Sparks Fly in PCB

To be such prudes, we Culverhouse’s love a good trip to Panama City. We’ve been gracing that trashy town with our presence since ’89.

And we don’t take it lightly, either. We hit all the tourist attractions: putt-putt, local arcades, Pineapple Willys. Well, almost all of the tourist attractions. We usually choose to bypass ‘Thong Thursday’ at Club Vela.

FYI: The only reason I’m aware that ‘Thong Thursday’ exists is because Baylee discovered the phrase on their billboard the year she was learning to read along with all 14,000 billboards for ‘Café Risque’ between here and Florida. She begged to stop on the way home because they had “toys” and “games.” Ha.

Anyway, anyone who has known my dad for more than fifteen seconds knows that he is an obsessive-compulsive bargain shopper. Despite being a successful Anesthesiologist, he drives a 12-year-old Ford Ranger with a mis-matched door (my fault), has one of those antique cell phones that isn’t a touch screen, and will literally kick my 79-year-old grandma in the shin on the way to the mailbox so he can get his hands on the Kroger sale paper before she does. 35 cents off Heinz Ketchup? Cut that one out!

He is determined to get the most for his money on absolutely EVERYTHING. Well, except when it comes to hotel rooms. On this, Dr. Doug has learned his lesson…the hard way.

Here’s why, when it comes to hotel rooms, Dr. Doug will drop a pretty penny to please his girls.

Before one of our yearly trips down to PC, Dad had spent HOURS sitting in his swivel chair scouring the Internet for deals on various places to stay. He finally found this gem of a place, The Beach Club, nestled between the dunes of Panama City’s famous white, sandy beaches.

He strolled out of his office triumphantly after booking a week-stay at “the club.” Mom, Baylee, and I rolled our eyes as he bragged about the extra 10% he saved by booking on the Internet.

After a five-hour drive, twelve bathroom breaks, one carsickness fit, and three spankings, our turquoise van (another one of his bargains that later backfired when I refused to ride in it because it was just so hideous) came to a screeching halt outside of a two story, Spanish-style hotel complex painted a striking shade of Pepto Bismol pink. Beside it, a matching pink neon sign flashed the letters “BE CH C UB. “ It was also the only place in town that had the “vacancy” sign still lit. (Here’s a hint: If a hotel in Panama City has vacancy in June, something’s up…)

Now, it’s no secret that I’m a germ freak. But I don’t even come close to comparing to Peggy Culverhouse.

“I’m going to kill you, Doug,” my mom says through gritted teeth.

Determined to make the best out of this dreadful situation, my dad walks into the office to pick up our key while Mom, Baylee, and I sit in the car and talk bad about him.

Dad returns with the key, walks over to room 319, turns the knob, and the door creaks open. Inside, two full-sized beds sit on top of green shag carpeting. A small TV with 4-foot rabbit ears sits in the corner.

My mom instructs my sister and me to put on our flip-flops before entering and to not touch a single thing.

The first thing Mom does upon entering the room is spread our beach towels over the beds. She then walks over to the huge window on the opposite wall.

“At least we’ll be able to get some sunshine with this huge window,” she says as she pulls the vomit-colored floral curtains apart, exposing an awesome view of a brick wall.

“I’m going to kill you, Doug,” we hear again.

After a quiet supper, a quick trip to WalMart for Lysol and Mr. Clean, and a sponge bath (we decided not to use the shower after we determined that the green tile was actually white tile layered with algae), we settled into our beds of towels in hopes that a day at the beach would lift our spirits.

Early the next morning, I’m startled awake by the sound of heavy rain and a strange electrical zapping and popping that sounds like a mixture of aluminum foil and popcorn in a microwave.

I look over at Baylee. Her eyes are as big as saucers and she’s clutching all seven of the stuffed animals we have in the bed between us. The plastic bags mom had put over our pillows had made it hard to sleep, I guess.

“What in the world is that noise?” I whisper.

“I dunno…do you see that light flashing?” Baylee says nervously, her eyes darting across the room.

I had been so caught up in the noise that I had failed to notice that every few seconds, the room was filled with a greenish flash of light. I turn towards the TV. Sparks are flying.

“IT’S ON FIRE! THE TV IS ON FIRE!” I yell as my mom, who’s laying in a coffin-like position, trying not to touch anywhere but her towel, bolts out of bed.

By this time, Dad has made his way over to the smoking machine and accessed the situation, pausing only to kill a roach.

“It’s not on fire, Ashlee, the leak in the roof is allowing rain to drip on the cords, and it’s causing an electrical surge. Everyone just calm down.”

Before my mom has time to serve the divorce papers, my dad is dressed.

“I’M GOING TO KILL YOU, DO…”

The door slams behind him as my dad makes his way to the front office.

Two hours later, as we sip Pina Coladas on the private patio of our new, right-on-the-beach suite, Dad laughs nervously as he jokes, “I won’t ever make that mistake again.”

We all agree.

When you live with a queen and two princesses, anything less than the best is a felony.