It’s not you, girl scouts, it’s me. I know I’ve been distant.
It’s not that we’re breaking up, queerties, I’m going to tell you about it. It’s just that I needed a little time to myself to drive across THE ENTIRE COUNTRY. My drinking partner Jill decided to move from Boston to San Mateo, California to be closer to her life-long boyfriend. And I offered to escort her. Like a gd gentleman. We met up in Michigan and left for the Pacific Coast Sunday afternoon.
America, the driveable
I had no idea America was such a driveable city. From Detroit to San Fransisco in a few short days. There were hours that we didn’t see another car on I-80. And entire days we didn’t see a cop waiting to bust our asses for going 55 in the 54 in a sweet Dodge Caravan.
I could tell you how many soccer mom’s numbers we got, but I wouldn’t want you feel jealous. Okay. It was two.
It was smooth sailing from Michigan to Nebraska where we were caught like ignorant cattle in a hail storm outside Buffalo Bill’s ranch. It was the kind of storm that gets semis to pull over. If you’ve ever seen Ice Road Truckers (and of course you have) you know what I’m talking about. These clouds were not fucking around.
Here to fuck shit up.
Afterward the hood of the van looked not unlike a golf ball. This was a serious detriment to picking up chicks. We hoped for insurance against “acts of God”. We decided to stop post-storm for Margarita floats and a little trading post shopping at what I’m sure is the only places to sell a variety of John Wayne Christmas ornaments and scorpion lollipops. Have a birthday coming up? I’ve got you, girl.
Great is a measurement.
Utah and Lake Tahoe, CA were by far the most beautiful parts of the drive. I saw a sign for Donner Lake that simply had a fork and knife symbol on it. I other than that I found California to be rather catered to my tastes.
This is in really poor taste, California.
It’s a shame Utah is so Mormon, girl scouts, because it’s really, really beautiful. Once you pass the Great Salt Lake, which proves only that great is a measurement and not a compliment you enter the Great Salt Lake Desert. Plains of salt bleached earth stretching all the way to the mountains. It looked like a scene straight out of the NeverEnding Story.
The NeverEnding Story, Part 17
My time in San Fran was short lived, we arrived Wednesday and I had to catch an early flight to Phoenix the next morning. We had just enough time for me to find a pocket full of sand dollars and beach glass. At night before bed we drank champagne while Jill and I got our asses handed to us in Euchre.
And then things got crazy. I boarded a plane to Phoenix at like 9 am and met my friend Jazmin at the Sky Harbor airport. From the we went straight to brunch at a place that served me a BACON BLOODY MARY.
Oh, Mary.
This is why I’ll never be a vegetarian.
We followed brunch with boot shopping. I got these.
Dancin' boots.
Then we went to a bar where we spent several hours chatting with a bar tender named Rose from Westchester. Holy shit. That’s it! Which always leads me straight back to Maurica.
The night continued to spiral out of control as we headed to the Cash Inn, a lesbian country western bar. We went on cougar night, which just happened to coincide with line-dancing-lesson night. Thursday has always been kind to me.
So much happened in the last four hours of the night that it deserves a dedicated post. I told part of the saga to my friend Alice last night. She has informed me she will be telling the tale to others. After seeing some stellar work she did in Paint where she rendered a friend as an alot, she’s agreed to do some illustrations for y’all, girl scouts. Maybe the rest of the story is one we should tell together.
So, for now, that’s it. Stay cute, darlings. And dust off those dancin’ shoes.
staycutegirl 