The RV Series-Parked in Newport- Rules were made to be Broken? A post from Grandma Griper

Our guest poster today is Grandma Griper, a crotchety old bird.

Kathy’s note:   If you look up the definition of”gripe” you find:

1. To complain naggingly or constantly, to grumble

2. To suffer pain in the bowels

Grandma Griper is complaining because weekends at the RV park give her a pain in the bowels or that general area.

Maxine

Ahhhh.   The sweet sound of quiet.  The birds singing in the trees, the sound of the water, the peaceful hum of traffic in the distance.

Sounds idyllic doesn’t it?

We now return you to reality and a weekend at the RV park.

Clown cars unloading ridiculous items, gangs of roving kids, loud drunk neighbors yelling long past the posted “quiet hours”, piles of dog waste in the common areas and Mr. Blowhard whistling constantly.

This RV park is beautiful.   Water, trees, green space, all the amenities a person could ask for.   In season it is expensive to stay here.    We choose this park because of those things (except for the expense, we chose it in spite of that one).

The old man and I are GOBs  ( Grumpy Old Bastard/Bitch).  We have tattoos on our butts with those initials and each other’s picture.

I’m that grumpy old lady who has forgotten what it is like to have fun.   I  have one storage area under BBoW dedicated to the things that dare to cross my property line.  (Beware children, remember the witch in Hansel and Gretel?  I’m pretty sure one of those storage spaces contains an oven….)

We follow the rules we were handed on check in.   We believe that “rules are the road map to a happy life”.   I keep telling that other Kathy to shut her pie hole about loosening up and going with the flow.   She drives me bat shit crazy.

The old man and I sit in our drivers and passenger seat behind the one way screen and watch the rule breakers just so we can bitch.    It is the highlight of our day!

The Rules:

One car per site.

Quiet hours begin at 10 pm on weekdays, 11 pm on weekends.

Pick up your dog shit. ( Ok, they didn’t say shit but that is what it is..)

Speed limit 10 mph.

etc. etc. etc.   Lots and lots of etc.

What the hell happened to courtesy, respect for others and the rules in general?

Stop signs?  Doesn’t mean them.   Especially not their children driving golf carts at top speed.   Those darling little future NASCAR drivers.

Quiet hours?   For everyone else, not them.  They are entitled to have fun.  They believe their voices are a symphony everyone wants to hear.

Dog Shit?   Their dogs shit is gold, everyone wants to step in it.   The poop bags the resort provides are for them to use for other things on their site.

I could go on and on but that other Kathy is shoving me out of her way.   I’m old, my bones are brittle, she could break something.

The old man ( also know as Planning Dave, Ants in his Pants Dave etc) is also bugging ( and whirling like a damn dervish) to get his day planned.

It gives me something else to gripe about.   I love that.

Until the next time Kathy allows me to take over the blog, Grandma Griper signing off.

Stay tuned…..

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