Friday, April 25, 2003

I'm Baaaaack!! PART II
****WARNING**** Do not read this post unless you have already read yesterday's post. Dammit, this is "PART II." I shouldn't have to tell you this stuff.

So on the way back from the liquor store, all the pink elephants were standing along the road, welcoming me home. Many of them were weeping with joy, as they thought they had lost one of their best friends. Then we arrived at the beach house where we did the usual beachy things. You know, Margaritas, Daiquiris, Pina Colatas, Gin and Tonics, Beer, Flaming Shots of 151, whole meals consisting of nothing but 199 proof moonshine. Stuff everybody does. And we ate. Oh God did we eat. I cooked my sure-to-be-famous soft-shelled crabs one night, and figured out exactly why they are not famous yet. I consumed approximatley 36 lbs of shrimp during the brief stay. I swallowed sushi by the bucket. I had crabcake ceasar salads. I had seared tuna steaks. I downed more chowders, bisques, and stews than I thought existed. What I'm saying is that I am glad it was too cold to swim, because my suit would have bulged in a lot more places than usual, if you know what I mean (nudge nudge, wink wink, say no more). (Incidentally, this food oriented section is the fault of Skot at Izzle Pfaff because of the post I just read at his site. God I'm hungry.)

So finally, it came time for the ride home. The Blondage, expert cartographer that she is, decided that we should take a different route up the coast on the way home. She said that it would be fun (true) and wouldn't add much time to our trip (not quite so true). So we were off to virginia beach to cross the Chesepeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, or, as I like to call it, the most frightening human construct since Euro-Disney. 17 miles across the bay, with 2 (two) 1-mile long sections that suddenly shoot straight into the water and send you careening along the bottom at 55 miles per hour. And, like Euro-Disney and my favorite whorehouse, you pay an arm and a leg for a short ride. It was almost as exciting as that "take your own blood-pressure" ride at the mall.

After the excitement of the bridge/tunnel/monstrosity, I found myself in the coma inducing place known as Virginia's Eastern Shore. For about 200 cajillion miles, we drove through farm country, with the car top down, letting all the wonderful farm smells into the car. Finally, we arrived in D.C., a mere 2 hours later than my Uncle was expecting us for dinner. Normally, my Uncle is only too happy to apply a liberal dose of gin to a weary traveler. Today, however, his first question was "who is the designated driver?"

After dinner we drove another five hours home across the Appalachian Mountains. Crossing those mountains sober is terrifying, luckily I slept through most of it. Driving was just too boring to keep me awake.

It's good to be home.

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