The biggest challenge, I think, that most people have with traveling, is finding the ability to strike a healthy balance between squeezing in all of the high-energy sightseeing they can possibly manage and actually getting a little R&R.
If they’re not careful, their vacation can turn into work.
Me?
I don’t have that problem.
I know when I’m feeling energized, and I know when it’s time to stop, find a cafe with outdoor seating, and sip a glass of wine.
Striking this balance can be particularly difficult on a road trip when, if you’re spending extended periods of time in the car, it can feel like you’re resting because you’ve been sitting for several hours, but in reality you’ve been a highly concentrated ball of compact energy — shifting music whenever the mood strikes; passing, passing, passing on the left; belting out the lyrics you remember to Billy Joel’s “My Life;” almost peeing your pants when you pass a cop and realize how fast you were going; spending the next half hour daydreaming about living in Europe and doing nothing but driving the Autobahn for days on end; telling yourself you don’t need any more homemade trail mix; and matching your vibrations to those of the vehicle while guzzling your double-shot skinny mocha.
When I left Angie’s place in Virginia, I felt refreshed. Energized. Her perfect energy of physical labor combined with wine-laced porch-sitting was exactly what I needed to rev up for the second leg of my trip.
I knew Erin would still be at work when I arrived in Annapolis, so I took my time getting there, opting for back roads (Hwy 310, anyone? Highly recommended if you’re making a journey up or down the east coast.) over the congested interstates with never-ending repeats of McD’s, T-Bells, and Flying J truck stops.
My method for road trip food selection is simple: If I see a place I like the looks of, I stop. If I see a sign that catches my attention, I stop. If Urban Spoon happens to tell me there’s something along my relative route that’s worth stopping for, I stop.
When I arrived in Annapolis, I decided to stop at a Trader Joe’s for the first time ever to pick up some of their infamous “3-buck Chuck” wine to bring to my compadre’s place. I wandered the aisles, impressed-yet-refusing-to-be-sidetracked by the numerous offered delicacies. I finally asked a sample girl where a sister could find some booze on this lovely afternoon, and she looked at me with what can only be described as an expression of the sincerest empathy. “In Maryland,” she said, because clearly I was a foreigner, “grocery stores can’t sell alcohol.”
Say what?
Having lived in various states and counties south of the Mason-Dixon line for quite some time, I thought I’d already witnessed the gamut of restrictive alcohol sales. In Georgia I performed the grocery store walk of shame on more than one occasion — carrying my case from the registers back to the darkened shelves on a Sunday afternoon.
But this? This required people to make a whole other stop.
“But I just came from Virginia,” I whined.
She looked at me like I probably should’ve stayed there.
No matter. I stopped at an upscale winery and delicatessen where they wearily eyed my selection, poised to judge. “Hey!” The counter lady’s eyes lit-up. “This one’s a very popular choice!”
Apparently my skills are improving. Or rather, my luck was improving, since I randomly selected the bottle based on price and the label. But I smiled anyway, like I hear that all of the time, and went on my merry way.
Now let me just say this. Erin doesn’t actually live in Annapolis. She lives on an island just across the Chesapeake Bay, on the other side of one of the coolest bridges I’ve seen in my life. I’ll have a photo in another post, but hear me: If you have a chance to cross this 4-ish mile bridge in your life, do it.
That is all.
I arrived at her adorable house, ready to curl up on the sofa with a book and a beer I knew she’d left me in the fridge.
But then I saw it.
Her view.
I was shocked.
Not just by the generosity of the Red Stripe, but by the fact that she lives on an inlet that leads out to the Chesapeake Bay.
In fact, if I would’ve stolen her canoe and paddled out just past that last house you see on the left, I would’ve had a spectacular view of the Bay Bridge.
Then I probably would have drifted out to sea, never to be seen or heard from again since I have zero upper body strength, but at least I would’ve died happy.
Instead, I spent the rest of the afternoon curled up in a lawn chair alternating views of my book and the water.
Hey. Don’t judge.
I’d already had a long day driving and shopping for wine.
And that’s the thing — when you find yourself alone in a new place, or especially with people in a new place, it’s easy to run yourself ragged trying to do all there is to do and see all there is to see. At some point, you have to force yourself to accept the fact that you’re never going to do and see everything. That life is an ever-changing kaleidoscope of actions and reactions, mirage-like events that sometimes you see and sometimes you don’t. And sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.
So to me, I wasn’t wasting time.
I was enjoying the moment.
As Billy would say,
I don’t need you to worry for me cause I’m alright —
I don’t want you to tell me it’s time to come home.
I don’t care what you say anymore, this is my life —
Go ahead with your own life, leave me alone.
Thanks, Mr. Joel. I’m glad someone gets me.
What’s your travel style? Would you have camped out with a beer and a book, taken the canoe, or hopped back in the car to explore the town? How do you strike a balance between work and play when you’re on the road?
The thing I love about road trips is their fluidity.
Remaining untethered to some airline’s asinine rules and sordid idea of an itinerary–
Since passengers who boarded before you carried all of their worldly possessions onto the plane in order to avoid paying our exorbitant checked baggage fees, we’re going to have to place your expensive and beloved DSLR camera in the hold…
We’re experiencing a delay either because of inclement weather in Denver OR because the flight crew is busy getting hammered in the employee lounge…
Flight 136 to Atlanta has been overbooked because we enjoy collecting your money for a service we never intended on providing. Please come to the desk if you are willing to reschedule.
— is a freeing feeling. One that can only be fully understood if you know what it’s like to throw your clothes into a suitcase or bag in your trunk, only to realize you’ve forgotten a great pair of shoes, your leather jacket, your tripod, and a bunch of CD’s you burned in the late 90’s, so you toss those into the backseat along with a cooler full of water, caffeinated beverages, homemade trail mix, and several haphazardly assembled chicken salad sandwiches and finally, unrestrictedly, hit the road.
You can pack what you want, as long as there’s still leg room and the windows can open.
(Okay. So the Tracker has limited leg room by default and only 3 of her electric windows still operate, but she’s in incredible working condition — especially considering we met back in 2002, just 3 years after her birth, and since then we’ve had the longest, closest, mutually caring, non-blood-related relationship of my life — with the exception of Alaina, who may as well be blood — and have traveled well over 150,000 miles together. We’re kind of in love. I’ve known her longer than my husband, and she’s never tried to start a fight with me via text message because she knows I hate that.
It’s almost like we’re soul mates.)
Even so, there are some”rules” for road-tripping that, while are certainly less restrictive than the spoken (no electronic devices during take-offs/landings, buckle your seatbelts while seated, don’t pack more than 50 pounds worth of crap) and unspoken (the passenger in the middle seat gets dibs on both armrests, hold all farts until you’ve exited the plane, feed fussy babies pre-flight cough medicine cocktails) rules of air travel, should be abided — or at least acknowledged — in order to guarantee an enjoyable trip for all involved.
Even if it’s just you.
1) Break it up, man. Sure, I could’ve driven directly to Philadelphia to meet up with Justin and his family in an easy, less-than-9-hour day trip. But really? Where’s the fun in that? I have people, you know. People I like to see whenever the mood strikes or when one of us feels like making the effort. And a couple of these people just happen to be living along the general path I had to take to reach Philly from North Carolina.
So I did what any plan-hating, inconsiderate domestiphobe would do — I messaged them on Facebook and told them to get their guest rooms/futons/air mattresses ready, because I’d likely be needing them either sometime the week before or the week after Easter.
Whichever turned out to be more convenient for me.
Or them.
Or mostly me.
This is not the exact path I ended up taking, because I’ve found over the years that U.S. interstates are grotesquely dangerous freaks of infrastructure overcrowded with semi trailers and minivans and repeating clusters of national and regional fast food chains that only serve to make you feel ghastly and bloated and pimply when you finally reach your destination.
Which brings me to:
2) Take the road less traveled. Cross the bridge uncrossed. For real. You see a fork. The left prong takes you on a whirlwind tour of rest stops, gas stations, and enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic. The right prong takes you to sleepy towns, privately owned restaurants, and probably still enough deep fry oil to sink the Titanic.
But the food it fries, 9 times out of 10, is much, much better.
Let’s see McDonald’s bring you this.
The streets are emptier.
The roads have less potholes.
And the views are… well… they smell better than the back end of a truck stop.
3) Eat well. Seriously. Feed yourself. Feed yourself things you can’t/don’t/ wouldn’t dare cook at home. Discover new places. New dishes. New tastes.
After all, who says the vacation has to start when you’ve reached your destination?
4) Don’t pack light. I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but just in case I do, here goes: You’re in a car. You know, that mobile vehicle with wheels, massive in comparison to a single airline seat and quarter of an overhead compartment, so use it. What are you afraid of? That someone will judge you? Elbow you? Stare at you creepily while you try to absorb yourself in The Hunger Games because you’ve become completely obsessed even though it’s a heinous storyline semi-ripped off from or at least probably partially inspired by Richard Bachman’s (aka. Stephen King’s) little-known gem The Long Walk, and you didn’t even know this latest book craze existed until a few weeks ago when everyone started talking about the movie and murderous children and a Peeta that wasn’t a bread/sandwich (pita) but a character in this book that was supposedly so good or disturbing or mind-numbingly twisted that you wouldn’t be able to put it down so you bought it and didn’t actually put it down for 3 days not including sleep and socialization and pee breaks?
Are you afraid that will happen?
Well, I have news.
That only happens on airplanes.
In the safety of your car, no one judges. No one nudges. And no one stares except for when they pass and catch you singing along to Billy Joel’s greatest hits with more enthusiasm than Peeta would show if he were told he could finally have consensual sex with Katniss and she’d actually like it. (I’m only partway through Book 2, by the way, so if you ruin this for me I might have to hate you forever. Or at least for a couple of hours because I have a short attention span, but even so, spoiling plotlines would truly be an evil undertaking.)
The good news is, if you do forget anything, it’s not a big deal to stop somewhere along the line and buy it. But the more you pack, the more money you save, and the less guilty you feel for buying that completely-awesome-yet-unnecessary dreamcatcher from a Pueblo roadside gift shop in Nevada.
5) Bring good music. This is completely subjective, believe it or not. And while modern music is acceptable, anything that inspires nostalgia is better. Billy Joel? Go for it. Avett Brothers? Have at it. Toadies? Go ahead and send me a copy. Because no one judges. (See #4.) And if anyone who happens to be with you does, you can accidentally-on-purpose forget him at a truck stop off the side of I-95.
Or, if you’re nicer and have been paying attention, at a diner off the side of Highway 301 within walking distance of a riverside park and an all-you-can-eat Maryland crab shack and a sign for RedNex sporting goods.
6) Be flexible. Okay. So you want to avoid the interstates, especially around busy cities, but there’s this truly amazing sandcastle competition they hold every year in Cannon Beach, Oregon, and you know there’s no way you’ll make it in time if you completely avoid I-84. Not to mention the fact that sometimes the interstate is just safer, especially while traveling solo, in the way of providing the occasional modern convenience or (hopefully) friendly passerby in case you run into trouble.
So if the situation calls for it, take the interstate. If you have time to peruse a used book store in a quaint seaside village, do it.
Basically this rule means that there are no rules. Kind of like Fight Club, except we get to feel free without having the crap beat out of us.
Good deal, no?
7) Earn Your Keep. This has more to do with the stops between times on the road. When someone’s putting you up for a night (or two, or three, or however long you plan to leach from their generosity while enjoying their company), they’re doing more than providing a bed. They’re providing water, food, hygienic facilities, and a place far more comfortable than your car for stretching out with a good book.
Usually, they’re sharing their home. Knowledge of the place they live and love. Absorb it all, whatever they want to show you, and pay it forward. For our relatives in Philadelphia, I have a gift planned. To Erin, I brought olives and wine. And for Angie?
Well.
Angie opted for manual labor.
So on a sunny Sunday afternoon, we took her front lawn from this:
To this:
And while I may have taken the occasional break to sip water on her fabulous front porch and point out spots that could use improvement, (I was on vacation, after all), I also managed to help a little, and all-in-all felt pretty great about squeezing in some physical activity between wine and food samplings.
So there you have it. Seven rules for road tripping that are subject to change without notice as I become older, crotchetier, and take in more of what this world has to offer.
My apologies, but I’ve had no real time to write or edit photos — Headed to Baltimore in a few!
Isn’t this always the conundrum of someone who wants to write about travel?
When you’re traveling, where is the time for writing?
But I can tell you this — I feel great. Alive. Better than alive. The road is better than any rejuvenating facial cleanser sold at the local drug store.
In the meantime, check out this killer crab cake sandwich I stopped and ate on the drive at a place called Java Jack’s Coffee House:
Taken with my iPhone.
In a last-minute decision to take Hwy 301 North from Williamsburg, VA to Annapolis, MD so I could avoid the ever-terrifying experience of I-95 around D.C. (though sadly bypassing the IKEA there as well), I passed through a little town called Tappahannock.
No, I don’t know how to pronounce that.
It’s perched along the southern edge of the Rappahannock River.
No, I’m not making this up.
Anyway. I saw this little white house once I passed the inevitable slew of fast food and American family style restaurants and entered the older part of town. I was greeted with a smile and told to seat my self. I was, by far, the youngest patron there on a Monday morning at 11:15. Sadly, I’d just missed breakfast, which I’m convinced now would have been spectacular. I was just about to ask whether they’d make an exception to their 11:00 lunch rule when the waitress informed me that one of their specials for the day was a crab cake sandwich.
Well.
I hadn’t technically crossed the Maryland border yet, but I figured my 15 minutes late for breakfast was a sign I should partake an hour early in some famous Maryland crab.
For all of my culinary expertise, this may have come from a can.
Taken with my iPhone.
But I can tell you this: It certainly didn’t taste like it had.
With a full belly and more solitary scenic driving ahead, Java Jack’s proved an excellent Virginia sendoff.
So I’ve been pretty negligent in my writing lately.
It’s not my fault, I swear.
First, there’s my job. I don’t really want to talk about it.
Then, there’s this American duty called taxes. Yes, they come every year. No, it’s not a surprise. The problem? Justin and I are both procrastinators. Two procrastinators in one household is worse than 2 Alphas in a single pack. Where 2 Alphas waste time arguing about whose way they’re going to do something, we waste time thinking about how we’re not going to do something. Alphas will eventually finish the job when they determine who can yell the loudest or one knocks the other into a wall. But 2 procrastinators? We never get anything finished.
So last night, after I arrived home from work 3 hours late and was busy not packing for my trip, we realized. Today is March 30th. That means tomorrow is the 31st. Of course, after that comes April, which means taxes are due in like 15 to 18 days. I didn’t care enough to look it up. And I’m going to be gone for like half of those. So, yeah. Maybe we should get on that. Like… now.
Oh, and that trip? That trip starts today. Only I’m sitting here, typing to you, because my darling husband is off getting my oil changed — something I meant to do last week, I swear, but the days just kept happening one after the other and the change never occurred.
So I’ve spent the morning packing, and he’s prepping the Tracker for our imminently late departure.
And I’ll tell you what — packing for a trip up the coast is not an easy task. Since I’m sure to face all types of weather scenarios as I head further north, I figured the best solution was to just throw all of my things into one giant suitcase.
Okay, not all of my things. But quite a few.
I can do that because I’m driving, hence no exorbitant baggage fees.
Then, of course, there’s the travel outfit itself. Since I rarely show you pictures of myself and I’m antsy waiting to go:
Yep, that is one classy lady. Shorts and a baggy sweater. Whythis particular look? Well, I personally think shorts are more comfortable for driving than jeans, and I don’t wear pajama pants in public. The sweater is to keep off the chill since it’s raining right now, but I’m wearing a tank top underneath in case it gets stuffy in the car.
Loose clothes are key when it comes to road trips. That way, when my inevitable fast food pooch spills over my waistline as I sit for an extended period, I won’t have to look at it.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, yes that’s still our guest room.
Yes, it’s been probably 2 months since we started on the master bedroom.
Yes, it’s still a mess.
And yes, that’s a pile of dirty laundry behind me.
So get off my back, would you?
Yeesh.
Don’t you know that I’m too busy doing important things like throwing clothes into a bag and taking photos of myself in the mirror to do housework? I mean, just look at the title of this blog. If that’s not an excuse, I don’t know what is.
Anyway, I’m officially late for my self-imposed departure time. It’s really not surprising, and fortunately for me, my friends are kind of awesome because they know me. If I were to actually be on time, the world might implode.
So really, I’m doing this for you.
By the way, of course I haven’t looked up things for us to do/see during our one day in NYC. We have reservations to see Ground Zero — can any of you locals or near-NYC-ers tell me what else we should hit that’s nearby? I think I’d probably enjoy some of the more artsy areas. And both of us would enjoy anything involving food. And it should be young-teen friendly because my aunt, uncle, and cousins-in-law will be along for the ride. Actually it’s probably the other way around. But you get the gist. Ideas?
Can we pretend that I actually planned where I was headed with that post and somehow managed to successfully tie my Sweeney Todd date story in with how people in a relationship can be different, but that’s okay, as long as you both respect those differences?
Can we pretend that I didn’t flee the house, 10 minutes late for work, knowing that I could have written that better if I’d actually left myself some time?
Can we pretend that I did go back and fix it, and that blemish that will likely exist on my blog until the very end of time (along with many, many others) is just an illusion brought on by lack of sleep or drinking 3 cups of coffee before we’ve had anything to eat?
And while we’re at it, can we pretend I’m still here:
Formentera, Balearic Islands, Spain
Doing this:
Biking is the best way to get yourself around this island. It’s mostly flat. Mostly. And for the parts that aren’t… well… exercise is good for you.
And eating this:
We rented a small apartment just a half-mile bike ride from a tiny grocery store. This breakfast “frittata” is my sister-in-law’s genius concoction of our leftover garlicy pasta noodles, eggs, and whatever else we had left in the fridge.
With these people:
So this is the not-flat part of Formentera. We were exhausted. But it was nothing that a can of Pringles and a spectacular cliff side view couldn’t fix.
Yep.
I think, while assisting realtors in their extremely respected and important line of profession today, I’m going to be doing a lot of pretending.
No, not a psychedelic shroomie trip I maybe once had back in college.
I’m talking about this trip:
The one I’ll be taking in approximately one month.
The one where I’m driving, because I like to drive, and Justin will be flying to the endpoint, Philadelphia, because he’s a cheater and doesn’t understand the beauty of the road. And also because he can’t take that much leave from work.
I’m incredibly excited about this trip for 2 reasons:
One, I will be going somewhere. That’s right — it doesn’t take much to make me happy in this world, and ‘going somewhere’ usually does the trick.
Two, I will be visiting some of my favorite people on this planet.
Angie, the saucy Aussie, lives in Williamsburg, VA. We studied rocks and maps together in college, and apparently Geology and GIS have tighter bonding power than whatever JLo used to stick her dress to her boobies at the Oscars last weekend, because even though sometimes whole oceans have separated us (her husband is in the military, too), we still always find a way to come back to our friendship.
Me ‘n Angie. She’s trying not to look at my peeking areola.
Now. If you’ve been reading this blog since my quarter-life-crisis days (which, let’s face it, will probably linger on into my midlife), you already know Erin. If not, she’s the one who quit her job with me so we could move to Costa Rica for 2 months. All it took was one trip to visit her in Frederic, MD and several cocktails, but eventually she caved. And although she won’t admit it, I’m pretty sure she knows it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her. You know, aside from meeting her husband and moving to Annapolis and buying her awesome fixer-upper and going back to school to follow her life dreams. But whatever.
And finally, there’s Anna and her family, who live in Philadelphia, PA. What can I say about Anna? Well. The first year I visited Justin’s family for Christmas was a little… overwhelming. My family is very small, not to mention divorced, and with just a handful of cousins, our holidays were pretty low-key even back in the days when we all got together. So, imagine how I felt when I entered his grandparents’ enormous house filled to the brim with family. Aunts, uncles, and 23 (or so?) cousins. And that’s just his dad’s side.
When I met Anna, she took me under her wing. One of Justin’s aunts through marriage, she knew what it was like to come from outside. What’s more, we’re very similar in beliefs and personalities. And while I love visiting that huge family whenever we can, I’ll admit it’s nice to know there’s someone there who understands a little about from where I come — and why, sometimes, I just need more wine.
The thing about large family holidays is that, while you can spend all of this quality time with people, you still might not really know who they are. Think about it. If you’ve never seen the place someone calls “home,” do you really know that person? I loved visiting some of Justin’s other aunts in Colorado one year because we finally were able to see what home was like for them — and they weren’t these bustling, crazy houses full of people, but normal family homes. Just them surrounded by the things they love.
This is why I’m looking forward to seeing Anna and her family in their own element — just them, their city, and maybe a couple of Philly Cheesesteaks.
And maybe… maybe…
A DAY TRIP TO NYC!!!!
Kids, I have never been to NYC.
Not once.
It’s shameful, I know.
I kept waiting for that publisher or agent to call me out of the blue and invite me up for cocktails and a book deal, but it never happened.
Shocker.
So here I’ve been sitting, less than 12 hours away from this country’s most defining city, just waiting for an invitation.
And guess what?
It just arrived.
So those are the major planned stops so far, but I’m open to visiting some other sights along the way.
Anyone know of something along this route that’s worth the stop? An amazing restaurant? The perfect thrift store? The world’s largest ball of twine? Do you have or know of a wonderfully designed home that I should photograph for Apartment Therapy?
Hey. I’ll admit. While I love a good road trip as much as the next girl, I’m not going to turn down the opportunity to make a little money.
I’ve tasted warm, Nutella filled crepes on the rain-chilled streets of Paris. I’ve rappelled waterfalls in the damp, verdant jungles of Costa Rica. I’ve seen every color of the rainbow embedded into ethereal rock splayed across the Badlands. I’ve added 5,500 miles to the Tracker’s odometer in a single trip — marveling at the competing corner coffee shops of Seattle; the craggy, hasselback coastline Oregon; the overhyped sidewalk stars along the grimy streets of Hollywood; the unpretentious grandeur of southwestern deserts; the popping display of vibrant Fourth of July fireworks that greeted me from the mountains as I entered Colorado Springs, and much, much more.
I’m on the right. Okay… not the most flattering of makeup-less helmeted garb, but whatever. I was waterfall rappelling in Costa Rica, for crying out loud.
I’ve driven across the Golden Gate, I’ve gazed upon my nation’s capital, I’ve walked on glass over the city of Toronto, I’ve stared in awe at the St. Louis Arch, I’ve seen where le tour de Eiffel touches the ground.
Sometimes, even in Hawaii, you need to get a little closer to the sun.
Yet somehow, it’s not enough.
It’s never enough.
My experience only reminds me of how much I haven’t yet seen. How much there is still to see.
And there is a constant battle in my head over where I should concentrate my energy. I ask myself, why am I spending money on curtains when there are these things to do? Why are we ordering takeout when we could save to eat REAL food in Thailand? Why am I still paying these student loans when I could flee the country and live quite comfortably in Central America? Why did that parking lot car accident just cost us $500 when we should be riding in an Indian rickshaw anyway?
And then Justin looks at me funny because I already made him feel bad about the accident when it wasn’t even his fault, but also because riding in an Indian rickshaw doesn’t hold the same appeal for him as it does for me.
Travel, I think, is in my blood.
And those who are pathogen-free will never understand.
Hell, I don’t understand.
I don’t understand why I’m sitting here, in my office, caught between two worlds. Travel magazines, and writing books on one side of me, paint samples and curtain packages on the other.
One side. (un-staged.)
The other side. (un-staged.)
It’s like a snapshot of my brain, scattered across my pristine white desk, each side pulling me in a separate direction every moment of every day.
It’s a very fast way, you see, to go nowhere at all.
Or split in two.
I know. If that is my problem, then I have it made.
But maybe it’s a metaphor. A really bad metaphor for the struggle of balancing our real lives — relationships, obligations, jobs, and bills — with the vision we’ve seen for ourselves since childhood.
I’m not sure where I lost sight of mine, but I’m hoping it’s not too late to get it back.
I’m hoping I can balance it with the things I have and love already.
This was one of those weekends I wish I could do over.
Not because it was so spectacularly awesome, but because I feel it was relatively wasted in its entirety. Aside from a fun night of drinks with a girlfriend on Friday, I didn’t do anything notable or interesting. I accomplished exactly nothing. I took not one step forward in any aspect of my life. In fact, I actually took one step backwards because we had to return the curtains I ordered for the bedroom.
They weren’t right.
See, they were incredibly white. And shiny. And they felt like a bridesmaid’s dress, except they didn’t get prettier when I got them drunk.
Ba-dum-dum.
*Update: My buddy Dennis commented that it’s ME who would have to get drunk in order for this scenario — and joke — to work. That’s what I get for writing posts before 7:00 a.m. Why do you always have to be right, Dennis? WHY? (P.S. I don’t think I get prettier when they get drunk. Since I mostly walk around my bedroom naked, they’re not exactly lookin’ at my face, if you knowwhatI’msayin’. Ba-dum-DUM.)
And actually, I made Justin return them, poor guy, because I couldn’t face the idea of going into town to shop. Especially not for curtains. Because apparentlybedroom curtains are my Achille’s heel of decorating. Well curtains, and pretty much anything else that requires money and a commitment.
But don’t feel too bad for Justin because he volunteered. Probably because he wanted to get away from me and my manic online curtain shopping — that torturous hell hole of grainy photos, 80’s valances, and mixed reviews.
Oh, the reviews. I read them for what feels like hours and was eventually convinced that it would be better for me to go pick a fabric and sew my own damn curtains even though the most I’ve ever sewed is a button but then I realized that in order to get fabric I’d either have to go out and shop, or I’d have to look online and read more reviews since everyone knows the reviews are the only thing allowing us to make a semi-confident purchase over the internet and still, because of my shiny white grommety curtain fiasco, I’ve learned that even the reviews are confusing and not always reliable and I’d probably end up with some kind of poop brown velvet that a bunch of strangers across the internet convinced me would be a good choice because of its energy-saving qualities and machine washability.
No, thank you.
Fortunately for me and my sanity, I’m learning how to live in the moment. To step away from my privileged white girl problems, crack open a Yuengling, and surf instead for interesting road trip destinations and cheap tickets to anywhere.
It’s called escapism people, and it’s a beautiful thing.
That is, until you realize that an entire 48 hours have passed, your house is dirty, the laundry has piled up, you have no food in the fridge, you’re still only halfway through your book club book and the meeting is on Wednesday, you haven’t written anything worthwhile in an embarrassingly long amount of time, and you still have no curtains.
I don’t like wasting a weekend. It makes me feel icky. I’m one of those people who doesn’t feel right if something doesn’t get done.
But really, I’m thinking of moving us back into the bedroom anyway, because curtains are mostly just for the sake of the neighbors who don’t want exposure to the things that might happen in there, like reading in bed or swinging from our sex toy chandelier. But honestly, if they don’t want exposure, then maybe they should just stop looking.
You know?
The good news is that I officially have something to look forward to, besides public displays of sex toy swingery.
Here’s a hint:
Okay. That’s more than a hint.
It’s a road trip, baby!
So it’s not quite the epic cross-country trip that’s been consuming my thoughts, and it’s not even as far as Miami where I drive to visit my sister, but it’s something.
And some of those places are new to me.
And some have old friends.
And wonderful family.
And good food.
And a bed for me to stay.
Because while this trip could easily be accomplished in a single day, you know, in your heart of hearts, that it’s me.
It’s travel.
It’s unquestionable.
When it comes to going anywhere, I always take the long way home.
What about you? Do you need to feel a sense of accomplishment over a weekend, or are you happy to relax and let one slide by? Any fun trips planned? Anyone else like to take the scenic route?
*Post title from “The Long Way Home” by Norah Jones. Love it.
I don’t have time to write anything this morning because I’m already terribly late for a work-related breakfast meeting on this holiday morning, and I’m honestly not sure what’s worse — that I’m late for work on a holiday morning, when many other people are still tucked warmly in their beds or sitting comfortably at their own kitchen tables with a cup o’ java and their morning readery, or that I’m actually semi-excited for my greasy diner sausage cheese biscuit, crappy coffee, and glass of orange juice.
Hey. We do this diner work thing every month, and one gets accustomed to certain delicacies.
Anyway, in lieu of an actual post this morning, I’m leaving you with this:
A photo of the best mojito I’ve ever had in my entire life (Thanksgiving-ish, 2011, Miami, FL),
and this:
Me and my apparently giant hands, just trying to enjoy said mojito without the paparazzi getting all up in my bidness.
