the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

what’s the matter with these people

Looks like there is an ADULT on EXIT 72. No wait. There’s smaller print on that billboard. It says….Lion’s Den ADULT Superstore EXIT 72. As morbidly fascinating as that is, we’re running more or less on time, so I think we’ll avoid that vortex of iniquity. This time.

We’ve decided that “dog” isn’t as pretty of a word as “puppy,” so some of our expressions will have to be changed. We can have puppy-eared books. The puppy days of summer. If you’ve walked around too long, your puppies probably hurt. Pretty soon, I'll have to pee like a big puppy, puppy-gone-it.

At least half of the drivers in this state are dyslexic. Not only do they seem convinced that 60 means 90 and vice versa, but they don’t recognize the difference between the left and right lanes. I'm not sure what affliction this is, but they also couldn’t maintain a steady speed if their souls depended upon it.

When we set out from Colorado Springs, we had decent number of items in the back of the car, but we'd left room to put down a bed pad and sleeping bag. Since Plain Dealing, however, the sleeping bag has been buried under a collection of Christmas presents. We look like mobile hoarders. For the last couple of days, we've been hearing something from back there, like there’s a critter trapped in the mess.

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The trouble with having a great vacation is that it gives one so little to write about. I might have to make some stuff up....

Turns out, Steve and his family were all down with a tummy virus/flu, so we had to avoid their home. As soon as we found this out, we stopped at the next hotel, b’cause we were bushed. It was the Radisson in Baton Rouge. (Speaking of which, one of the wonderful things about being from the South is that even posh digs, like this one, seem dirt cheap to you when you go back to visit.) We took showers, then laid around in decadent cleanliness watching Slumdog Millionaire until dinner, when we popped into the Mestizo-Cajon restaurant next to the hotel.

It was a weird meal, to say the least. The place specializes in Mexican-Cajon mixed food. We shared a crab-shrimp quesadilla. It was…interesting. Then we went back to the hotel, watched Avatar, then crashed like big puppies. We checked out of the hotel at five minutes ‘til noon, then went to Cracker Barrel for breakfast. Mmmmmm.

The next stop was Amy’s pad in Biloxi. She introduced us to a restaurant in Ocean Springs—the Phoenicia—with just incredible Mediterranean fare. It’s a BYOB place (which is odd to me, but cool). I went to the car to fetch some wine we’d picked up the night before. The waiter was waiting with corkscrew when I came back in, and he seemed a bit confused. He’s probably never had anyone bring a box of wine into that restaurant.

After this absolutely fabulous dinner, we retired to Amy’s apartment, talked, and sang until we were all puppy-tired. When we awoke the next day, she was gone to work. We showered, cleaned up everything the best we could, left a note, and left for Puck’s in Southern Georgia.

Somewhere in Florida,* we made up a new game. It started off with, “Look! It’s a house!” If you’ve ever travelled somewhere that houses are scarce, you understand why you might feel moved to state the obvious like this. This was followed by, “Look! It’s another house!” then “Look! It’s a house made of logs!” and (of course), “Look! It’s a house that’s a trailer!” About the time I pointed to an open field and said, “Look! It’s a house that isn’t!” and “Look! It’s a house that’s a silo!” Mich accused me of cheating.

This is as close as I’ve come to being in the puppy house this trip.

* I know, I know. But it isn’t a detour. Check your map before you accuse us of having a bad sense of direction.

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We got to Puck and Bobby’s pad around 7pm. We dined on grilled pork chops, watched TV, chatted in the man-cave, and relaxed like we lived there. Puck gave us the guest room “if we didn’t mind people snoring next door.” No problem. Between my trazadone, the cat playing all night, and Mich’s snoring, I didn’t hear a thing from the next room.

This morning, we rolled out and padded around in our PJs all morning while we munched buttermilk biscuits and sipped coffee.

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Now we're in Peachtree City, and we keep losing the cat. He's a scrawny little thing, and he's scared of every little noise. Fortunately, we equipped him with a collar that jingles, sort of a kitty Lojack.

The next time he jingles, he's getting a bath.

This should be good.

d