It's raining when we wake up this morning with only two days left of our big adventure. We call down for a bell hop to get the luggage (the best $10 I've spent on the trip). As he's loading the bags onto the cart, he tells us we've forgotten something:
The kitchen sink.
Ha ha ha.
I swear this stuff is growing, and as I'm trying to pack it all in the car, the girls are tossing stuff into the mix willy nilly. There is a fine art to laoding this crap in so the door will still close, so I'm tossing stuff back at them. Grandma says get out the duct tape. Frankly, in an effort to maintain the peace, I might need it to tape my own mouth shut. We finally get it all in when the bell hop asks us where the other girls are.
This guy thinks he's a freaking comedian.
We've driven just one city block when Mom asks where the sleeve for her Blackberry is. Gram is poking around looking for it in the back seat while I deny responsibility as the last person to use the phone. After what Gram claims is a thorough search, she can't find it. I pull over to a screeching halt, jump out and start running in the opposite direction of the car screaming.
That's what I want to do, but instead, I start tearing apart the back seat, throwing stuff on top of the car, including Mom's pillow. I don't think she's happy about it, but mercifully says nothing. After I get everything out, Grandma finds the sleeve in the seat pocket right in front of her.
I lay on the ground rocking back and forth in the fetal position chanting, "There's no Place like home ... there's no place like home."
Ok, fine. I don't really do that, either. I actually swear, get in, slam the door, and drive on toward the National Civil Rights Museum. I tell the girls I'm awefully tired of losing things. Mom says it wasn't her that lost the sleeve. She's totally right, but my owning up to it is not graceful. FINE, I say -- I lost the stupid sleeve. And the stupid camera. But they're both in the car now, so crisis averted.
Then out of the corner of my eye I see a place called The Beignet Cafe. How can hot greasy fried dough smothered in powdered sugar NOT make everything better?