We’re leaving in a little while on our 1,000-mile, 16-hour drive out to the suburbs of this nation’s fair capital for some raucous holiday fun with a tribe of little cousins. And aunts and uncles. And grandparents.
I’m sure my blog addiction won’t let too many days pass before I’m online again with you all. But until tomorrow night, I’ll be sitting in a little metal box with three other people and four iPods, trying to remind them that as the Imperatrix, I have decided that we will NOT listen to Boy Kill Boy or Beyonce (yes, they have very different tastes, these offspring of mine) again until we listen to some Crystal Method first. And if the Consort is nice, I’ll let him play some of his Loreena McKennitt or Fiona Apple. But only when he’s driving. (Because driver gets first dibs on music.)
I’ll leave you with some bullets from the last time we made this trek (for Christmas two years ago):
There are long stretches of highway in Illinois where you’ll see signs which state: “High-Security Prison in Area. Do NOT Pick up Hitchikers”. Comforting, don’t you think?
Ohio highways are treacherous. They get slick with ice and they are packed with high-speed trucks which box you in; this makes it very likely that if you happen to need to brake (OK, maybe you were going a bit fast, but not much!), the car will slide and slip. As the car is swerving towards the truck to your right ... then the truck in front of you ... then the truck to your rear, you’ll shout, “I don’t know how to keep control!” Your spouse will respond calmly, “You’re doing just fine, keep doing what you’re doing.” (And you thank the gods you picked such a steady-under-pressure kind of guy, because if the roles were reversed, the only thing you could think of to say would be “EEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!”) You’ll end up in the snowy grass median, facing the other direction. With no real damage to your father-in-law’s station wagon, which he lent you for this trip. And you’ll be able to push out of the snowbank without assistance from strangers (not that any was offered, in any case).
Pennsylvania Rest Stops--which are great places to take a break when there’s a snowstorm swirling around you and you wonder how the heck you’re going to make it to DC tonight--house McDonalds which provide veggie burgers as part of their menu. You try not to think of what they were cooked with, because, dammit, you’re all hungry, you’re sick to death of Subway sandwiches, and you need savory food, not Cinnabuns, fer crying out loud.
See you in a couple of days. (I think I’ll let the Consort do the driving through Ohio this time.)
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