The troop is in Dale, Indiana tonight. The Boy and The Baby were both, apparently, very pleased to be out of the car. Max, meanwhile, felt that since they’d entered a new time zone, they were duty-bound to push on for another hour. The Boy won.
So they’ve gone about 550 miles, leaving roughly 1050 miles to go on the first leg of the trip. True to form, Top Management is refusing to drive 750 miles a day like some people. She’s nice.
What’s not so nice? From what I understand, it would be this: waking up at 3:00 in the a.m. in a Ramada Inn in Beckley, West Virginia and having to go down to the minivan and dig out your eyeglasses so you can take out your contact lenses because you’ve awakened out of an exhausted sleep, suddenly and horribly secure in the knowledge that you’ve come down with pink eye.
I gather that’s not overly pleasant.
Thank Allah for our beloved doctors, who called a prescription into a pharmacy in Winchester, Kentucky. Rumor has it the nearby McDonald’s in Winchester is really quite nice and kid-friendly.
I am torn between an intense desire to be there and help my poor girlfriend, and a shallow thankfulness that I’m far, far away. Not that I’d ever admit to such a base emotion.
Still, I’m doing what I can. We developed a routine over the past few months: when I’m ready to drive into the office in the mornings, I call her and she pulls up the up-to-the-minute San Diego traffic map and, from the Blue Ridge Mountains, directs me to the best routes in the greater San Diego area. Of course, as of two days ago I've had to wing it on my own with, I might add, coincidentally disastrous results.
Fortunately, I was able to hep her out this afternoon, when she encountered hideous traffic in Louisville, much too early for rush hour. Turns out there’s a similar up-to-the-minute traffic map for Louisville (I loves me my internets—Yahweh bless you, Al Gore) and while I wasn’t able to get her to a better and less congested route, I was at least able to tell her that her traffic troubles would end in 1.2 miles. Which they did.
So that was good. The Boy throwing up in the hotel room? Not so much.
You know, I wrote the rest of this post almost three hours ago. I was hoping a good way to end it would come to me.
I got nothin’. That’s the way it works sometimes.
[But she’s 550 miles closer to me. So there is that.]
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