Making Waves

WARNING: This post contains graphic content which may not be suitable for those with weak stomachs.

There is an expression, the nicer version of which is “stuff happens,” that could’ve been the theme for what began as a fantastic evening in Grand Lake, Colorado. My in-laws were in from New Orleans, and because they live below sea-level, driving to the mountains is always on the agenda when they visit. We had spent the day driving up from Denver, through Estes Park and the Rocky Mountains to the picturesque Grand Lake just on the other side. Ready to take in the sunset, sip some cocktails and enjoy a leisurely dinner, we headed to the deck at the Gateway Inn where we had rooms for the night. They have a gorgeous view of the lake and the mountains from there, with outdoor fire pits and a live band.

Did I mention the live band? It doesn’t take much to get Reagan out in front of a crowd, doing her thing, whatever that might be. But, add music and she brings the extra ham. She was the first one out on the dance floor and refused to leave as the party got going. Complete strangers were asking to dance with the belle of the ball.

Up to that point Reagan had finished off an entire glass of chocolate milk and was showing off for MawMaw by sitting on her head. Her original meal untouched, she begged for pizza. I gave in and ordered it, desperate to get something in her tummy. I told the waitress to bring another glass of chocolate milk with the meal, since it came with it. This time it would be her incentive to eat.

Things start to blur from here as two of our friends arrived at the same time dinner was being served and in the midst of greeting them and hot food being delivered, Reagan managed to get hold of her second glass of chocolate milk and slurp it all down in about one minute with no one noticing. Until…

It came in three or four mountainous waves. Just when you thought it was over, there was more. Our waitress rushed in too early to clean up and received some of the fall-out. We all tried to step in and help but she brushed us off telling us she had it all under control and to just get our little girl out of there. Nice, relaxing evening now turned Chernobyl.

“I’m sorry I threw up,” Reagan uttered to my in-laws, our newly arrived guests and the waitress now wielding a mop. Belle had become a bio-hazard as we made our way through the restaurant and up the lobby stairs to our room. Reagan made sure to tell everyone we passed what had happened. As if they didn’t notice.

All bathed and freshly-dressed, Reagan was ready to go back downstairs and share some more moves like nothing had ever happened. You or or I would never be able to show our faces again for 5 square miles, but Reagan? She was looking for dancing partners. Her instant rebound was an encouragement to me to shake-off the party foul and enjoy the rest of the evening. After all, stuff happens. There was even a sign hanging in the lobby of the hotel that said so, in French.

When we returned, our friends, thankfully both fathers, and our dinners were still there. But, where was our waitress? We were told she was required by law to cut her shift short and go straight home after cleaning up “toxic waste.” GAAAAH. I could not have felt more terrible. We hunted her down as she was still cleaning up, and made sure she was taken care of for all that we had put her through. She grumbled something under her breath about two chocolate milks, and took the money. Awkward. Perhaps she should have re-read the sign.

Not about to let a little party foul slow her down, Reagan gobbled down her pizza, hopped off my lap and traded off dance partners all night until the band went home. Love that girl.