Headlights on Dark Roads

The movers finished packing our crap early this morning, so hey, guess what? We’re off! TO VERMONT. Greetings from … where the hell am I? Oh yes! At this moment, I am outside Savannah, somewhere off of I-95. Savannah, incidentally, is one of my very favorite places in the United States, and when I lived in Hilton Head, I often wished I’d lived here instead. For context, my other favorite places in the country are Charleston, S.C.; Salt Lake City, Utah (yes, really); Newburyport, Mass. and, the winner of all, Orange County, Calif. My version of heaven is a small stretch of beach outside of the Montage resort in Laguna Beach. Oh, and their facials aren’t half bad either.

It’s unfortunate that we have to leave tomorrow, because it’s the Collard Green Festival this weekend, and who doesn’t like a … festival … celebrating the wonders that are collard greens! I should confess, too, that I love collard greens but, ah, A FESTIVAL? Really?

The drive so far has been blissfully uneventful and honestly, y’all? It’s effing weird. We’re in that weird sort of limbo-homeless state where we have completely closed out our old house and loaded our shit into a Mayflower truck (holla if you see one! It might be my bedroom set!) and yet, our new house isn’t officially ours until Saturday. Ergo, until then, I am calling a Four Points Sheraton, my sister-in-law’s house and my parents’ place home. And thank God they’re having us, because without them, we would be wandering the streets of a strange town hoping that someone would give Sunny Milk Bones and let us use their toilet.

I should tell you that I did flip off the entire state of Florida as I entered Georgia, and I know that kind of makes me jerky, but Florida and I weren’t friends. So to my Floridian friends: I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.

What I don’t like is road trip food. Adam has been mocking me repeatedly, for I am nothing if not the picture of health. Within a ten minute stretch today, I was gnawing on a slice of beef jerky, downing a Mountain Dew and sneaking a contraband cigarette out the window of my Honda (Smoking: a road-trip vice I return to, again and again, mercifully with no lasting consequences. Last time I did this was our trip down to Florida two years ago. I seem to be of the lucky former smoker sort who can have an occasional cigarette without being addicted. Given my otherwise shitty luck, I’ll take this one small boon of good fortune, if you can call it that). Oh, and we had McDonald’s for lunch — drive through, baby, because with a certain small dog in the back, dining in healthily is no longer an option.

I also had Combos. And y’all, I LOVE Combos. If heaven were a snack, it would be a big bowl of Combos and crema de leche. And further, it’s the official snack of NASCAR, which is UTTERLY RIDICULOUS, because I’m sorry, NASCAR — or any sport, for that matter — needs an official snack.

And unless you want to hear my review of Kurt Vonnegut’s “Breakfast of Champions”, which I am the last person in the world to read, I think we’re done here (the verdict: Love. I mean, no shit, right? It’s Vonnegut! But also, it reminds me of “The Corrections” in its achingly unflinching and sympathetic portrayal of utterly contemptible characters, which is stupid stupid stupid, as dude, which one came first? HELLO). NASCAR snacks are the best I can do right now, but since people who know me in real life read this, it’s the easiest way to say hey! We’re alive! And in Georgia! Tomorrow: Virginia. Again, throw the goat if you see us in the Chesapeake region.

*Snow Patrol

29 comments February 26th, 2008