We are in route to Florida for round two of the digging out.
We have perfected our style. Just like Posh Spice, we have our custom outfits and all the right accessories. Really, it is more like the Beverly Hillbillies but with perkier breasts. We have only been flagged down by one trucker thus far. It was because our tie downs were flapping in the wind from the back of the heaping mound. We stopped, repositioned and moved on.
Mother has been pretty patient. She has a posh seat in the front of the truck while the two with the longest legs are folded up in the back set of the truck. It’s fine. But by the time we make it to Florida I may need hip surgery too.
Mother has planned her days over the last couple of weeks by gauging when the next meal will be served. Fine. Not a problem. We have provided, amply I must add, quality meals every day that she did not have to prepare. As we drove south she began to salivate at the prospect of stopping in Macon as we did on our last trip. She diligently looked for billboards and road signs that would let her know that Macon was just around the bend. Then we zoomed past Macon. No time to stop. We are just hitting our stride.
Not stopping caused mutiny on the bounty. Mother quickly sent an email from her BlackBerry to all of her friends letting them know that she had been taken hostage by vegetarians who won’t stop to let her eat or use the facilities. If life was only so rough.
She quickly dug into the cashews that she stowed aboard for her journey. And the candied ginger. And the salt and vinegar chips. She consumed these in rotation, all the while yearning for Macon. Mother continued to explain how there are no places to eat south of Macon all the way into Florida, maybe not even until we get to Tampa. I let her know that she could gnaw on her arm for a while and then get back to her rotation of snack foods.
We figured that Valdosta was too far to wait for food and began to calculate our distance. Noting the exit numbers as we went along, we talked about where we could stop. Mother was sure to give her input and let us know that she couldn’t make it that many exits.
“Nine exits is just too far.”
“It’s not nine exits, it’s just nine miles.”
“No, it’s nine exits.”
“Really? OK. So let me explain good ‘ole highway exit numbering thing to you. The exit number is the mile marker. Just like that. Simple. We only need to go nine miles.”
“No, it’s nine exits.”
“Surely with all of the news that you watch you would have learned this by now. I know you haven’t driven in a couple of years but this is a basic math issue. There is no law that every number has to have an exit.”
As we went from exit 71 right on past exit 69 I explained to her that there was no exit 70. That simple. She was just baffled. She didn’t comprehend that there wasn’t a requirement for an exit 70. Quick call the road police and let them know that someone stole exit 70.
We did end up stopping for food at exit 62. We should have just stopped in Macon. It would have tasted better, but we might have missed out on the math lesson.
