I’m tired and it’s getting late, so I’ll dispense with the research and get on with the entry. I seem to recall a study where mice are given the choice of food or an addictive drug. (Try and try as I might, I can’t find it via Google.) As I recall, the mice choose the drug over food until one of two things happen: 1) the mice die, or 2) the mice run out of drug. I have the same relationship with Kit Kat bars.

I was at a movie this afternoon with my wife (War of the Worlds, a great flick). We got to our seats just as the previews were starting. By the time the previews ended I had an empty bag of “Kit Kat Bites.” I snorted that thing down like it was my first meal in two weeks. It was a disgusting display of gluttony and lack of self-control, and I’ve still got the upset stomach to show for it.

The important thing is that I was able to make it through the movie without having to excuse myself to use the facilities. It was a close call, but this story has its happy ending, just like the movie.

On a side note, anyone know a good remedy for nausea? I’m normally down with the OTC (drugs that is), but they really let me down when it comes to my digestive system. Does that qualify as “more than I needed to know?”

I am here, back in my domain. The home field advantage is once again mine. My first blush impression of the vacation past, and of South Carolina in general, is that it was a lot like home. As it turns out, South Carolina is in a part of the country known as the “south.” As such, its climate in late July is best described as “hot, damn hot, and wet.” As it happens, the same can be said for Florida. As the name implies, Myrtle Beach is on the coast, a coast with a lot of sand. As it happens, Florida is known for it’s beaches too. In fact, shortly after we arrived in Myrtle Beach we were asked where we were from. After hearing our reply, our fellow vacationers mumbled something about not understanding the appeal of South Carolina when you live in Florida. Indeed. We were still in Kansas (so to speak), and that was precisely the problem.

Way back in October or November Myrtle Beach seemed like such a good idea, but looking back on it, we may have been caught up in the emotions of having a child, that or we weren’t getting enough sleep. I was living in a dream world where all vacations are created equal, where they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable traits, that among these are: rest, relaxation, and the pursuit of entertainment. Alas, unlike our founding fathers, my revolution was not won. Our vacation was a slice of home, strapped to the top of a van and driven eight hours north, to a stretch of tacky, paved over sand, the likes of which mine eyes have not seen since an ill-fated road-trip to Daytona during my college years. The rest of the trip was tainted by the fact that I could have skipped the eight hours in a car with two kids and two in-laws, and driven all of thirty minutes to a hotel right here in the Sunshine State. These many moons since the trip was conceived, I had visions of seeing sights and taking in sounds not known in these parts. Yet in six days we ate at a grand total of three restaurants that don’t have locations in central Florida. And to top it all off, South Carolina is pretty damn flat too. Their idea of a hill is a highway overpass. Sound familiar, Florida residents?

Ah, but it wasn’t really so bad. It was somewhat relaxing (at times). The hotel we stayed at had a really cool pool. Saturday night we took a drive down the coast a ways and had some of the best homemade ice cream I’ve ever had, perched on a pier overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. Thursday evening we walked the riverfront of historic Savannah, and had the second best homemade ice cream I’ve ever had. Now that I mention it, Savannah was the saving grace of the trip (and home to two out of those three restaurants I mentioned before). If I had it to do all over again, and I could have my pick of destinations, I’d pick Savannah over Myrtle Beach and not think twice. It was on that Thursday evening, our first of two evenings when Georgia was on our mind, when I walked on my first, honest to goodness cobblestone street – ate in a place called “Spanky’s” – and had the second best homemade ice cream I’ve ever had (sitting at a cobblestone street-side table in a wonderfully strange city, watching the pedestrians and occasional car go by, looking out over the river, on a breezy, lazy, weekday evening).

Now that’s a vacation.

After a stopover in Savannah the previous night, we made it into Myrtle Beach the following afternoon. We stopped in on our room to lecture Beth on the finer points of empathy, consideration, and not using your feet to push off on the side of the car to gain leverage against your father in obtaining more of the space in the back seat. From there we went to Planet Hollywood. Yes, they have one here too. We didn’t heed the first warning, that the Hard Rock Cafe next door had an hour wait and Planet Hollywood’s was ten minutes. No, for that kind of clue to work you’ve got be able to reach up with your hand, hold the big red flag out of your eyes, and read the neon sign that says, “DON’T EAT HERE.” We were just like so many tired, tourist-flavored lemmings marching to our culinary doom.

Cheryl ordered a chicken pasta dish that was heavy on the pasta and not so much on the chicken. She was the victim of a classic bait and switch. The menu pictured this dish that featured large, prominent cuts of meat. Reality featured two thin strips of chicken that were so well hidden they were only found with assistance of the waiter’s expert eye.

“See, it has chicken.” “Not quite like the picture in the menu, though, is it?” “Well, sometimes they just stir it up.” “Stirring doesn’t explain the fist sized breasts of chicken in the menu, and two pinkie sized strips on my plate.”

Since Cheryl was sharing the dish with her mother, and neither one were satisfied with a single strip of chicken, they sent it back. Cheryl’s father ordered a hamburger, a seemingly safe choice. The problem was once again one of expectations. He was expecting a round patty, but instead he got a crescent moon. Now, I’ve got nothing against the crescent moon, but it makes a lousy shape for a hamburger patty. Not least of which because everything else on follows the circular paradigm of sandwich building. He sent it back.

Now I’m no expert, but I’ve learned from countless horrible tales of the restaurant business that you NEVER send your food back. Having sent two dishes back, I was beginning to worry that our next reservations would be at the nearest hospital.

With all of these problems, it is customary for a management type to come out and address the problem in one fashion or another. There go our expectations running wild again. One youthful management type stopped by our table to ask how everything was, and my wife answered, “cold.” We didn’t hear from him again.

A tip is a terrible thing to waste.