The weekend is supposed to be a time of relaxation, rejuvenation and drinking. For some reason, the calendar gods must have conspired together to teach me a lesson. I’m not sure what lesson, but I have some ideas. It started on Saturday morning - a time when I usually sleep in and lounge about the house in my pajamas until noon. Instead, I found myself taking Mr. Funny (the 16 year old riot of a child) to an interview four hours away for a summer honor’s program.
At the beginning of the trip, hope sprang eternally that this would be a great time to bond with Mr. Funny. Next year will be his senior year and he is doing everything he can to find a college as far away from home as possible. I tried to talk with him about music. Then movies. Then books. Regardless of my lofty aspirations, I finally admitted defeat. It is impossible to converse with someone who has had his Ipod surgically attached to his ears. Plus, he grunts and says multi-syballic words without vowels. Really, the only pleasure I got from the trip was knowing that I was driving him insane. What? You don’t sing at the top of your lungs in the car? I like to think of it as building a memory.
After EIGHT hours in the car (GAH!), I had to get up the next morning to go to a conference whose destination was about 30 miles past yesterday’s interview location. Cruel, huh? Thankfully, Mr. Strong took a couple of days off work and volunteered to drive. Really. He is so nice.
Now, according to Mr. Strong, he doesn’t need my help in driving. He says I interject too much – to the point I’m not sure we can continue to travel in the same vehicle.
That aside, the 250 mile stretch of highway we were traveling has approximately 234 miles of construction going on. This really messed up the flow of things. And for the record, the signs that say “Minimum speed 40 mph” – well, that is only a suggestion and was never placed there to be taken literally. This is America, people. We don’t do anything minimally. Speed limits shouldn’t be an exception.
All this build-up is really just to let you know about my powers of observation. Have you ever realized that the interstate is just full of SEX?! Unless of course, this is a twisted issue of folks from Georgia, then I just embarrassed myself (Note to self: travel interstates in other states to look for issues, then blog about it to the world.).
With Mr. Strong behind the wheel and me with my trusty camera (and my explicit orders to NOT SAY A WORD ABOUT HIS DRIVING EVEN THOUGH HE ALMOST RAN INTO FOURTEEN CARS NOT TO MENTION THE GUARDRAIL AND HE ACCELERATES WHILE THE DRIVER IN FRONT IS CLEARLY APPLYING THE BREAK), I entertained myself with all the drama that unfolded itself on the highway. Apparently, the traveling on the asphalt brings out a primal lusty drive. See for yourself.
Is it just me, but isn't a giant sculpture of a peanut a bit phalic?
Not far down the road, I found a peach for that penis. Uh. Um.. I meant to say that peanut.
And need I say more. Truckers welcome where the strippers strip. And a hotel with a midnight special. Convenient, eh?
Rest areas have taken on a new meaning. What are they doing behind those closed stall doors? Hey. Why are you tapping your foot like that?
Another spa with truck parking. I'm beginning to get a picture of truckers as being less than angelic.
At first you might think this has a Lion King feel - but then take notice of the way the boy lion is dominating the girl lion. I'm pretty sure Disney would have had this the other way around.
Strippers who do good things. Does this message confuse you? It confused me.
We all know what is going on at this exit.
Somehow I get the feeling this girl will give the trucker a happy ending. My view of truckers has forever changed.
Conveniently, you can get a massage at the Lucky Spa while waiting for your divorce to dash through. I love the drama! How lucky!
And nothing says Thanks to our Troops like a rabbit vibrator and edible panties. God Bless America!
Are they saying they are crazy? Or trying to lure nut-loving women? No mention of trucker parking... Hmmm. Maybe there aren't enough truck driving, nut-loving women out there to warrant a truck parking lot.
And a special note to all the testosterone driven truck drivers out there. I think this is a warning that you might get crabs from un-godly women.