Another Route, Not My Own
Posted By bbinns on December 27, 2008

Nancy doesn't mind having me in her kitchen, bless her heart.
12.26: Toledo to St Louis: 500 miles. Three states: Ohio, Indiana, and Missouri.
Dog-owners will recognize this scene: The car is just about packed and we are saying fond goodbyes and thank-you’s to C’s sister Nancy and her husband Charlie, who have been our kind and generous hosts for 3 ½ days of holiday conviviality. They’ve tolerated our luggage-laden, wine-quaffing, dog-centric stay in their immaculate new home with grace (even though having me in the kitchen for a big dinner or three is, according to many of my friends and relatives, not always the piece of cake one might imagine). On cue, Stella barfs. A lot. All over Nancy’s brand new cork floor. There follows a slight delay.

I like Toledo. They have lots of toys and a nice carpet here. - Stella
The road is not very welcoming this morning, so I will briefly refrain from stating that it’s my middle name. Between Sylvania and the southern outskirts of Toledo we pass 7 emergency vehicle-attended accidents. The last one takes us 45 minutes to drive past; when we see why, it seems clear that at least one life was lost in the cinder-crusted hulk off of the right shoulder. It’s going to be a very long day: evidently, there will be rain and heavy fog all the way. This is scary stuff, and for the 8th time we agree never to take such a northern route again. Not as soon as I’d like, we hit I-70 and head west. In seven recent cross-country trips, I’ve never set tire on I-70. (As any dedicated driver knows, all the “0” roads run east and west, while all the “5” roads run north and south. Of the e-w group, the first number gets smaller as you go south, thus I-10 is the southernmost east-west road, and my own favorite. But it’s way too way south for this trip I we expect to make Malibu by the afternoon of New Years’ Eve—and we’d better, because I’m cooking dinner for eight.

A stop along the misty way.
When C begins driving, 4 hours and only 150 miles into The Longest Day, we start listening to Carrie Fisher’s latest book “Wishful Drinking.” It’s a little too faux-dissembling, a bit too “isn’t my screwed-up life just so cute” for me, especially as I used to play with Carrie and her brother Todd when I was a Hollywood kid myself. I somehow managed to grow up without multiple drug addictions and electro-shock therapy. Well, sort of (and there were those two extra husbands, before I met third-and-final). Ooops—now I’m doing it too.
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