One of my favorite things to do at the hotel is to talk to foreigners with the words they say to me. To the Japanese, upon arrival, I'll offer a comforting "Checkwing in?" or to Spaniards, upon departure, "You want to make check out?" I find that a "you go now?" can be issued to almost anyone. And a "no no, no two bed, one bed" is quite enjoyable to any four-member family who will hear it. I don't mean to be mean, but we do need to move business along. We never promised you a rose garden, and certainly not two beds.
And now for our feature presentation. Here is a Bill Bryson-esque essay about the Buller family and our family vacations. It's a start.
Bill and Ellie Buller, my beloved yet infuriating parents, are big fans of that tiresome, self-righteous and wonderful philosophy: live simply so that others may simply live. I believe the phrase should be revised to "live simply, so that you may live painfully and uncomfortably but have the luxury of judging other people." My parents shun many common things, deeming them wasteful and indulgent. Things such as air-conditioning, paper towels and high self-regard. These have no place in the Buller house. If you go into Ellie Buller's house looking for a paper towel, she will cheerfully suggest, "Why not this heavy leaden plate or this grease-stained rag dear? I was just peeling an orange myself on this fifty-pound wooden block!" (And by the way, if you do walk casually into Ellie Buller's house, that is exactly how she will respond: cheerfully. This contended, self-satisfied, and somewhat dangerous and self-imperiling manner will be of no comfort, I assure you. It will only add to the intolerability of the situation.) If, in the oven-like heat of a Midwestern summer, you ask Bill Buller if the house can please, please get cooler, he will point out that we have already blocked off all sources of sun-light and all possible air-holes so maybe it's high time you rode your bicycle to the library-and on your way there, why not drop off that 50 pound stack of newspapers at the recyclery? While the house and its surrounding were Commanders' General main torture center, for two weeks each summer during the 1980s, when we lived in Oklahoma, we would all be transferred to a new holding cell: the Buller's 1979 Ford Fairmont, 
for the annual family vacation. The brown 1979 model we had did come equipped with air-conditioning, but only a toxic gas cloud sweeping over the Oklahoma plains would get Commander Bill Buller, an environmental scientist, to roll up the windows and turn on the air. To make matters worse, there was a dreadful upholstery arrangement that has forever scared (perhaps literally) the two outer occupants of the back seat. The Ford Fairmont back seats are cloth, except for two exciting six-inch panels of vinyl on the bench's edges. Back then, my brother was a baby and my sister was a teenager. So my baby brother, bubbling away at the mouth, would sit in a toddler seat in the middle of the backseat of the Fairmont, and my sister and I would sit on the sides, staring out our respective windows, engrossed in our hobbies (Jenny: listening to Stevie Nicks sing "Sara" on her headphones, over and over; me: determined nose-picking) while the unrolled windows turned the interior of the car into a tornado site. (Yes, as if things weren't gloomy enough already out on the Oklahoma plains, we had to have Stevie wailing away on a cocaine high about some girl having to rebuild a house, and then having to call someone once it's completed. I think if anyone ever wants to know why I am so often deeply depressed, plagued by an unrelenting inner sadness, I think we can confidently point to this moment and quickly move on to more puzzling matters.) This arrangement--my sister and I flanking our drooling, smiling baby brother--meant that for my sister and me, one thigh, our inner thigh, would be resting comfortably on the warm, light brown cloth seat, while the outer leg melted into the deep chocolate brown decorative vinyl side panel. Why the hell some designer at Ford opted for this stylish vinyl flourish I will never know. Perhaps they were Mennonites like my dad, certain that a life of unspeakable pain and irrational fear secured your entry into heaven. A six inch panel of flaming hot vinyl would tame the wild spirit of the child, teaching him that life was not like an endless stream of Saturday morning cartoons. Life was filled with pain, sorrow and third-degree burns. Or maybe the designers wanted to add just a flash of luxury to the Fairmont interior. Frankly, it's a miracle this flourish made it past our parents. Didn't they see the polyurethane and sense that it could entice their children to lead a lifetime of dancing, cigarette-smoking, and beer-drinking? I can only imagine that this was the cheapest version of the Fairmont on the lot.
for the annual family vacation. The brown 1979 model we had did come equipped with air-conditioning, but only a toxic gas cloud sweeping over the Oklahoma plains would get Commander Bill Buller, an environmental scientist, to roll up the windows and turn on the air. To make matters worse, there was a dreadful upholstery arrangement that has forever scared (perhaps literally) the two outer occupants of the back seat. The Ford Fairmont back seats are cloth, except for two exciting six-inch panels of vinyl on the bench's edges. Back then, my brother was a baby and my sister was a teenager. So my baby brother, bubbling away at the mouth, would sit in a toddler seat in the middle of the backseat of the Fairmont, and my sister and I would sit on the sides, staring out our respective windows, engrossed in our hobbies (Jenny: listening to Stevie Nicks sing "Sara" on her headphones, over and over; me: determined nose-picking) while the unrolled windows turned the interior of the car into a tornado site. (Yes, as if things weren't gloomy enough already out on the Oklahoma plains, we had to have Stevie wailing away on a cocaine high about some girl having to rebuild a house, and then having to call someone once it's completed. I think if anyone ever wants to know why I am so often deeply depressed, plagued by an unrelenting inner sadness, I think we can confidently point to this moment and quickly move on to more puzzling matters.) This arrangement--my sister and I flanking our drooling, smiling baby brother--meant that for my sister and me, one thigh, our inner thigh, would be resting comfortably on the warm, light brown cloth seat, while the outer leg melted into the deep chocolate brown decorative vinyl side panel. Why the hell some designer at Ford opted for this stylish vinyl flourish I will never know. Perhaps they were Mennonites like my dad, certain that a life of unspeakable pain and irrational fear secured your entry into heaven. A six inch panel of flaming hot vinyl would tame the wild spirit of the child, teaching him that life was not like an endless stream of Saturday morning cartoons. Life was filled with pain, sorrow and third-degree burns. Or maybe the designers wanted to add just a flash of luxury to the Fairmont interior. Frankly, it's a miracle this flourish made it past our parents. Didn't they see the polyurethane and sense that it could entice their children to lead a lifetime of dancing, cigarette-smoking, and beer-drinking? I can only imagine that this was the cheapest version of the Fairmont on the lot. This horrific upholstery arrangement meant that for hours after my sister and I got in the car, we would be propping up one leg, letting the treacherous hot lava beneath us cool, while our tongues wagged outside of our mouths and our eyes rolled into the backs of our heads with agony, the lactic acid building in our legs. In the front seat, our parents would be calmly noting how the car was actually "quite cool" and thankfully we didn't need to turn the air on "just yet." While we breathlessly awaited a diverting stop, whether it was the Childhood Home of Laura Ingalls Wilder or the West Whitlock Recreation Area of the Historic Lewis and Clark Trail, we knew that the respite would be brief and ultimately we would be returning to our cells.
Further notes on the 1982 Ford Fairmont. This car was the source of much sorrow for me. I had seen several friend's mothers' Cutlass Calais's and Cutlass Supremes. While inside, I spotted a variety of shiny silvery buttons that could make windows lower and rise, and car seats shift forward and back. Also, those cars had seats that were upholstered with a soft, velvety mauve fabric, with not an inch of vinyl in sight. If my parents had one of those cars, or even if we had a super cool Ford Fairmont station wagon, certainly my aim would improve in softball, I would no longer struggle so with memorizing my multiplication tables, and definitely I would stop peeing my pants in public so much. The secrets to success were uttered inside those maroon, full-powered sedans. The Bullers, doomed to a life of upright, simple living, would be forever locked out, spending our summers lifting one thigh, fretting over a girl named Sarah and her rebuilt house, while the gales of Oklahoma wind blew our feathered hair straight back.
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