Home, At Last ... Thank God Almighty, We're HOME At Last

It's been about 24-hours now since we "landed" back in Florida, and less than that since I've returned to my home turf in the nation's Capitol. Here's a recap of the last hours of the Mermaids to Graceland extravaganza:

Things seem to be a little off when we wake up Friday. I drop at least three things at breakfast, as does Mom. It's a later than we hoped when we pile in the car, which means less time in Montgomery. We're planning to visit the Rosa Parks Museum -- if we can find it.

Ever wonder what happened to the GPS (a.k.a "Bitch")? I'll let you guess:

1. Amy repurposed the $200 her boyfriend gave her to replace Mom's camera for the right to run over the Bitch with the car. The spiteful bitch then splintered into a thousand pieces, one of which pierced the tire which then cost $100 to replace.
   
2. We used it the rest of the trip, and when we say we're HOME -- we mean we've decided to relocate to Saskatchewan, Canada. That's where we ended up when we typed "Venice, Florida" into the Bitch.
3. Mom returned the Bitch to Radio Shack, which was holding her other GPS unit hostage for over a month before we left, resulting in purchase of said Bitch. She paid a 15% restocking fee for an item that didn't work in the first place.

Ding ... ding ... ding! Moral of the story? Don't buy crap from Radio Shack. Go to a place like Best Buy that will actually stand behind the products they sell. But really ... did you think options 1 and 2 were feasible? I'm very curious which one got the top vote.

Anyway. Back on subject. The museum was amazing. We used the GPS on Mom's phone to find it, and had decent results. Go, Crackberry! It is hard to believe, but this was even better than the civil rights museum, considering it explores just a single event. Very well put together and under $5 admission.

The "single event" is what many consider the catalyst for the modern civil rights movement in the United States. On December 1, 1955, a seamstress -- weary from a long day at work -- refused to give up her bus seat to a white passenger. She was arrested and fined for violating a city ordinance. It was an act of defiance that culminated in a 13-month bus boycott.

Afterward, we drove by Dexter Avenue King Memorial Church, the church where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was pastor. The incident with Ms. Parks led to the formation of the Montgomery Improvement Association -- the organization that launched the bus boycott. Dr. King led the MIA, and eventually the people of Montgomery to victory. The Supreme Court struck down the Montgomery ordinance under which Mrs. Parks had been fined. The high court's decision outlawed racial segregation on public transportation.

Our own transportation out of Montgomery proves incredibly trickier than getting in. The GPS (now dubbed Bitchberry) is giving us the names of streets that don't exist. In all fairness, the names of the streets in this city aren't on the map, either. You've now entered ... THE TWILIGHT ZONE.

Doo doo doo doo ... doo doo doo doo.

It takes about a half hour, but we finally get back on track at about 11 am. Mom is driving.

And driving.

And DRIVING.

She's actually pilot all day, despite my offers to relive her. Grandma keeps saying it's going to take ten hours to get home. I argue that's is just not possible, and am dumbfounded that after 24 days, these girls still don't trust my calculations. It's about 55o miles. Even if we drive 65 miles an hour, that's 8.5 hours. That's called math. Ok ... granted there are fill ups and potty breaks. But on our itinerary (that thing you get to by clicking the glove box at www.mermaidstograceland.com), I projected we'd leave Montgomery at 10 am and arrive in Florida nine hours later at 7 pm. That's not taking into account the time change.

Speaking of time change ... Mom and I spend ten minutes arguing about the correct language to describe the fact that we'll be changing the clock one more time during the trip. She says we'll gain an hour. I say we'll lose, pointing out that "gaining" insinuates something good is happening. Missing an entire hour of one's day is NOT a positive thing in my book. I mean really -- I paid for the whole 24 -- I want my money back! But it's a perfect example of how exhausted we are ... a pointless debate about an inconsequential topic. You say toh-may-toh, I say toh-mah-toh. Let's call the whole thing off.

So I call off being awake and close my eyes to take a nap.

Wouldn't you know that while I'm sleeping, we roll into town almost exactly 9:00 -- NINE hours after we left Montgomery. Mom leaned over to tell Grandma that was exactly right. I might have missed out on thise my-math-is-better-than-your-best-guess moment if Gram hadn't outed her when we sat down for dinner at Perkins.

I really hate Perkins, but the girls love this place. I'll give them this -- it's quick. We have our order in about 10 minutes, and that's a very good thing since we didn't stop for lunch. But there's just something creepy about the guy with the really bad toupee serving us our meal. I keep thinking ... so THIS is what an axe murdered looks like. Thankfully, the po-pos are eating at the table next to us.

Please explain this logic to me -- when we get home, already road tired with a heaping dose of exhaustion from emptying out the car -- I sit down and watch an entire movie. I am multi-tasking, giving Mom all my pictures from the trip ands she shuttles back and forth with her memory stick with each photo load. It's about 1:30 am when we turn in.

And just when you think I'll finally get to sleep without the rapturous sounds from the great white hair, Mom's freaking dog snores all night. And I swear to you -- she is louder than Grandma. I keep waking up and poking her so she'll stop.

Finally, I give up and roll out of bed at 6:30 am.

I check in for my flight ... figure out the trip bill since we used my credit card for expenses ... let Mom's dog out ... let Grandma's dog out ... give the dogs a cookie so they will stop begging (I swear they must have been stress eating, or my brother fed them yeast while we were gone -- they've doubled in size) ... and pack. Oh, and shower. When I hear my mother tell my brother, Ryan, who is meeting us for breakfast, for the second time that I am taking forever to get ready, I blow a gasket.

I grab all my stuff and put it in the car, where I tell her I'll be waiting. I text Ryan to tell him we should be clear about who is in the car, and who is NOT. She comes out a few minutes later. Without makeup.

My mother NEVER leaves the house without putting her face on. I am amused that she would go to these extremes to prove a point.

Sounds familiar ... maybe we're not so different after all.

Spending even a few minutes with Ryan and his wife, Yvonne, is the comic relief I need before getting on the plane bound for DC. I'm in a lighter mood when I get to the airport.

Then I go through security.

The sphincter police, for the first time in history, tell me to go back and repack my bags because the birthday gifts I am carrying in my small gift bag constitute a third bag. I'm allowed two. The woman asks me if it's my lunch, because apparently a third bag packed full of food is okay. I'm honest, but regret it immediately. Ryan and I scramble to stuff the contents into every nook and unavailable cranny in the other two bags. Frankly, it would have been easier to eat -- but I'm not sure the tiara would have been that tasty.

Needless to say, I'm a bit flustered as I pile my bags on the scanner. I'm not thinking clearly when the TSA inspector tells me she needs to open my bag. I'm a girl that usually chooses her words carefully.

Not this time.

I tell her to be careful ... it's likely to explode.

What I mean is, it's so FULL the stuff will come pouring out. She is not amused, and sadly, through I'm not even trying to be funny, it makes me giggle a little when I realize what I've said.

That's less funny to her.

A half hour later, as I finish repacking all of my carefully inspected posessions, I hear my name being paged impatiently over he airport intercom. I am out of breath from running to catch my flight home.

I board the plane to find someone else sitting in my seat.

It's been a long few weeks, and in a way, I'm sad to see them end. I plan to take a week hiatus from the blog, but will weigh in next week with some reflections from the trip -- from all of us.

Next year, you'll be able to curl up on the beach (or in front of the fire, depending on how damn long it takes me) with Mermaids To Graceland, the book. And believe me -- there are plenty of juicy tidbits we saved for the printed word! Please join the mailing list for the blog by clicking on the dashboard icon of St. Christopher (patron saint of safe travel) on www.mermaidstograceland.com, or by sending an email to mermaidstograceland@gmail.com.

Until next week -- I bid you adieu ...

You know, what the hell does adieu mean?

Tupelo Honey & Sweet Home Alabama

After leaving Graceland yesterday, we had two long days of driving ahead of us to look forward to. As we stop less and drive more, it’s amazing how much longer the drive seems. Maybe it’s that we’re heading home. The days fly in the beginning when it seems like you have all the time in the world. But when have a deadline – like say, a plane to catch – it’s like you’re being chased by the Devil himself.

Or maybe the girls are just eager to get me back to my own corner of the country.

As long as we're paying homage to the Elvis ... we made a pit stop in Tupelo, Mississippi, to see his birthplace. It is almost impossible to imagine a family living in this house. It's about as big as my living room -- if that.

And though it’s dark when we arrive, we also stopped off in Birmingham, Alabama, to drive by the 16th Street Church. I know Elvis’ Memphis palace was supposed to be the final hurrah, hence the “Mermaids to Graceland” moniker, but it wasn't the last planned destination on the list.

Somehow, “Mermaids to Civil Rights Trail” didn't have the same ring to it.

They look like they are having a dinner at the church when we arrived. I considered knocking on the door and asking to see the inside, but Flat Stanley was feeling a little shy. We settled for snapping a few pictures of the outside. It’s just past anniversary of the bombing that killed four girls in the basement of the church 46 years ago. It was an attack that helped to galvanize the civil rights movement.

As we headed to Montgomery, debris started hitting the car. I couldn't figure out what it was, but notice the a car pulling a boat in front of us start to swerve. The guy behind us was riding my ass and there was another car next to us. The girls are yelling as we realize the boat trailer has blown a tire, and the rubber is bouncing toward us on the road. It was pretty scary, but we pulled through unscathed.

We arrived in the Montgomery area, stopping just shy of the city to book a hotel and head to Olive Garden for dinner. Mom and I made a mad dash through TJ Maxx before they closed. She got a ring and I a bag for the trip home and a new dress. Pretty good for 15 minutes.

Our server at dinner, Shantanna, is studying to become a trauma surgeon and looking at Johns Hopkins once she graduates this year. I told her how much I love the area and encourage her to at least come out for a visit. She said she was born and raised in the South and isn't sure she'll like it. I remind her that the DC area is still south of the Mason-Dixon line, and if when you order tea, it will DEFINITELY be sweet.

Unfortunately, that's the only thing I DON'T like about my city -- except maybe the drivers.

But as I've recently discovered they're much worse in Alabama.

Elvis Rules

Civil Rights & Hip Thrusts

The Beignet Cafe, located on G.E. Patterson at the corner of Mulberry, may not look like much from the outside, but once you walk in the gated front door, you'll be pleasantly surprised.  This place is adorable. Our server, Latoya, has a wonderfully warm personality and Memphis pride we're coming to appreciate about the city's residents. She tells us a story about a former coworker who used to complain about the snail's pace in Memphis, how country the city was and that there was so little to do there. But Latoya and the other employees are natives, and they kindly suggested if she didn't like Memphis, she should leave.

We all agree ... Memphis is fabulous. 

We order cafe au lait and beignet that the girls say are just as good as those in New Orleans. The coffee needs a little sweetening, but otherwise -- I don't disagree. And it does the trick for brightening our mood ... if only it could have done the same for the weather.

Sadly, it's pouring when we get outside. Cats and dogs doesn't really do this downpour justice. It's more like lions and bears.

But I suppose the rain is fitting as we head over to the National Civil Rights Museum and the Lorraine Motel, where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated in 1968.  The girls decide to stay in the car and keep dry as I hike my pants up, take my shoes off, and sprint for the door. Since the museum is slow due to the weather, I am greeted by just about the entire staff in the lobby when I arrive dripping wet. The museum is fabulous -- and thorough.  I'm most struck by the courage of those that fought so hard for their equality. 

I was glad the rain camouflaged my eyes a little as I ran back to the car.

Next stop ... Graceland. 

It really is difficult to describe how kitchy this place really is.  At almost $30 to get in WITH the coupon from the magic binder.  That means seeing the King's jungle room is almost three times as expensive as seeing the room Dr. King spent his final hours. That just seems wrong to me.

The tickets we get allow us entry into about six different exhibits, including the tour of the mansion. Nearly every exhibit dumps you into a gift shop.  This place is a cash cow, but I guess, in a way -- so was Elvis. He made Forbes Top-Earning Dead Celebrities list the past two years, most recently grossing $52 Million.  That's more than living artists, including Madonna and Justin Timberlake.

But I have to say, seeing some of the rooms in his house and looking over official Graceland recipes, money can't buy good fashion sense or taste in food.  Imagine ... munching on bacon-wrapped meatballs in a room entirely swathed in the ugliest fabric imaginable. 

A Rocky Start

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.

Just kidding.

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?

Memphis On The Half Shell

Guess who got to sleep most of the day away while her mother drove across state lines fleeing the po-pos?

Ok, I'm kidding about the po-pos part. I curled up into the fetal position, which of course means my arse hanging way off the seat. If she would have stopped fast, I might have rolled off and been forever wedged in the back of the Rav-4 until they got the jaws of life to extract me. Dangers aside ... the napping sure felt good.

Why, you ask?

Because Grandma's snoring is something of mythical proportions. I swear, the rumblings in that woman's nasal passages are enough to wake the dead. I've taken the necessary precautions: pop a sleeping pill ... turn the air conditioner on ... put ear plugs in. Yet I still have to put my head under about two pillows to drown out the freight train sleeping in the next bed.

What's worse is that she has sleep apnea, which means I can't totally tune out the thundering roar. Especially on nights when she's really tired. She'll just suddenly stop breathing. I wait for what seems a normal span of time for the next breath to occur, then sit bolt upright when it doesn't. Then there is is ... that raspy gasp for air.

It's alive -- it's alive!

Needless to say, it's not conducive to restful sleep.

We stop a few times for gas. Thankfully after I chastised them yesterday for continuing to fill the tank every time it's just half a tank down, we are waiting a little longer between fill ups. The girls are ecstatic about the cheaper gas prices. The lowest we've seen it is $2.19 a gallon. My Mom feels so vindicated when she gets the cheapest gas at home that I don't have the heart to tell her the 20 cents she saved is completely negated by driving 20 miles out of her way to get it.

I digress. I've discovered a scam at the pump. These gas companies advertise unbelievable savings across the street from their competitors -- a full 10 cents cheaper per gallon. The trick is -- it's often for plus. Who it their right mind would think that plus would be cheaper than regular? So you pump regular without really thinking about it. Then see you've actually paid MORE than what it was across the street. Very sneaky.

While we're driving, we pass a sign for "Toad Suck Park" in Toad Suck, Arkansas. It's amazing some of the names of places we've passed through on this trip. Here are just a few:

• Peculiar, Missouri
• Eclectic, Alabama
• Cutt-Off, Louisiana
• Ding Dong, Texas
• Smackover, Arkansas

While we're back on the subject of Arkansas ... today we stopped in Little Rock for lunch at a place called Sim's Bar-B-Q. They've been in business since 1937 and I'd heard the ribs there were amazing. When we get off the highway, Mom and Gram are eying the rather sketchy looking neighborhood with concern. We roll up to the original Sim's to find the location closed down, but notice a sign for their new location. In a strip mall. Next to a Sav-A-Lot food market.

Now I'm a little skeptical.

For absolutely zero reason, it turns out. We all order pork ribs in some form or another, and I swear -- the meat melts like butter in your mouth. But the best part is the wonderful Southern hospitality we get from Leroy and Michael. They wish me a happy birthday and send us on our way with a slice of sweet potato pie for the road. I've never tried it before, and can assure you -- it didn't last long. Yum.

We rolled into Memphis a lot earlier that I had planned. Got a nice room for our free night with Hotels.com at the Westin off famed Beale Street. Beautiful room and great recommendations from the staff for dinner at a hidden restaurant called Itta Bena. There's no sign, which is how they keep riff-raff from Beale Street where they belong. You kind of have to know it's there. 

They bring us a round of champagne for a birthday toast (will post pics tomorrow). Mom and Gram order the She Crab Soup, which they both oooh and aaah over. I have scallops which come over a cheesy grit concoction and a lemon caper cream sauce that is to die for. The scallops aren't as good as Mr. Colicchio's, but the mushroom pasta is divine. I could have skipped the chicken, which was a wee bit overcooked. but the MUST get at this place is our server Mark's Guava Mojito. It's not on the menu, but it is so good I consider offering him my first born child for the recipe.

Mark also gives me some tips on the way to make what he says is the best bloody mary on the planet. I'm skeptical, given my out-of-body bloody mary experience in New Orleans, but I thought I would include the recipe here for you to try.

Mark's Super Simple -- But Ultimately Perfect -- Bloody Mary

• Squeeze half a lime into a glass
• Add Absolut Peppar vodka to "here", you'll have to eyeball it. Mark doesn't use a jigger, but where he points on the glass looks like about a shot and a half to me
• Top it off with Zing Zang Bloody Mary Mix

Let me know how you fare. Or better yet ... have one waiting for me when I visit next.

We pull out a card for the website and blog that we've been passing out during the trip, and I tell Grandma to give it to Mark. She says, "You want ME to give it to him?" So I stick it in her shirt a little and tell her to have him go fish for it.

She says she doesn't do that sort of thing without getting beads in return.

The truth comes out. I need another drink.

Birthday Meanderings From Amy & The Girls

AMY

Aunt Pam told me a story yesterday about the first time her and my uncle went out.  Their first date was to go pick out Christmas presents for my brother and I.

It made me wonder about my parent's first date. 

They met while working at Beaumont Hospital in Royal Oak, Michigan.  He was an escort (get your mind out of the gutter) and she was a nurse's aid. The way Mom tells it, she made the first move. She loved how tall he was and his broad shoulders.  She followed him into the timecard room one day and put her hand on his shoulders, squeezed, and said, "What a hunk!" I guess Dad was a little shy, but that broke the ice. 

They started chatting, and then she began giving him a ride home from work.  Mom told him it was no trouble, but it was pretty far out of the way.  Eventually she asked when they were going to go out. Dad said pick a day, so she did.  Mom asked what they would go, and he said pick a place.  She picked the Detroit Zoo.

I think it's cute that my parents first date was at the zoo.  Mom said they  had just started staying open at night, and when they went, it was snowing.  There was no wind so the huge flakes were just falling straight down.  When they got to the camel enclosure, she said a camel walked toward them, then stopped short and started dancing.

Maybe it was the great camel warning dance.

No really.  Are you tired of hearing me say this yet?  Everything happens for a reason.  Divorce sucks, but as a result, my family has expanded.  I mow have three beautiful half-sisters, and although we don't talk now, I hold high hopes for the future.  For Dad, the third time was the charm and my alternate mother, Leslie, is absolutely fabulous.  And because I've waited to get married until a later age, focusing instead on my career, have created relationships with wonderful circle of friends.  

Family isn't always about what you're born into ... it's also something you create.  

MOM

Dear Amy,

Happy Birthday Little Princess!!! I cant believe its 35 years since I first saw your precious little face.  When you were just six months old I prayed that you would "go and see and do, all the things that you possibly could." And here you are ... toting your grandmother and I along on your journey through the United States! I must say I would have never guessed that you would have grown up so totally organized, tidy and efficient.  Wow, I am very impressed! It has been a lot of fun, talking, laughing and sharing as we journey through the countryside. I wouldn't have missed all the laughs for anything!

 

You have grown into a amazing woman!  I am so proud of your talent, your determination, your sense of adventure and spontaneity. You are creative, witty and as we have seen often on this trip, extremely outgoing ... all the things that I had hoped and prayed for so many years ago! Your heart is as big as Texas, your potential unlimited, and your ambition enormous! You go my little girl, hope this birthday is one you will cherish always, and that you have many, many, more!

Love Mom

PS  What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas! Same goes for the car ...

GRANDMA 

Happy day little girl . you are so special to me . this has been a trip of my lifetime.May you have all the love and fun times we shared. God bless and keep you always. Remember honey, it is never the destination -- but the journey that is important.  

Thank you for sharing this journey with us. 

Love Gram

There's No Place Like ... Family

Today we drove about 550 miles. I can't feel my butt anymore.

We left Sioux Falls somewhere around 8:30 this morning, jockeying the line between Iowa and Nebraska down Interstate 29 most of the day. We were hoping to eat steak in Omaha for lunch, but decide the folks at Omaha Steaks are in cahoots with the Mormons. Is there no truth in advertising? I assumed, given the name of the company, that I could get steak in Omaha. Just like I assumed the Tabernacle choir really would open their practice to the public on Thursday evenings as their website indicates. Now I just think it's a ruse they both use to get you to stop in a town you would otherwise have no reason to visit.

To top my steak-less disappointment, Flat Stanley is peeved because we couldn't find the "welcome to" signs for either Iowa or Nebraska. I think that little one-dimentional man is getting a little big for his britches.

Our destination stop for the day is Kansas City, Missouri. I have family there that I haven't seen in quite some time. I get to sleep for about two hours as Mom drives in the morning, and when we switch off, Grandma helps me navigate. But between trying to read the map upside down, and confusing Kansas City with the state of Kansas, we're a little directionally challenged. We do pretty well, but it's still about 4:30 before we arrive.

This is my father's brother's family. I really loved my Uncle Chris. He was a big man with a big personality and an even bigger heart. He died of cancer 20 years ago, and since then, I haven't seen my Aunt Pam or my cousins, Andrea and Kimberly more than once. I wish my parents had made sure we spent more time together, but you know how things go. Two summers ago, their youngest son, Christopher, and I got to hang out. It kind of inspired my desire to form a closer bond with my family. A desire which bore the first stirrings of the idea for this trip.

There's something magical about family. No matter how much time passes, when you get together -- it feels like home. It was so wonderful to catch up and see that despite the distance between us, we still have much in common. Andrea's sense of humor, Kimberly's passion for travel and Christopher's reflective quality ... the things I love most about them are traits I also see in myself. And despite this being my Dad's side of the family (my parents are divorced), we all felt welcome. That's my aunt's charm in action. It was a wonderful way to start celebrating my birthday.

Sadly, we had to get back on the road to make the three hour drive to Springfield to stay on target with getting back home before my plane leaves Sunday. My brother, Ryan, wishes me a happy birthday on the phone, then proceeds to go into graphic detail about how I was "made". Graphic is an understatement, and I have to say -- there is something about considering your parents actually doing it that gives me the heebie-jeebies. Thankfully, my mother reassures me that I was indeed immaculately conceived.

The streets south of Kansas City are all named with letters, like "O" and "AA". Very original. The problerm is, it's causing me road hypnosis. Zzzzzzzzzzzz. When we take a wrong turn that requires us to cut across a very dark and rural country road to get back on track, we play a game using the alphabet to help keep awake and alert. The first person comes up with two words using the first two letters of the alphabet. The next person uses the last word and adds another starting with the next letter of the alphabet.

For example ... "Apple Butter" becomes "Butter Cookies".

But we get more creative, and then it's all "Dog Fart" and "Fart Growing" and "Growing Hard". This may not seem funny as you're reading this post, but when your 86-year-old Grandmother comes up with some of the stuff she comes up with -- laughing so hard she can barely get the words out -- it's pretty comical. What makes it hysterical is when Mom stops laughing and tells us to knock it off.

Because if she keeps laughing ... she's going to have an accident.

If there's anything I've learned on this trip so far, it's that the bond between family is incredibly strong. Who else can make you want to kill them one minute, and then make you laugh so hard you think you'll pee your pants the next?

Sprint Sucks ... and Other Oddities

I'm sad to say there were no bison out my window this morning. Mom says I'm turning into a bison junkie. She's right. I just can't get enough ... in my eyes or my mouth.

Tasty tasty, pretty bison.

We do see a few while driving out of the park. This one didn't look so pretty. Kind of scraggly. Mom said it looked like a young one. Grandma said old. I just think it had mad bison or chronic wasting disease.

Just ahead, there are a few more. I'm in bison heaven. These big shaggy beasts walking down the side of the road. It's so cool. But it makes Mom nervous. I think she might get sick every time we pull up next to one.

Looking for wildlife with her and Gram is a trip in itself. They are having a hard time seeing. Yesterday, Mom tried to convince me that a large brown box on the side of the road was actually a group of deer. Both the girls point out deer "stumps" in the woods so often that I start pointing them out to like they're some new novelty.

Look ... a wild black stump!

People would think we were nuts if they heard half the conversations that go on in this car. Like the one today about Grandma's colonoscopy. I'm supposed to have one when I get home and wondered what it's like. What I'm really wondering about is the anesthesia. It's my first time, and I'm a bit anxious. She goes into a 10 minute graphic -- and I mean graphic -- conversation about the entire process. She didn't have anesthesia, so she remembers all the gory details.

"And then my lower bowel ... "

Mom and I are both trying to tune her out. Why is it that older people think their personal body functions are a worthy topic of conversation?


We stop by Mt. Rushmore again since I want to get the most out of our shiny new $10 annual parking pass. Just kidding -- I think the light might be better ON the monument instead of behind it like it was last night. I'm right, but you can decide for yourself. Here is a pic from today, and I've posted one on yesterday's blog, too.

We drive through Needles Highway (GREAT suggestion, Dr. Selva!) We really enjoyed the winding road and beautiful rock formations.

Next up ... Wall Drugs. This place is a stitch. On a 45-mile stretch of road between where we get back on I-90 and off in Wall, South Dakota, there are at least 50 signs for this roadside attraction that consumes an entire city block. From what we gather reading these signs, this place offers free ice water, a new T-Rex, a six-foot jackalope and coffee for 5 cents. Although veterans and newlyweds get theirs free. With a doughnut.

Then it's on to the Badlands. Mom is terrified of heights. And when I say terrified, I mean really terrified.

I made this poor woman accompany me a few years ago when I went bungee jumping. I didn't understand the severity of her fear until I jumped ... and she screamed. I can't lean over walls, and when I was trying to take a picture in Yellowstone a few days ago and sat on an embankment wall, she started knocking furiously on the window until I got back in the car.

At the Bandlands, there is a five-foot wide walkway leading out to an overlook. She clutches my arm and closes her eyes the entire walk out. She says when she was a kid, she walked out there by herself. They didn't have railings then, so she got out pretty far. Then she looked over the edge and froze. My uncle had to go out and collect her. My brother inherited this fear, but I can't wait to go skydiving.

Just don't get me near any small spaces.

Like the back of this damn Rav-4. I finally get a chance to take a nap, which seems to coincide nicely with Mom blaring her music on the stereo. I bury my head deeper into the pillow and scrunch up in a slightly less uncomfortable position. And I mean slightly ... I'm nearly six feet tall, so I'm knees to nose back here. Then Mom starts making phone calls at a decibel not found in normal conversation. We haven't had cell phone service for two days. No contact with the outside world, which means we've had to actually talk to each other.

Lord, help us.

Mom finally broke down today and put her roaming on. I refuse, but guarantee Sprint and I will have a heart-to-heart when I get back home. How can they not have coverage across an entire STATE?

Sadly, it's too late to see the inside of the Corn Palace in Mitchell, South Dakota, when we arrive. But their corn corn rendition of Mt. Rushmore on the outside of the building was fabulous. I leave you tonight with this question -- do you think global warming could ever make it hot enough to turn the corn palace into popcorn?

Pass the salt and butter.

Where The Road Never Ends

Today we drove ... and drove ... AND DROVE. To my surprise, Mom got behind the wheel first.

But before you get all excited about me being wrong in last night's post ... we got in the car at 8:30 am. Mom pulls over three hours later and asks me to drive. I'm playing captain until we stop at 7:30 pm.

Anyway, we roll into Buffalo, Wyoming (named after the city in New York State, not the animal), and we pass a highway -- only I don't catch if it's 25 or 90. We're looking for 90. There's a lot of construction, so it's a bit confusing. I'm looking at the map and giving Mom directions, but so is Grandma with her own map. That's upped the ante on confusing, and I calmly ask if there is any way just one person can be the navigator.

Grandma loses her cool a little. She says she'll just shut up. And she does -- for just about the rest of the day. You could have heard a pin drop in the car.

Do you know how bad it sucks when your sweet-as-pie Grandmother gives you the silent treatment?

There's a small period of thawing when we stop at Fort Devil's Tower Bar & Restaurant for lunch. This place is GREAT. It's a log cabin style building, with a loft view of Devil's Tower National monument. It's literally a one-man operation this time of year. The owner, Rick Nelson, takes our order, cooks our food, and brings the yummy tex-mex style bison burgers out to the table. When he asks what we want to drink, Grandma asks for coffee. I ask him to put a shot of whiskey in it. She says I probably want to put arsenic in it. I explain to Rick that Gram is mad at me right now, and he says he can't believe I cause any trouble. The girls start cracking up.

Obviously, he doesn't know "trouble" is my middle name.

While we wait for our food, we start chatting with the only other folks in the place when we arrive. They're classic car enthusiasts from Arizona that have joined about 30 others to drive their cars about 3,000 miles to spots near Mt. Rushmore. Jan tells me a story about Guam's legendary mermaid, "Sirena". To read about the legend, CLICK HERE.

Rick sits down with us for a spell to chat while we eat. He's selling shares in his business for $1000 a share and a minimum of ten shares. He'd like to expand. During the motorcycle rally at nearby Sturgis, he says he gets 60,000 bikers through his doors. There's one thing Rick says that I just love:

"You stop moving, you get complacent. Then you get more complacent. Then you die."

He's 69 and says he plans to live another 200 years.

We roll by Devil's Tower and check out the prairie dog colony at it's base. Really makes me want to play Whack-A-Mole.



Next, it's off to Mt. Rushmore, where Grandma is thoroughly disgusted by the commercialism. She says when she was here last, none of the stuff was built. The parking garage ... the gift shops ... the ampitheatre. It's all new. She says it takes away from the magnitude of the experience, and I can see what she means. It's more like an exhibit than an experience. I imagine what it would be like to be hiking here in the Black Hills Forest and look up to see these huge stone faces staring out from the mountainside. And I will say this is the first national park that charged for parking ($10). It was a little off-putting.

We head down the road to the Crazy Horse Monument, but since they want $27, plus additional for the ride around to see the face, we skip it. I take a profile picture as we turn around. Once you've see one face carved in stone, you've seen them all. I'll come back when it's finished.

Then it's on to Custer State Park. They're supposed to have LOT'S of bison, so I'm psyched. Our twilight tour through the park is eventful -- with tons of deer eating dinner roadside, wild turkey escorting their chicks across the road, and bison hiding in the trees.

I hoped we could stay in the park, if there was a room available. As we pull up to the lodge, we are absolutely dumbfounded to see at least five bison roaming around the grounds munching their grassy dinner. I almost feel like I'm at a Walt Disney World attraction. They are so close they don't seem real. We take pics, and Mom seems to loosen up a little around the big shaggy beasts. We get our very own cabin -- complete with fireplace. I won't tell the girls how much we paid for it until they see it. They're convinced we'll have to sleep in the car the rest of the trip given how absolutely fabulous it is. Must be expensive. They just about faint when I tell them I got it for $100 bucks.

After dinner at the lodge, where I have bison meatloaf, Grandma tells us a story about how the cook of a wagon train. She says he would carry sourdough bread in his shirt to keep it warm and continue the fermentation process. They would use some of it to make biscuits that day, and the rest for starter. Eeeew. I ask her how she knows this, because frankly I think it's just plain unhygienic and wrong. She says, to Mom and I, "Don't you two read anything?"

Mom ignores her. She says it's because Grandma was there. It was right before they moved the Alamo.

Poor Gram. We really do tease her a LOT.

We're heading back to the room. I have a surprise -- smores to cook in the fireplace in the room.

I hope I get to see more buffalo when I wake up in the morning. Bison.

Whatever.

We Want To Hear From YOU!

Friend, or foe ... new acquaintance or old ... we want to hear from you.  Please comment on the blog or send us an email at mermaidstograceland@gmail.com. We've enjoyed meeting folks all over the United States on our travels, from our Texas gals (Joanna, Kay and Taste No Evil Muffins' Karisa), to our Montana cowboy Jim -- and one special friend we haven't even met yet, but hope to someday -- Rex from England.  Rex, we'll give you a special shout out when we reach Graceland!

Enjoying the blog? 

If so, and even if not, please feel free to share the site with others.  I'm writing a book about this experience and word-of-mouth is the best advertising.  Hey, grassroots organizing got President Obama elected! Can you blame me?

We'll have a way for you to join our mailing list posted on the website soon.

Thanks for sharing our journey!

Amy & the Girls

Rest Your Weary Head

You might think this is funny.  Two nights ago when we couldn’t find a hotel in Yellowstone, the girls suggested we sleep in the car.  Mind you, this is after out wild west buffalo experience. After seeing elk with horns as wide as the car and about three feet tall.  The same elk I might ad, that we were warned are very aggressive this time of year – if you catch my drift. Armed with the knowledge that bears and wolves and mountain lions all live in this park ... they want to sleep in the CAR.

Now, I was driving.  The windshield was littered with bugs, so many that it’s almost like trying to drive while looking though a kaleidoscope -- in the pitch black darkness. After driving all day -- about 400 miles -- we stop around 9:00 pm.

Today, Mom’s driven about half the miles, is complaining about the bugs on the windshield in broad daylight, and at 6:30, she thinks we should stop for the night.  Her argument is valid for three reasons.

1. She’s tired.
   
2. Grandma’s tired.
3. I’m tired.

But we’re still more than 200 miles short of our goal -- Newcastle, Wyoming.  And guess who I bet is driving much of the day tomorrow?

Tisk, tisk … I’m such a bad daughter.

Let me tell you what booking rooms is like.  The girls set a budget of $70 per night.  That’s $70 total. Do you know how hard it is to find a place you would want your own Mother – let alone Grandmother – to sleep for seventy bucks?  I mean, I have standards, but I’ve also been to India, where the carpet is wet and the bed bugs bite and leave welts.  There’s a strange correlation here with Grandma’s insistence that they moved the Alamo. 

They moved the hotel prices!

The hotels where we’ve stayed that fell in the target price range were definitely frill-free, but not bug free.  With the exception, of course, of that GREAT place in Deming that was about the same price Gram paid for a top-of-the-line place when they went out West half a century ago.  And the only reason we got it for that price was because there was no working TV in the room.  Apparently, to the average clientele, a TV is worth about $25.  Frankly, I’d rather not have one at all.

I’m off subject.  My point is – it’s a pain in the butt to try and get a decent hotel for under $100.  First, I call Hotels.com.  They have a loyalty program where you stay 10 nights and you get one free.  I thought it would be a great way to get us a free night somewhere. But it’s not always cheaper.  So I cross-reference it with the hotel itself. If neither of those prices is close, we pull over so I can pirate someone’s internet.  That’s definitely a crap shoot worthy of thousands in Vegas.  

Will Amy get on line, or won’t she? Place your bets ...

Tonight, Hotels.com has a Comfort Inn located in Worland, Wyoming for $109 per night.  The hotel quotes the same price.  After three attempts, I get internet access and find that Priceline is offering the same $109, so I try their bidding option starting at $50.  Nothing.  I call the hotel back and negotiate $93.99.  We save $15. 

Not bad, considering that at my current stress level, I’ll need a $100 massage to get back to normal. Or a martini, but I think this is the sort of town where you’d get shot if you ordered one in a bar.

I'll settle for a muscle relaxer and a nine-hour love affair with my ear plugs.

Yellowstone, How I Love Thee -- Let Me Count The Ways

For your video pleasure ... an overview of my new burning obsession.

We get a slow start, rolling back into the park.  We stop at the Eagle Chevron station near the hotel.  There's no credit card machine at the pump, so I go in (ugh ... modern day inconveniences!)  Jim says these pumps are thirty years old.  I can't even put a dollar amount on the pump because they don't stop automatically.  I tell Jim I'll leave him my credit card if he'll just open the pump up.  He says he just got out of the state pen and I should take it with me.  

I think he calls me baby doll.  I like Montana.

When we get into the park, our first stop is a bison sighting.  We stop and watch from the side of the road, though about a dozen people climb down the embankment to get closer.  These animals spook easily and run at speeds up to 30 miles per hour. Sadly, there's no cure for stupid.  I wait for a while thinking maybe somebody will get gored, and then I'll get the better pics. But this is a patient bison, so we move on.

We stop at the first big string of geysers.  It smells like rotten eggs.  We see a little kid trying to reach down to touch the water.  And older woman says "NO" to him, then apologizes to the parents for correcting their son.  It used to take a village, but now the village is full of idiots.  

And the idiots are breeding.

Then it's on to Old Faithful, where we have to wait only about a half hour for lift off.  Flat Stanley can hardly sit still.  There's another geyser -- the beehive -- that goes off just before.  It's quite a display, but only goes off once a day.  When the main event blows, Mom says it's kind of anti-climactic.  She's seen it before and swears it was bigger last time.  Everything looks bigger when you're a kid.

It's way later than we planned when we head out, and it's a long haul out of the park.  

On the way, there's just one thing I have to add.  You can't possibly grasp the long lasting devastation brought on by forest fires. Every time I see people smoking in the park I want to punch them.  I've never hit anyone in my life.  Near Lake Yellowstone, we drive for miles with one sight on either side of the car.  

Mountains that look as if they are covered with sticks.  Trees stripped of their glory, the bark still bearing the black blisters of fires that ravaged their needles -- and life -- away.  It's just acre after acre of lifeless desolate forest. 

Depressing.

The Difference Between Bison and Buffalo

What we saw yesterday was a BISON ... not a buffalo. Here's the difference on a five-point scale:

BISON

1. Have beards.  I'm not much for facial hair -- but it looks good on Bison.
   
2. Sharp, small horns -- all the better to gore you with, my dear.
3. There are 300,000 or less in existence.
4. Large hump.  My humps, my humps ... my lovely Bison lumps. Check it out. (half of you have no idea what I'm going on about ...  CLICK HERE)
5. Thick fur ... everywhere ...

BUFFALO (of the water persuasion)

1. Beardless.  
2. Horns ... not sharp, but long.  Bison have horn envy.
3. About 150 million remain.  Strength in numbers.
4. No hump.  No bump.  No lump.
5. Thin hair. Less sweat.

But here's the deal ... after our run in last night, I ate a delicious delicious bison ribeye.  It was kind of retribution for that bastard scaring the daylights out of Mom.

Not really.  I just like steak.

Close Encounter of The Buffalo Kind

For the first time on the trip, I wake up before the girls. We have a long drive today since Grandma suggests adding on Jackson Hole, and that means traveling through the Grand Tetons to get to our big destination for the day -- Yellowstone.

We get the car all packed up and on the road. Our first stop is Craters of the Moon National Monument. We pass signs for two roadside attractions -- one an ice cave, the other --mammoth caves. In the middle of a plain. Not a hill anywhere in the general vicinity. I'm not sure how caves work here, but they're usually under some kind of hill-like structure in my world. See for yourself:


When we arrive at Craters of the Moon, we discover the reasoning behind the naming convention. It's the strangest thing I've ever seen. Suddenly, in the middle of sweet little potato-loving Idaho, the flat grassy plains give way to fields of porous black volcanic rock. Lava tubes, spatter and cinder cones contrast against brilliant yellow flowers. Frilly-looking white lichen dot the stark landscape. It's really something.

And it sounds like walking on corn flakes when you step on it.


There are little teeny tiny chipmunks whizzing across the road. It reminds Grandma of a story from when her and my Grandfather lived in Northern Michigan. Grandpa (who I called Grumpy) had a chipmunk friend nicknamed "Chippy."

Grandma says little chippy would crawl up his pant leg to get at the nuts.

Ok, I know that sounds alarming, but that's how she tells the story. Turns out it wasn't so nefarious. Chippy crawled up the OUTSIDE of the pant leg ... for the nuts in his SHIRT POCKET.

Rolling out of Idaho, we spot the second best billboard I've ever seen in my life (as compared to the vasectomy billboard in Vegas.) Take a look:


I'm behind the wheel all day, but several stops for retail therapy keep us sane until we roll into Jackson -- while listening to the Johnny Cash song of the same title. Love it, love it, love it here. Such a cute little town. I now have three places on my list of those I'd like to return to: Austin, Sedona ... and Jackson Hole. The Grand Tetons are also fabulous, though the view of them obscured a bit by wildfire smoke. The caps of the mountains are just barely dusted with snow, and I am somewhat surprised -- I thought the range line would be longer.


I will admit that getting through to Yellowstone takes some time. Maybe it's the construction where the road is unpaved and the girls knuckles are white. But when we arrive, I decide almost immediately that Yellowstone is awesome. I think it's my favorite park yet. There's a little bit of everything -- wildlife, winding rivers, breathtaking scenery -- and of course, the geysers. I am saddened by the visible evidence of wildfire devastation, but at the same time hopeful in seeing new growth struggling skyward. It's a good metaphor for life and the changes it brings. This trip is about learning from these women I travel with, learning from their mistakes -- and my own -- to burn out old ways of being and bring forth something new. Having faith that things keep replenishing in the face loss is a big part of that process.


Since it's too dark to see Old Faithful tonight and we've barely missed hitting two huge elk one with a rack big enough that I could sit in it -- crossing the road. It scrambles up the embankment too quickly for me to get a picture, but we hear him bugling at the top of the hill. It's so cool, but also a little scary as far as continuing the drive is concerned. We decide to try and stay in the park, but are in trouble ... there's no room at the inn, or at dinner. We hike up our reserves and head for the West entrance to the park.

I'm driving carefully, but this guy behind me is totally riding my butt, making it hard to see with his headlights in my eyes. I finally stop in the middle of the road. He flies by me, AND the huge shadowy figure lurking on the side of the road just a few hundred yards ahead of us. As we pass, I hear my Mom gasp ... then in a high pitched, but eerily calm voice, repeat over and over:

Buffalo ... buffalo ... buffalo.

Mother of God -- this thing is as big as the car. I drive past and whip the car around. I've never seen a buffalo before. Well, in person. We drive past it really slowly and I roll the window down to get a better look. I ask Grandma for my camera. Mom is terrified. She thinks the flash will make the buffalo charge the car. I'll admit he's snorting quite a bit. I can't get the camera to take the picture, and with Mom just about crying, "We're going to die ... we're going to die," we drive past.

I turn around again so we can keep heading out of the park. When we re-orientate, the buffalo is walking down the middle of the damn road. Ironically, Mom tells me to pass him, but now I'm a little freaked out. So we just crawl along behind the thing.

I'm driving behind a buffalo.

When I see another car approaching, I put the flashers on and wave my hands wildly out the window. These crazy people don't slow down, and now are trying to pass me. I hang out the window pointing furiously. They roll theirs down and I say, "Do you see it? Do you see it? I'm trying to keep you from hitting that buffalo!" They look ahead and their eyes get wide. They stop. The big guy wanders off the road.

That was so amazingl.

Once again on our trip something that appears to be bad luck turns out to be a gift in disguise. EVERYTHING happens for a reason. We got to see a buffalo, up close and personal. We may have saved it from being hit. And although I didn't think we'd make Montana, we end up spending the night in the state at this really cool place called Three Bear Lodge.

The best part is, despite it being the most expensive place we've stayed, we all have our own bed. And I get a door to close to shut out Grandma's snoring.

Thank you, God.

The Grandma Delay

When we get on the road, I’m amazed at how yellow everything is in Northern Utah. Not just yellow ... curry yellow. It's so different from the fiery red we've passed through in the last few states. I mention it to the girls. Mom says it’s jaundice.

And then I notice something strange – the Grandma Delay.

Mom and I can have an entire conversation in the car and then like five minutes later, Grandma either adds something to the conversation, or has the same conversation over again. We say we’re taking Highway 15. Nothing. There’s silence in the backseat for 5 minutes. Then Grandma says we should take Highway 15. Still, that’s not half as bad as the random commentary coming from the back seat. Every once in a while you’ll hear something completely unrelated to anything we’re talking about ... like, “There’s an Applebees” or “Space kittens need love.”

Ok, I added the last bit in there for dramatic effect – but it really is that bad.

Grandma has always been a tough lady. For as long as I can remember, she's been strength incarnate. She cared for my great aunt, my grandfather's mother and stepmother, and then my grandfather until they passed. She makes more baked good at Christmas than Hostess or Little Debbie. At 86, she STILL works ... from 4 pm to midnight. This is an amazing woman, and I know she's having a hard time with us telling her to put her feet up constantly, not to try and carry anything – doing everything so she doesn't have to. It's such a role reversal.

Today, we're on our way to a friend of my Mom's house. Ray and my mother met ten years ago. When he kissed her, she looked at him and said, "No bells and whistles." When he got home, he set Grandma something in the mail, including a special package for Mom ... a box of bells an whistles.

Very romantic, but it didn't work. They've been great friends ever since.

When we arrive, we kid Ray about how bad we smell due to the copious amounts of dirty laundry we're carting around. He says no, but when Grandma bends down to pet his little dog, Rascal, she growls. I hit the laundry room. On the way to see Shoshone Falls, we drop Mom’s car off for an oil change and headlight polishing at Walmart. They’ll later try and convince me the tab is more than $100 dollars. Yeah, right. I just about have a coronary and we pay about half that.

The falls are really beautiful – like the Grand Canyon, but dark and porous volcanic rock. There’s a small rainbow hovering over the spray from the water coming over the damn.

Ray gives me a pic of what the falls look like on a good day. It's often called the "Niagra of the West":

And here's the one I today:

Ray explains to me a little about how they capture the energy, though from the later picture, the falls look like they're harnessing about as much energy as me these days!

We drive past an area used as a Japanese internment camp during WWII on the way back to pick up the car and then to Ray’s. He makes us our first home cooked meal in two weeks -- beef stew and garlic bread. It’s like warm hot love in my tummy. Or maybe that’s the drinks he’s been feeding me. This guy obviously reads the blog, because there’s a pitcher of Bloody Mary’s waiting for me and a pitcher of margaritas waiting for Mom. She says she can’t even feel her face, so I try and steal her garlic bread. She’s not that drunk – she nearly rips my arm off trying to get it back.

Yum.

Two margaritas later, she can barely stand up. I love that when she gets tipsy, her nose turns red. It’s so cute. I call her Rudolph. But then she asks me why the room is moving.

I think it’s time for bed.

This is the first time I've gone to bed before about 1 or 2 am since we left. I've died and gone to heaven.

We got the camera from Vegas delivered to Ray's today. Scroll back over previous posts for some pics and hysterical video.

Land of Mormon: Part Two

As we're driving, we see a big lime green trash truck on the side of the road. The sign on the side truck reads, "Got Crap?" Mom asks if that means it's a shit load.

Sorry, it was so funny and I couldn't resist.

We roll into Salt Lake City around 6:00 pm. We're planning to go see the Tabernacle Choir practice in the heart of the Land of Mormon. But since we have time for a bite, we head over to One World Cafe.

Their philosophy is -- everybody eats, nobody wastes. They have little slips of paper with amounts on it. You pick the amount you can afford and that's what you pay. If you can't afford anything, you select a special piece of paper that entitles you to soup or rice. The owner/head chef/manager/server/bus boy Giovanni Bourberbal is a gem. This man has talent in the kitchen. There's not a microwave or a deep fryer in sight, nothing frozen, and the cafe even grows some of it's own food. It's organic, free-range ... and absolutely delicious. For $10, Mom, Grandma and I share a heaping plate of delicious yams, quiche, beef stew, brown rice, kale & cabbage, zucchini and more. I recorded audio, so check out the story soon.

Then it's on to Temple Square, where we discover that the choir is in a private recording session this evening. Mom says it was the same story when she was here ten years ago, so I'm starting to think it's a Mormon conspiracy.  Get them in the door and recruit ...

That thought is only intensified by the fact that every Mormon at the facility we pass greets us with huge smiles and unnatural warmth. I think they need to lay off the Kool-Aid a little. The women are perfectly coiffed, with pearl earrings and long straight skirts. I keep pulling my own skirt down over my knees and a failed attempt at modesty.

We stop by the genealogy archives. Mormons have an extensive database where I'm hoping to settle an ongoing argument with my father by perusing. He insists we're not Polish. Dad, I hate to tell you -- in the 1930 census records, Nellie, your grandmother, listed Poland as her place of birth and Polish as her native tongue. 

I win.

When we leave, I tell Mom I'm thinking of converting. She tells me I wouldn't be a Mormon, just a moron. Grandma says we should watch it, and I tell Mom to duck -- here comes the fire (Secretly, I think her hearing aids have a special "selective hearing" setting. She can hear us just fine ... when we don't want her to.) So I turn around and start signing the conversation for her. She doesn't think I'm funny and says she doesn't have her hearing aids in. Mom and I start shouting the conversation at each other, and Grandma says we don't have to yell.

We're laughing so hard as we get back on the highway that I feel I can make it another hour toward Idaho. The greatest thing about family is that you can feel like you want to kill each other one day, but are laughing your arses off TOGETHER the next.