Something incredible happened this weekend: I went somewhere in the vicinity of Mulletville, and I have nothing bad to say about it.
I won’t lie. I’m kind of bummed about it. Cheery posts devoid of mullet sightings are diametrically opposed to the raison d’etre of this blog. The mullet carnage feeds me.
Alas. We must grow beyond our own fences.
So, here goes. Gigolo—I mean, Chuck—and I took Junior to Mystic Seaport. Chuck’s been trying to get me to go there for ages, but I always put up a fight. Not only do you have to pay $24 to get into the seaport, but you have to walk through an entrance gate and once you’re in, you’re in (they shackle you with wristbands and everything).
That only means one thing: let the price gauging begin.
You know exactly what I’m talking about. Once you’re inside anywhere lately, cups of ice are $15. Hotdogs are $35. A beer is $99.99—and it’s not even good beer; it’s Bud. They know you’re hungry, thirsty and trapped.
But honk my hooters, the seaport didn’t try to financially rape us. A respectable beer was $5 (if you wanted Bud, they were giving away free samples in the restroom). A 30-minute boat ride was $5.50. Heck, they even let us put the entrance fee we’d paid toward a year-long membership. Plus, they threw in a free hat for Chuck.
They were nice (like, I'm getting misty). In Connecticut, that's practically unheard of.
But the very best part of the whole day was that it was a gorgeous sunny day in Connecticut and the place wasn’t mobbed. Look, there's hardly anyone around:
If I were a gusher, I’d gush. Look at the crusty ship innards we were able to experience:
If you’re from Connecticut or visiting Connecticut, I highly recommend a trip. The bathrooms aren’t a mangy afterthought like some other places in Mystic, and you could easily spend more than one day in the seaport with children of any age. There are kids’ theater performances, anchored boats to play on, a children's museum on-site, horse-drawn carriage rides, old fashioned shops that do more than sell tacky t-shirts, etc., etc. Look, more boats:
My only regret is that before this trip, I had no idea that my two-year-old was a Thomas the Train droid. There were hints, to be sure, but nothing worrisome.
Now? Now I am scared shitless. While at the seaport, every boat whistle elicited a “Thomas is puffin!” from Junior. Planes in the air were Jeremy; helicopters were Harold. While aboard a boat, Junior was convinced he saw Salty and Cranky by the docks. When the steamboat captain yelled, “Let’s get going” before the boat tour, Junior turned to the woman next to him and said, “We’re going to the Island of Sodor!”
If I hadn't been sober, I might have believed him. He was so convinced.
These little trains are evil. Just look at them! I know they're plotting to kill me in my sleep.