What is the greatest gift someone could give you?

I wouldn’t consider myself a “Material Girl”. I don’t like clutter, I have very particular tastes, and if I want something I will purchase it myself, thank you very much.

In my family, I am the brains of the operation. Constantly. I’m required to plan and handle every minute detail of any adventure that my family partakes in.

So, the greatest gift someone could give me is, for once, to be told “We’re going on vacation, this is the weather where we are going, and this is how many days you should pack for. The rest is taken care of.” Man, oh man. What a gift that would be!!

The passports, IDs, insurance cards, hotel, flights, airport parking, rental car, itinerary created, itinerary printed, excursions booked, pet sitter scheduled, pet sitter paid, pets dropped off, which suitcases to use, travel snacks, water bottles, The Pinkys, emergency medicine kit, family toiletries, sunscreen, spare contacts/eyeglasses, kids’ bags packed, kids’ school notes, kids’ homework requests, my new couches covered with tarps so the <fucking> cat doesn’t destroy them, glue guns and hair straighteners unplugged, house <somewhat> picked up so we can come home to a clean(ish) house, verify all toilets are flushed but not left running <jiggle the handle, goddamnit>, verify faucets are off, lights throughout the house turned off, doors locked, blinds closed, cars locked, security lights on, emergency contact information provided, mail put on hold, and a drop-in/drive-by scheduled by a friend, family member, or the local police while we are gone.

I know what you’re thinking… Cari, don’t you have a husband who can handle <some of> these things? <blink, blink>

I’m a firm believer that every marriage has two types of people. A ying and yang, if you will. One who falls asleep immediately and one who tosses and turns. A saver and a spender. A minimalist and a hoarder. A laid back one and a high strung one. And, well, a planner and one who has never learned the art.

I’ve tried to turn over some of the details to my husband. I really have. Last summer, we planned an extended weekend camping and float trip on the Meramec. Marty was responsible for booking the RV site and the float; I took care of the rest.

When we showed up in what could only be described as ‘Deliverance’, U.S.A., we were greeted by Bubba. Let me take that back. ‘Greeted by Bubba’ makes it sound like there was a check in booth, camp host, or some sort of semblance of an actual campground. After leaving cellular service far behind and navigating vast areas of standing water and Grand Canyon ruts in the dirt road, we finally found Bubba yanking a massive tree limb out of a tree with a rope attached to his backhoe. His butt crack was visible from yards away. He was fully engaged in his task; it took a solid three minutes of me waving my hands above my head and Marty honking the horn before we captured his attention.

Bubba directed us to our campsite. “It’s in between the restroom and the carnival trailer. If you hit the dumpster, you’ve gone too far.”

I’ve camped in some shithole campgrounds, but this took the cake. The spots were overgrown by knee high weeds, there were no security lights, and what the fuck is a carnival trailer?!

In my husband’s defense, he got “cat-fished” by the website. However, this wasn’t the first time it has happened. A simple check of Trip Advisor would have produced results telling us to run from this campground immediately. There was also some “miscommunication” on the float pick up, drop off and raft size to add to the mix. There is no way in hell I will ever let him live this down.

Nor will my husband get to check mark the “greatest gift for Cari” box anytime soon.