On Friday, Mike picked me up from work. Our car was stuffed with our suitcases and toddler accoutrement: DVD player, assortment of books and toys, and the pill they give astronauts in case they want to end it–that was for me, silly! They don’t have infant versions!
Our plan was to drive to a tiny mountain town in Oregon to attend a our friend Matt’s wedding, but what we didn’t take into account is that on a rainy Friday afternoon, the Seattle traffic is hellish. It is not the “parking lot” cliche because you know what? I have never wanted to kill anyone in a parking lot. I have never felt the murderous rage of someone who does not know how to merge or someone who has to cut in front of me! Please don’t cut in front of me because I will spend the next hour hating you and your “coexist” bumper sticker.
So instead of driving 10+ hours, we drove an hour from my work to our home. What an awesome roadtrip, indeed.
Our trips are no longer as seamless as they were when it was just us. (Duh Mona! File that under “Obvious”! I bet you prefer your hamburgers without cheese, which is also filed under “Obvious”!) We could handle interminable highway miles or frustrating ticket agents. And things could be done on a whim, like when we were in Sedona, Arizona and I fulfilled my dream of working a western brothel:
So instead of journeying the Oregon Trail (best. game. ever.), we stayed in this weekend.
Nathan became a pot head.
And got the munchies.
And tried to climb up my back using my ponytail.
How was your weekend?