Tag Archives: Shower

Camper or Motel?

Image by Dim Hou from Pixabay.

Recently, instead of camping, my husband suggested a motel.

I was stunned speechless … but that never lasts long. “Sure!

Afterward, I pondered: Did I prefer our pop-up? Or the motel?

Setting up campers takes time, but provides exercise. Motels offer fitness rooms, but did we go there? Well … nobody else did, either.

Image by Dorothée Quennesson by from Pixabay.

Neither a motel’s walls nor our pop-up’s canvas filter out arguments next door. But as a fellow pop-up owner said, canvas walls provide little nighttime reassurance when, within inches of your pillow, something outside licks its chops.

Speaking of wildlife, our family never encountered a raccoon-skunk war in a motel as we did at one campsite. Once, though, in a Florida motel, a Volkswagen Beetle-sized roach zoomed across our room.

Then there’s the I-can’t-find-a-thing-in-this-place dilemma, common to both motel rooms and campers. Motel light switches save electricity (and company money) because no one can find them. But camping takes the marital game of Twenty Questions (“Where’s my billfold?”) to record levels.

Both motels and campgrounds feature mysterious showers — also designed to save money, as victims — er, guests — must decipher codes to obtain hot water. Or, in the case of campgrounds, to receive water, period.

Hikes to campground restrooms, however, trump any motel inconveniences — though stargazers claim nothing beats views at 2 a.m.

In the past, motels won the prize for cleanliness. However, because of recent worker shortages, no one cleans up after us but us. Sad.

Bottom line: Comparison of pop-up and motel rooms rests on expectations. Sleepers on a camper’s table gripe about aches and pains, but they expected inconvenience. If forced to sleep on a motel’s table, though, I’d gripe about more than a few twinges.

Image by Angelic Cooke from Pixabay.

Especially pain in my pocketbook. According to Smith Travel Research, a hospitality analytics firm, a hotel room’s average cost has climbed to $149.90 per night. A state park’s campsite costs $15-40. Cheaper, right?

Sure, if we omit costs of the pop-up and truck to pull it. And the awning and canvas walls we replaced.

Ultimately, is our pop-up worth it?

Image by Joe Plenio from Pixabay.

Yes. In the woods, air is fresh as if God just created it, whereas in a motel, I cannot open windows. Camping banishes clocks with their coulda-woulda-shoulda tyranny. Plus, motel personnel might not appreciate my firebug husband building a campfire in our room.

I love camping in our pop-up.

However, if Hubby wants to book a nice motel again — especially in January — I’m game.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Which do you prefer, a camper or motel room?

Miracle Morning Sickness

Unlike Mary, Jesus’s mother, and Zechariah, John the Baptist’s dad, my husband and I didn’t see angels when we learned we would be parents. Medical tests one December confirmed our first child was under construction. Our Christmas miracle.

Other confirmations seemed less wonderful. Entering Grandma’s kitchen Christmas morning, I nearly fainted. The fragrance of spareribs, usually mouth-watering, spun my stomach onto a Tilt-A-Whirl ride. Our teeny-tiny daughter, who later adored Christmas cookies, ate zero that day.

Image by Eukalyptus from Pixabay.

Soon my waistline and feet vanished. One guy, playing a game at my couples’ shower, guessed my belly diameter measured seven feet. He shouldn’t have lived to procreate. Because his wife was my friend, I allowed it.

Given pregnancy and delivery, how does the human race continue?

Yet, according to Dr. Luke’s biblical account, devout, elderly Zechariah and Elizabeth longed for that miracle. Marginalized because of infertility, they had lost hope.

Then Gabriel, an angel, appeared to the freaked-out priest, proclaiming they’d have a son.

Even an angel couldn’t convince Zechariah. Still, as Elizabeth’s baby bump swelled under old-lady dresses, his faith grew.

Meanwhile, Gabriel visited teenaged Mary in Nazareth and greeted her as the soon-to-be mother of the Messiah.

Mary was engaged, not married. She hadn’t been with Joseph or anyone else. This intruder was delusional, maybe dangerous. If I’d been Mary, I would’ve called 911.

Instead, she listened — and believed he came from God. Mary offered herself to whatever He had in store.

Image by dodo71 from Pixabay.

Gabriel also said Elizabeth was pregnant, too.

This, Mary had to see. Had Gabriel shared God’s truth? Or was that stranger crazier than she?

When big-bellied Elizabeth greeted Mary as the mother of her Lord, Mary’s festering doubts disappeared.

Elizabeth knew. Mary didn’t have to explain. Or hide.

The pregos could tell their stories without boring each other. They could gripe about swelling feet. They agreed that neither could stand spareribs.

Both, however, had developed cravings for pickled goat. If Zechariah balked at buying it, Mary would.

With her young body, she accomplished tasks creaky Elizabeth couldn’t. But the older woman’s lifelong faith, despite hardship, strengthened the teenager’s. God, who already had done miracles, wasn’t finished yet.

Image by gamagapix from Pixabay.

Because He gave those women each other, Elizabeth could face people asking if John was her grandson. Mary could go home to her parents. Face Joseph. Face rabbis who might throw rocks.

Our oldest daughter’s first Christmas. She made the spareribs worth it.

Mary would need more miracles. Still, God wasn’t finished yet.

Because Mary accepted stressing along with blessing, Jesus came and redeemed humankind.

Today, His miracles may also include not-so-spiritual complications, some nastier than morning sickness. Some, perhaps dreams come true.

He’s not finished yet.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: How do you think He will work in 2022?

He and She Share a Bathroom

When the plumber announced the death of my bathroom’s leaky shower and faucets, I didn’t cry, though I’d repainted the bathroom less than two years ago. Even the cost didn’t shake me — much.

No, the crisis struck when I shared my husband’s bathroom.

My dearly beloved turned white as his bathroom tile.

Anxiously, I prodded the plumber: “This is only for a few days, right?”

Well, the drywall had suffered water damage and needed repair. …

Hubby and I have survived 80-hour work weeks, colic, soccer seasons, crabgrass, teen drivers, four family members in college, menopause, and choosing movies. Though our last remodeling project broke me out in hives, and Hubby considered leaving the country, we knew we would handle this one better.

Mainly because someone else would do it.

Our optimism lasted, maybe, ten minutes.

According to him, I committed the first trespass: I moved things. The soap dispenser. The drinking cup. The wastebasket. Simple little adjustments to meet my lefty needs.

He crossed his arms. “They belong on the right.”

I crossed mine. “This is in the Bible?”

Not only did Hubby and I cross theological swords, but my hairbrush and toothbrush played unauthorized games of hide-and-seek. My wrinkle cream vanished, creating a world crisis of epic proportions.

My husband disagreed. The world crisis of epic proportions was created when I used his rare and wonderful tooth floss instead of my cheapo brand.

Sharing a bathroom with Hubby was like living in a hotel where you have to scrub the toilet and wash towels.

Speaking of towels, I must say he exhibited surprising patience when I jammed his rack with mine. I, however, struggled with sharing bathroom space with his big, brown fuzzies.

SHE: Those towels shed brown, hairy stuff everywhere. It’s like sharing a bathroom with Smokey the Bear.

HE: You bought them.

SHE: You always make a big deal out of nothing.

He does, you know. When I suggested his shower be checked by the plumber, too, he acted as if I had suggested we amend the Constitution. “Don’t touch it. I like my shower.”

“Don’t you want a flexible nozzle like mine? It helps in cleaning out the shower.”

That didn’t appear an issue to him.

Days passed.

Drywall had to dry. Several times.

Days passed.

I had to repaint. (What happened to “someone else would do this”?)

The paint had to dry.

I repainted again.

And so on.

Somehow, our marriage survivor skills saw us through.

When his cherished showerhead breaks someday, I’ll graciously share my lovely, left-handed bathroom with him.

But with Smokey the Bear and his towels? No way.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What First-World adjustments have you and your spouse made lately?