I am back.
As road trips go, this one was seriously uneventful, which can be a good thing if the events involved are being pulled over by the cops, but not so good if the events are things like picking up famous people who were stranded by the side of the road and need a ride to Wichita. Still, StyleGirl and I amused ourselves by buying magazines with pictures of Orlando Bloom (who was appointed Sexy Patron Saint of our trip), eating beef jerky, reading each other chapters of our dorky fantasy epic, and doing a lot of peeing.
The day-and-a-half visit with the fam is, I think, just about the perfect length of time. Although capping it off with a four-hour wait in the airport for my red-eye was not very exciting. At least I brought some joy to the lives of the airline clerks -- apparently my ticket had been tagged "Unaccompanied Minor," which set them all off into peals of laughter. They kept offering to "escort" me, which sounded vaguely licentious.
Warnings to other people attempting this drive:
Kansas is FREAKISHLY long. It will take you approximately three and a half years longer to drive through it than you will estimate.
Indianapolis does not serve liquor of any kind on Sunday night, even to people who have been driving for almost 12 hours and just want ONE FUCKING DRINK, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
When very large trailers carrying several cars start to change lanes into you, the appropriate response is a) to hit the brakes, but also b) to honk the horn loudly, as the driver of the trailer will be completely unable to hear you screaming.
Beware of the hordes of freakish people who will accompany you to rest stops. They are usually wearing some kind of sweat-gear, possibly embroidered with teddy bears, or a sports logo. If not closely watched, they will assimilate you and add your biological and cultural distinctiveness to their own...enormous ASS.
The St. Louis Archway Thing is pretty cool. You should go see that. Do not bother with their mall, unless you are a fan of Mary Engelbreit. There is an entire store devoted to nothing but Mary Fucking Engelbreit.
Emma Thompson was right. There really is no such thing as Dayton chic.
P.S. Confidential to Taylor: You are a genius and I bow before the glory of your dancing clothes. Seriously. Those rocked the fuck off of my face.