A year or so ago I flew to San Francisco to drive home with my daughter, Lorenzo, (her name has been changed to protect the innocent - or not so innocent) who was moving back to Minnesota.
Road trips can be a blast. And we certainly did have a good time.
Like the night we wanted to make it to Salt Lake City and we BELLOWED for hours to Madonna's Like a Virgin CD. Ha!
The payoff was waking up in a crazy motel in Salt Lake and flinging open the icky curtains to see the most magnificent view ever! Mountains - omg - she and I were a little awestruck. Nothing like that where we're from let me tell you what.
Along the drive we needed to stop and get gas. We were on a godforsaken stretch of highway, we think somewhere in Wyoming. We fill the tank, walk off the car-cramps in our legs, and go in to the convenience store to poke around for snacks and such.
I'm looking around for something new to read and can't find the magazine stand so I approach the odd-looking woman manning the cash register. She has been keeping a wary eye on us because god knows two rumpled, flip-flop wearing, bleary-eyed woman such as us are cause for alarm, you know?
I ask her, "Do you guys have any magazines"?
She cackles a bit and responds, "No! And I don't have any dirty books either!"
Really? I had no idea I looked like a someone who would be on the hunt for dirty books. All I was looking for was maybe a People or some other throwaway. Whooo doggies! Someone snapped their bra on too tight that morning.
I simply said, "Ooooookaaaaaay." and paid for our SlimJims and cashews.
Lorenzo and I laughed for MILES and MILES! I have gotten really good at telling this story while drinking vodka. I have her Marlboro-Red voice down perfectly.
Never again peeps, never again will I willingly go into the states of Wyoming or Nebraska. Weirdness is everywhere in those parts.