It’s a not-so-typical late Monday morning…we’ve been on the road since five, on our way to see the extended family. For the sake of anonymity, I’ll just say we are headed somewhere in Minnesota. At the moment, I think we’re somewhere in/near Wisconsin. In case you were wondering. (Besides, I don’t have WiFi at the moment, so I’m not even posting this until we arrive…most likely.)
I love having a little brother—for a number of reasons, of course—but right now, it’s because I managed to convince him that a factory smoke stack was a rocket launch. It’s actually quite entertaining to picture a spaceship taking off about 500 feet from the highway. And spectacular white clouds billowing around all the local buildings and homes.
Okay, here’s something new. We were just cruisin’ down the highway watching “Nanny McPhee” (good movie, I might add) when I glanced out the window…only to see a white van with the words “NEON NUTS” emblazoned across the side in bright, capital letters. Clown pictures all over the windows. To be honest, I was torn between amusement and fear.
I don’t know when it would be appropriate to hire the “NEON NUTS.” They sound either really naïve—not understanding how purely creepy they look, driving a giant white van with ads designed to attract small children—or just deliberately obnoxious, relying on a good sense of humor for business. I like to think I have a decent sense of humor, and, to be honest…the NEON NUTS won’t be coming to my birthday party/family reunion/wedding.
I’m not one to be self-conscious about my body, but I’ll tell you what gets me: those super-intense hand dryers in public restrooms. You know, the ones that make an imprint on your skin with their streams of air…? I can’t help but watch my skin flap around under that hardcore dryer and think, maybe I should run more often…and I should probably not eat semi-sweet dark chocolate chips straight out of the cupboard…and not put more ranch dressing on my pizza than sauce. I always end up crouching to see how much extra skin there is on my upper arm…and maybe my cheeks…and before I know it, concerned mothers are ushering their six-year-olds out of the bathroom, muttering about the youth of the modern world. Just kidding about that last part. They’re already gone by the time I’m halfway through a whistled rendition of Bernstein’s “Slava!”
I wonder if the evil stepmothers in fairy tales were based on stepmothers that the authors had and legitimately didn’t like, or if stepmothers are evil because some fairytale-writer just decided they should be one day, and made it the norm.
(Side note: notice that I wrote out “legitimately.” I’m fine with the abbreviation “legit,” but “legitly” just doesn’t cut it. Not in my opinion, anyway. But, you know…to each his/her own.)
Confession of the day: I name everything. Especially inanimate objects. Our old TV’s name was Marvin. The staircase is Hubert. The desktop computer is Scrooge, and the printer is Ebenezer (because they’re always crushin’ my spirits. Har. Har. Har.). Oh, the best one is Vannah Montana…she’s a Montana van, and one of my very favorite parts of life. No joke. I love that car.
Well, I’m done for now. Time to crash with Cory Morrison…he’s my iPod, named after Finn (Cory) and Mr. Schuester (Morrison…his last name) from Glee. Dunno if I spelled that right, and there’s no way of checking, seeing as I have no internet. Ahh! I feel rather helpless. I am such a typical example of my generation. Oh, well. I blame society and what not and wheretofor.
Happy travels, or a lack therof!