I cannot begin to tell you how very, very grateful I am to be sitting in my own home, in my own chair that has my own butt-grooves. And my house is clean, and my goldfish are alive. And my sweet Reverend Fez sent me a book: No One Cares What You Had for Lunch – 100 Ideas for Your Blog.
I can’t wait to read it. I love it, Fez! Thank you! Oh, and I had pizza.
And here’s what I wrote yesterday.
Hello from the road. I’m posting this post-humously. No no, that’s not right. I’m posting this post road-trip . . . ly. Post-humous = dead. Not dead. Alive.
We got up at 4 a.m. and immediately Melissa knew that something bad was going to happen today, because her coffee came out wrong. Then Rocky’s new toy pony fell out of the back and broke, which was another obvious sign of some sort of impending doom. Rocky did not nap and started hitting me. And it started to rain. Signs, all signs. I just sigh and smile and think, my wife is so cute.
Then about a half hour past Memphis we heard a noise. Then we felt the noise. I think I won’t go – no, I’ll go – no I won’t – yes, maybe I will – our Pathfinder seemed to be having an internal conflict. Yes, I drive an SUV. A nice, big, muscley one. Named Carlo. Can’t box me in, Baby!
We shuddered to the next exit and stopped at a place called something like Earl’s Fiksit. Earl said “it’s yore transmission, ladies. Cayn’t fiksit, tho. No charge.”
The difference between an Arkansas accent and a Maine accent is all in the R. An Arkansian leans heavy into the R, really gets his mouth into it, curls up the lips and says, “RRR”. As in, “whud-thayat cost yoo, ARRRleen?” A Mainer reflects his old world roots by letting the R drift away into the fog. There is no R in the middle or at the end of a word. As in, “Ahleen, get me a beeyah!” Oh, and if you ever go to Maine and some trendy-looking thin person eating lobster tail at the Muddy Rudder who claims to live there tells you without a downeastern accent that Mainers call themselves “Mainiacs”, shoot her. She’s from California.
Hey, Cali! Love ya! Just don’t move to my home state and try to make it cute! Maine is not cute! It’s a fat, ornery motherfucker!
Well then, where were we? Right! Arkansas. We got back on 40 and limped toward Little Rock, hoping there’d be something in a bigger town. We passed a clearcut with a sign on it that said “Coming Soon! Sherwood Forest”. It showed a picture of a parking lot.
By the good grace of Saint Friend-on-a-Cell-Phone we managed to make it to a Nissan dealership. While we waited for Carlo’s diagnosis Rocky played in a tub full of naked Barbies. She said, “Look, Mamas!” and held up a Barbie-head stuck on the pointy end of a dismembered leg. “It’s my fairy wand,” she said, waving it around.
In the dealership lounge, Judge Judy was on TV. Then we got courtesy shuttled to a La Quinta for the night, and the lobby TV had Judge Judy on, too. As I walked down the hall, I could hear Judge Judy admonishing dimwits from behind the closed doors. When I went to check out the exercize room, there was Judge Judy, eternally annoyed with the morons who get on her show. I turned on my room TV. I almost screamed. There she was. I said “CHANGE IT! CHANGE IT!” and Melissa said, “No kidding!” and we watched cartoons for the rest of the day.
Luckily it was only a part we needed, and not the whole damn thing, and they shipped it in today and got us on the road at 3:30 and Melissa, she is just a driving superhero, because she drove that damn car all the way home from Little Rock, straight on through with just a few potty breaks. How does one drive “straight through” for 8 and 1/2 hours with a two-year-old, you ask? I don’t know. She’s just fine sitting back there, happy as can be. Rocky is an alien.