incredible Journey. The trio plopped down next to me in the front row just under his lectern.  I froze in time as my Catholic priest uncle stared at me and uttered under clenched teeth, "Get those God-damned animals out of here right now."  Father John might have been the first victim of a 'hot mic' incident that Sunday morning when my trio was simply trying to get a little Jesus under their collars.

My uncle couldn't contain his giddiness as he delivered me and my brother to our American Airlines silver bird destined for Phoenix a few days later.  I pictured him dancing the jig all the way to his gate with our six-year-old cousin in tow for the flight to Boston to return her to her mother.  I often wonder what he was thinking, taking on the three of us that summer.  All of his years of religious training had not prepared him for full-on parenting.  I was pretty sure Jesus, Mary and Joseph were tsk-tsk-tsk'ing all over Heaven.   A quick check of MapQuest confirmed McEwen was only an hour drive from the Nashville wedding venue, giving us all day Sunday to visit the small town before our return flight late Sunday evening.  Tennessee Karma was about to deliver on behalf of my long-departed and well-loved uncle.
 
Brunhilda suggested traveling with my daughter, recently single following a five-year relationship, was a recipe for disaster. My optimism overruled her wisdom. We were going to have a blast.  She was going to wash that ex right out of her hair.  I should have listened to Bruni.  I also should have packed laundry detergent.   It wasn't long before my oldest son decided to tag along, adding to the merriment. Besides being a funster, his superb navigation skills driving a rental car in an unfamiliar city was an added perk.

We arrived at our hotel on Friday evening and were not disappointed. Our internet hotel nab was an elegant property with our eighth-floor room overlooking Vandy's football field.

Wedding weekend also happened to coincide with Vanderbilt University's recruiting weekend. The hotel was abuzz with coaches and balloon arches overtaking sections of the pristine, marbllized lobby.  Giddy parents on the verge of tuitional financial tanking accompanied by their future college freshmen even giddier about their upcoming freedom from nagging.  The lobby's buzz scene will come into play later.

Life was good, before it went bad--very, very, bad. It was about to get I will never travel with my adult children again bad.

Once we organized our room and got my son set up on a roll-a-bed, we set off to explore Nashville on foot.  It was January and lightly snowing. I would soon learn black ice applies to walking as well as driving. That is all I wish to say about involuntary ice skating. Thank goodness for a heavy coat breaking my falls. Following an hour of foot falls, the three thin-blooded Arizonans returned to our hotel with frostbite and a bottle of wine.  We fired up the room heater, and opted for Merlot served up in plastic Marriott cups inside our cozy room.    

As my son, seven years older than his sister, led a conversation about getting a tattoo, I sensed Karma had found me on the eighth floor sipping Merlot from a plastic cup.  My kids know all too well I am not a fan of tats.  As he continued with his plan for one at the nape of his neck, I led with my dad's standard 'go to' lecture when I wanted pierced ears as a teenager... "IF GOD WANTED YOU TO HAVE HOLES IN YOUR EARS, HE WOULD HAVE CREATED YOU WITH HOLES IN YOUR EARS!"  Brunhilda screeched as she recalled my own DIY ear piercing attempt following my dad's lecture. The attempt involved my friend holding frozen potatoes behind my lobes to freeze the skin, before trying to plunge by a safety pin that had been sterilized by a match through my screaming lobes. OSHA would have fired our asses without a hearing.  After several failed attempts locked away in my friend's bedroom, the only thing I ended up with were Obama-sized ears minus the holes before Operation Ouch was aborted.  That was bad enough--Bruni couldn't wrap her head around anyone wanting to actually shoot dye into their skin with needles.  And the wrinkles and gravity effects when they were our age now...Dear Lord, just say no.

When my son glanced at his sister after broaching the subject, the slight innuendo with the nod of his head and an eye cock toward her wine-induced shit-eating grin did not go unnoticed by the soon to launch party pooper, otherwise known as mom.  The bust was up...I should have listened to Brunhilda and stayed home.

I double-down-glared (a look summoned from my now dead uncle) at my daughter and said, "No, you didn't!!!"  as her wine-induced shit-eating grin grew even bigger. 



To be continued...