Not Too Bad: A Review of the YMCA of the Rockies and My Little Family Reunion

A few months ago my mother summoned me, my four siblings and our assorted clans to our "family reunion" at the YMCA of the Rockies which is a few miles outside of Estes Park. Obviously, when SusieQ summons, we yield, and who in their right mind would turn down a free vacation.

If you want to lay by the side of a pool while gay Puerto Ricans and girls in bikinis who have escaped the monotony of the Midwest serve you cocktails with umbrellas, you should not go to the YMCA of the Rockies. Apparently, it should have been clear from the title that we were vacationing at a summer camp, but I am not always the brightest bulb. However, if you are into wholesome family fun, beautiful scenery, and crappy food, the YMCA of the Rockies is perfect.

Luckily, the Festival of Enlightenment was happening there so all the fat people in turquoise jewelry gave me a visual reprieve from all the bible-toting Jesus-loving teenagers. It's sort of ridiculous how in a mess hall full of hundreds of people, I could instantly identify the bible thumpers from the enlightenment seekers. I mean what was it about the guy across from me at the buffet that I could just tell he was a super-energetic-let's-get-the-kids-praying-high-on-Jesus-jumping-up-and-down-type-of-guy-who-probably-likes-to-give-hugs-and-maybe-just-maybe-massages-teenage-girls-shoulders-with-a-little-too-much-familiarity-kind-of-guy. (Uh, Minger, it's one thing to identify a guy as a Christian group leader from the way he looks but maybe quite another to assume he is a border line molester of teenage girls.)

Anyway, as you may have picked up from some of my previous posts, my family isn't always my favorite group of people. They're clean and orderly and boring, and I'm dirty and unorganized and completely fabulous. However, in spite of their many faults, we had an excellent time. (Lest any of my relatives read this, I'm going to underline the fact that that last statement was slightly tongue in cheek.)

We had a meeting room rented which had a great patio for drinking a little beer and getting sunburns. Since there were eighteen of us, we were able to have a couple of really fun and funny games of softball and beach volleyball. I really hope my kids remember those forever because I have some really fond memories of playing kickball with my grandma, aunts, cousins, etc. When sporting contests are on the agenda, it works really well that Catholics are such prolific breeders. And, I even have to say that while we were sitting around the campfire under an almost full moon listening to my niece (who in my opinion is a stellar song writer) play her guitar and sing her tunes, I even got a little teary eyed at how much I love all those people.

One major highlight of the trip was that only one of my kids dropped an eff-bomb only one time. I think five days and one eff bomb is a new record for them.

And I am deeply impressed that my husband who makes his living designing and cooking dishes like
Fire Roasted Shrimp- fire roasted shrimp served with a yam 
   stuffed anaheim pepper and shrimp bisque sauce
Stuffed Steamed Trout- rainbow trout filled with bacon, 
   organic mushrooms & bleu cheese served with a cranberry 
   butter sauce
was willing to spend a week eating cafeteria food. Kudos to you, good sir. One night, however, he said he couldn't eat the food because it looked so gross he wouldn't even feed it to the dogs. I, on the other hand, had two heaping plates full of it (but I am a little trashy). It worked out for the best because on the way back from McDonalds, we saw the tiniest littlest mule deer suckling her mama mule deer, and I love love love suckling baby wildlife so I was happy that his high standards forced us into the gourmet and tasty arms of that world class chef Ronald McDonald.

All in all, it was a great time. The YMCA of the Rockies is big enough so that I did not feel like I was on top of the Bible thumpers. The setting is gorgeous unless you're one of those people who doesn't like snow capped mountains, blue skies, wild flowers, and herds of elk. There are a lot of free things for kids to do (swimming, mini golf, disc golf, hiking and even more that we didn't get to like a craft room), and we were all glad not to have a TV in our lodge room. I'd probably recommend it if somebody asked. My kids would certainly recommend it.

Desultory Tidbits

There I was in the kitchen getting in touch with my inner-geezer-bird by pouring myself a white wine spritzer and thinking to myself, Minger, it's been awhile since you've blogged. Then, out of the blue, my phone started beeping. It was a Facebook wall post from my ol' aunt Judy reminding me of my blog. Whoosh (that's the sound it makes when Minger's head explodes).Well, Kitty, I'm back and I'm ever so sorry to have neglected you.

Desultory Tidbit One:

My first date (it wasn't officially a date since I still had the tattooed Canadian in my bed) with my husband was in a bathroom. I asked him to meet me after his work shift. Then, wearing my best see-through white tank top, I cleaned the thick layer of gooey grossness off the shower wall while he watched. I feel, perhaps, that was a bit misleading. Sexy clothing and cleaning, what was I thinking? More on the man later as I have had him on my mind and am preparing a blog post regarding my great love for him.

Desultory Tidbit Two:

My almost eight year old still cannot read. I am not at all concerned about this fact and am utterly confident that when he is ready to read it will happen relatively quickly. However, we are going to meet my immediate family for a little get together next weekend. Between my siblings and their spouses and children, we number nineteen and we're going to spend a "fun" filled five days in Estes Park where hopefully no one will bring up the fact that Johnny can't read. More on that topic later.

Desultory Tidbit Three:

Here is more proof that the gods hate atheists. Instead of letting old age creep in with a nice gray pub (short for pubic hair not public house) or something innocuous, God has smote me with arthritis in the middle finger of my left hand. No more on that later. That's all I have on that particular topic.

Desultory Tidbit Four:

I've been wrapped up in pursuing my Ayn Rand/Nathaniel Brenden moments and the damage control regarding the execution of such moments, and all that sinning has distracted me from blogging. Oops.

The Muted Orchestra and My Not So Dreaded In-Laws

About a decade ago, I was in Sydney with my then boyfriend, that one with the Canadian flag tattoo, the inverted nipples, and the really funny jokes. We sat on the beach at day and did telemarketing at night. For some reason or another, we decided to move back to London. We arrived on a Monday, and on Friday, I fell head over hells in love with the largest tallest, back-hairiest English man on that little island. Farewell, jolly Canadian.

I never actually saw them, but I am sure there was a massive orchestra following us around for at least a year.

I don't hear that orchestra as much now because their sounds have been largely muted by piles of bills and shouts of children. However, they always play a little louder when my in-laws are around. One of the things I love most about The Man is his family.

His father is a garrulous, old retired gamekeeper (ala the antagonist in Danny Champion of the World) who gave my kids the giant ear genes of which I'm so fond. His mother, unfortunately, passed away years before I came along. His step mother is an absolutely amazing retired palliative care nurse, and if I had to choose a personality to have other than my own sparkling personality, I'd choose hers.  And, oh, the cadre of brothers and steps brothers... I've long entertained the idea that it would be swell to live in a country torn by civil war where I get to sequentially be widowed and marry my merry loins through the lot of them.

Luckily, these too deep affections for the brothers have never been a problem because I have always followed the advice that my then best friend, the best thing to come out of France since stinky cheese, gave me before I spent my first Christmas with their family: "Minger," she said, (imagine this statement in a darling French accent coming out of a beautiful Audrey Hepburn face) "Minger, do not get drunk and hit on his brothers." I have managed to follow that great advice for a decade.

Now, I can hear the orchestra a little more clearly because one of The Man's brothers is in town. Whenever his family is around, his accent gets a little stronger, and he seems comfortable and engaged in a way that he never is around Americans. I too often forget that I ripped The Man from his island, and that everything that seems weird to me here must seem doubly weird to him. I wish that I could see them all more often, but mostly, I wish that I could see him see them more often because it's really heart warming to see him so animated.