Sinkhole/Pothole, Potato/Patato

We all know how Savannah tends to exaggerate. So when she told me that her parking spot was resting on a sinkhole, I immediately told her to look up the definition of "pothole" as she was obviously confused. Knowing that arguing with her mother was both futile and disrespectful, Savannah dropped the subject. A few days later, I decided to tease my daughter a bit, asking her about the state of her "sinkhole." "Well, the apartment complex people partitioned my parking spot off for now," Savannah reported. I sighed. "For a pothole? Really, Savannah! What is society coming too!" Savannah, again, let the matter drop.

During the seven hour drive to Connecticut, it was tough to determine whether I was more excited to visit Savannah or see this so-called "sinkhole" of hers. As Brad and I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately spotted the barrage of florescent orange traffic cones congregating around Savannah's assigned spot. "This is just ridiculous," I grumbled, stomping over to inspect the erosion-infected area. Maybe stomping wasn't such a great idea. "Brad," I said, bouncing up and down a bit on the driveway, "the ground feels spongy." He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside before testing it out for himself. We peered cautiously into the cavern and I let out a cautious, "Hello in there..." which was immediately echoed back.
"Do you keep rappelling rope and a helmet in your car," I asked Savannah who had, at this time, joined us as we debated the possibility of fitting a spelunking expedition into our trip.

I am happy to report that, vocabulary-wise, I was right.  According to dictionary.com, a pothole is a hole formed in pavement while a sinkhole is a hole formed in rock by the action of water. "Wait, how do you figure that," Savannah interjected. "With your definition, I say potato/patato." She thumbed through her fancy electronic gizmo. "See," she said, pointing, "the definition has to do with what's happening under ground. Not above it." We peered warily into what WAS beginning to look like a sinkhole. Savannah was right. ("What did you say," Savannah asked, "Could you say that again, please.") Savannah was right. ("That's right," she nodded.) A pothole can be patched but this heavily-guarded guy could be advertised as the Guinea Pig Grand Canyon of Groton, Connecticut. Guinea pigs from across the nation...no, make that the world, would flock (Crawl? Scamper?) to Savannah's evacuated parking spot, don safety harnesses, sign a liability release form and tour the dark and mysterious recesses beneath acres of asphalt. "Why are you limiting this fun-filled excursion to just guinea pigs," Brad wondered (and then wondered WHY he had wondered). "Hamsters have wheels," I explained, "What do guinea pigs have?" He nodded, tiring of looking at a hole in the ground after driving seven hours. "Yeah," he said, "I guess you're right" (What did you say," I asked, "Could you say that again, please?").