ROADTRIP

Well, my wife and I are away. A quick stop at a family reunion and then we have no idea where we are going, but we're going.

Came upon this on a back road.

It was an old dilapidated wooden gas station that at one time housed a tombstone business. I can only assume that after going belly up they just abandoned the demos.

Very depressing, but worthy of one of my new tags...#134, because depression requires an even number.

Then in the motel room, I called Debbie into the bathroom and asked if she had been sprinkling talc or something around the bathtub and she but laughed.

Come to find out it was a crude way the manufacturer had tried to make it look like it was made out of marble.

It doesn't show up, being off-white tub and white powder (aka faux granite) as it is, but the way they tried to make it look "marblized" was to sprinkle some white powder on it; allowing it clump up on top and bottom, and trickle down the sides.

But, trust me, it looks waaaaaay more like white powder than marble.

******

Further, my wife and I are listening to a book on tape set in the deep South, 1906. The reader of the book speaks real, real Southern and my wife has picked up on it. When I asked what time it was she drawled, "Nigh on to twelve."

For you non-Southerners, "Nigh on" means "about."

I hadn't heard it in years and thought it worth sharing.

Now she keeps calling me "Pa" and scratching her crotch in public. She is very impressionable. 

*********SAME NIGHT AFTER DINNER ******

On the advice of the Indian guy who owns our motel, we went to a local bar/restaurant to eat. To my surprise they had Oyster Rockefeller (they spelled it Rockefella).

I love Oyster Rockefeller and ordered a dozen.

They sat us at the back booth near the kitchen because since chapter two of our book on tape, my wife has refused to wear shoes...also, she side ordered fried green tomatoes, which when you think about it is like dividing by zero....culinarily speaking.

So, while we gabbed awaiting our order, I noticed that my wife has completely stopped pronouncing the letter G. Of course she leaves it off ING words, but she is so into that book that once she began to use the ordinary word "Ignite", stumbled around it for a few seconds, then blurted "Set far to" as a suitable substitute.

Further, no "er" sound has passed her lips....substituted for the "ah" sound; as in "remembah".

********

Skip forward until the waitress came up to accept our credit card and saying, "How was ever'thang?"

My wife said, "Well, normally with Oyster Rockefeller, the parmesan cheese is sprinkled on top and not laid on in slabs cut from the block with a steak knife."

I said, "And they should be left under the flames long enough to at least melt the cheese."

Wife said, "And each bite had bits of oyster shell in it."

I said, "And when you make Oyster Rockefeller, and heat them up like that, you don't really need to bring them on a bed of ice like the raw oysters."

The waitress smiled and said, "Well, other than that, did you like 'em?"

I probably (and this is true) suspected a problem when they brought out the Oyster Rockefeller with a large cup of cocktail sauce on the same tray.

While the waitress was away (probably running our credit card number through 97 Mexican banks to the incessant giggling of her kitchen help), I heard (I swear) the newly arrived older man at the next table order, "A Bud Light in a big old frosty mug and a ginger ale without no ice so I can take my Viagra." 

(you can't make shit like that up)

*********

Thought of the Day:

People all over the world pee and take a shit. It happens billions of times a day. Vast sums of money are used to dispose of it. This problem has existed since...oh...EVER!

So, why does every culture have a problem with what to call the little private room where we void our various organs?

Restroom? Seriously, does anyone think we rest in there? No! We work our ass off trying not to catch anything from the toilet seat.

Bathroom? Yeah, like I would bathe in a room where my friends puke.

The Germans call it a Water Closet. Well, technically...I guess.

British call it a Loo. That's one of the reasons I hate the British.....terseness.

The military call it The Head, which, when you think about it, is just fucking freaky.

I propose we all just get used to calling it the Shit Hole....one size fits all......usually.