As more and more of the marital pot (no, not that kind of pot) ends up in the swelling bank accounts of matrimonial attorneys, I become more acutely aware that my customary travel habits will have to change. It's a good thing I'll be living in a trailer, because it's going to double as my chariot. Kenosha can be lovely this time of year.
Years ago, as I sat with my husband at one of the grittier dives on the marina in Puerto Vallarta, we somehow attracted the attention of a couple of retirees well into their third round of drinks, even though it was just a bit past noon. They regaled us (between belches) with stories of their great Winnebago adventure. Their home on wheels was carrying them through their golden years, as they drank their way through North America. Given their level of alcohol consumption, I can't imagine they made very quick progress, but then again, it's the golden years, and they've got nothing but time. Until their livers implode, that is.
They went on their way -- to the bar about ten yards down the pier -- and we chuckled about their lowly ways, their pathetic lifestyle. Well, I don't know who's laughing now, but it's certainly not me. By my calculations, I'm just about three retainers away from spending the rest of my life sleeping it off and motoring off to the next cheap watering hole. Uno mas, por favor. It's never too early to start practicing.
I'm hoping the next "welcome aboard" package contains something really useful, like an E-Z Pass and a lifetime supply of Advil. Maybe even a travel potty seat (for those times I can't make it back to the trailer). My daughter has told me she doesn't want the gifts anyway; she's just pissed she's not getting what her friend's firm sends: godiva chocolates and DVD's of The Office, season six. She'd cut my fingers off if I tried to keep those.
My new tote bag is packed, my travel mug is full, and I'm ready to go wherever a full tank of gas will take me.
Great, but what about the price of the gas?
ReplyDelete