rhapsodic.org

I Won't Be Eating Scrapple

I'm not sure how or when I agreed to flying to the east coast. All I do know is that I have confirmation numbers and have been checked in to airlines and that my name is on a car rental in Philadelphia for Sunday.

We will be spending a bunch of days lounging on the beach in southern New Jersey, unless New Jersey thinks we would be more comfortable with thunderstorms and such; then we will spend a bunch of days lounging in our hotel room watching cable television and grumping.

We will also spend a few days in Philadelphia playing tourist and meeting up with internet friends like Lynne and Connor and seeing how many precious historical items we can lick.

I will be meeting the majority of Steve's family, but I've been told I'm not expected to like them. I can live up to those expectations, especially if/when it comes time for the Nightly Keller Risk Playoffs and Fart-a-Palooza.

And considering that I will be the one doing all of the driving (see: car rental, above), Steve might not be coming back.

I've never driven anywhere outside of Alaska. Anchorage is the largest city I've driven in, and that was stressful for the first 14 months I lived here. Terms like "interstate" and "I90" and "interchange" and "toll booth" and "speed limit" just go right over my head.

Plus we have had some pretty big miscommunication when it comes to my driving and him giving direction. I'm fully aware of the possibility of bursting into tears, stopping in the middle of some 17-lane freeway, and kicking him out.

But on the bright side, beach- and warm-weather-clothes for women are so small (shorts, skirts, tanks, sun dresses, bathing suits) that I can practically fit a whole person in my one piece of luggage with all of my clothes. I could kick Steve out and pick up Bruce Springsteen. I'm sure he wouldn't fart in the car.