Last week, our 4th plans included a short vacay to Florida to spend time with friends. Because I’m completely neurotic, planning a trip to, well, anywhere, induces massive amount of anxiety. Getting in the car or on the plane is fine—it’s the lead-up that puts me around the bend. However, my ridiculous neuroses are not on the menu for this post. What I’d like to tell you about is the black cloud of weird shit that follows me around. This trip is the best example I can give you.
We planned to leave early Thursday AM
to hopefully avoid the worst of the traffic on I-95. Wednesday night, I
got a stomach ache, which never happens. I awoke the next morning well
before my alarm clock, not because I didn’t feel well, but because I was
drenched in sweat. I went to fiddle with the thermostat, which was reading
at 82 degrees… at 5 AM. The night before, things were at a perfectly
comfortable 75. My tinkering resulted in nothing. Lots and lots of
nothing. AC had died.
Okay. Not a huge deal (the upside of renting) – let’s just finish packing and get the hell out of here
became the new plan. This went okay until the sun came all the way up.
And the real sweating started. And then I had to operate on my
daughter’s ingrown toenail while sweat was dripping off my nose and
running down my back and she was jumping around and DEAR GAWD are we ready yet?! I have never been so glad to get into a vehicle in my entire life.
The trip down was relatively uneventful
and later I came to the conclusion that I had no idea what was in my
bag because of my haste to escape the sweat box that my house quickly
had become, but no matter—we were easy breezy, chilling poolside. Day
two of our time, I decide to throw a line in the water and see what I
could catch. True to my redneck roots, I decided a hot dog was good
enough bait for me and sure enough, about 10 minutes later, I landed a
And then the clear blue sky opened up and rained on me. The rain was super brief, so back to the dock and went to try again.
Lost a couple of hot dog pieces, but five minutes or so into this, damn if I didn’t catch the same fish. I could tell by the bleeding hole in his face from the first time in case you were wondering.
Because this one was super hooked, my husband and I had a little
difficulty removing the tackle. So I stepped on it. Bear in mind that I
am smart enough to have been wearing shoes, yet I did wonder briefly
about the pressure point on the bottom of my foot. We finally got the
fish off the hook only to realize that he was now stuck to the bottom of
my shoe (via his dorsal spike thingy). So now there was a fish, stuck,
to, my, shoe. And because it was a catfish, grabbing with my hand was
entirely out of the question. So there I was, standing on a dock at an
amazing place, next to a gorgeous piece of the Intracoastal Waterway,
with a nasty-ass beat-up catfish attached to my flip-flop, shaking my
leg trying to make it fall off into the water. Perfect.
As an aside, my good Southern friends
may recall Bill Engvall’s routine about the dorkfish. This fool was a
dead ringer. Just go YouTube it—it will become perfectly clear. Another
aside: we tried multiple times to buy boiled peanuts while in Palm Coast
to no avail. Finally caught the peanut guy, got our goodies, and
settled in to have a snack. They were terrible. Inedible, really.
The next day was fun—we had an extended
manatee sighting, as a group of them lingered near the dock for well
over an hour or so. Sunday morning we loaded up and headed home. Things
went fine until just past Savannah, where traffic ground to a halt. We
both jumped on various social media sites trying to find out what was
up, and basically came up with “traffic is bad on 95N”. We proceeded to
crawl the stretch of road between Savannah and civilization and then
somewhere around Hardeeville, my normally laid-back and easygoing
husband lost his mind and started driving like a madman. This, of
course, prompted an argument about my side-seat driving and his
drive-seat driving that was going nowhere good. I decided to cool my
jets and took a sip of water. At the exact same time, my husband said
something completely ridiculous/hilarious about a car next to us. The
water went everywhere it shouldn’t, places including—but not limited
to—my nose, the floor of the truck, my lap, and the dashboard.
The choking then triggered ye olde gag
reflex and I puked. In my lap. Twice. After having eaten chocolate and
while my daughter shrieked, “EWWW! EW! EW!!!” from the back seat. My
husband power slid to a stop on the side of the road, where I jumped out
and tried to regain control of my faculties and my stomach.
I realized that I had a dress packed in
the top of a bag in the bed of the truck, so I grabbed it and proceeded
to flash about a thousand people cruising through lower South Carolina
while I tried to change into it without getting vomit onto it from the
original clothes. We started off again only to realize that the rear
tires of the truck were spinning in the extremely soft shoulder of the
road, thanks to the bazillion inches of rain we’ve gotten. Got out of
that, stopped for boiled peanuts near Jacksonboro (that were terrible),
finally pulled into the driveway, and began unloading the truck.
Pulled out the fishing rods and
husband’s is broken. It is six months old and expensive. Mine is 16
years old and was cheap. And not broken.
And this, folks, is why I take pills. This. Right. Here. Anyone else live this way? Wanna form a support group?