Virginia is for Lovers...unless you are in Ruther Glen!

I was gonna write about my lil stop at the most ghetto fabulous gas station this side of the international dateline…where I feared for my life as I pumped gas and absorbed the true meaning of “pants on the ground, pants on the ground, lookin’ like a fool with your pants on the ground”…but something far more bloggable has occurred, so I’ll write about that instead…

So, I was perfectly delighted to FINALLY find a Starbucks off exit 92 along I-95. I mean, seriously, there are three on every city block in NY, but I can’t get a grande black and white mocha with an extra pump of white anywhere between Durham and Richmond, VA? Really? Whatever… So I finally get my beverage. It’s almost 11pm, and I am just about halfway through my journey. (Did I mention that I usually require a brief power nap along the way to even Greensboro, NC…just an hour away from home? Needless to say, I am not a distance driver. Anyway…)

I’m drivin’ and sippin’. Sippin’ and drivin’. I’m singin’ along with Billy Joel…Uptown Girl, I believe it was (because his greatest hits make great travel music), and as I pass the billboard for the Mega Millions lottery, I amuse myself with the thought that I don’t need aaalllll 86 million…just enough to get a new car and pay some bills. I giggle a little to myself, for some strange reason, when suddenly I hear “grrrrrrrrrrrrrr, grrrr grrrr grrrr”. My car sounds like I just started a Nascar race, or someone hid a little motorcycle under my hood. WOW…I just spent almost $700 on it on Monday, surely this can’t be anything serious! Then “POP”…and a zillion sparks shoot out from under the hood to the left of the vehicle, and I can’t accelerate. I am slowing down, involuntarily, trying go get across two lanes of traffic to the shoulder, and just as I get to the side of the road, “pfffffsssssssst!”, and she’s dead.

Great, I am on the grassy shoulder of I-95 in the pitch black of the night, somewhere near Asscrack, VA, with Jordann and Brandon in a car that ain’t goin’
nowhere no time soon. After patiently listening to my string of expletives, Jordann suggests, “maybe you should call 911”.

So I call 911...not only because my lil Princess is a rocket scientist, but because the car is smoking’ like a California wildfire, and I am afraid that that it’s gonna blow up and we all will perish.

“911. What is your location?" (Again with the 911, geez…)

“Uhm…I dunno...somewhere…off the side of the road on I-95. My car died. I think I am at mile marker 97.”

“Are you safe?”

“Yes, as safe as I can be in the pitch black darkness on the side of an interstate, yes.” I laugh to not sound rude.

“What type of vehicle are you driving?”

“It was an Envoy.”

“It was an Envoy? What is is now?”

“A piece of shit.” We both laugh.

“OK. Are you on the shoulder?”

I explain the situation. The dispatcher says she’s sending a state trooper out. I thank her and check the clock. It’s 10:53.

In the meantime, I call AAA. Thankfully, I was reminded that I had AAA immediately after I picked my car up from having it fixed (yes, fixed, I say) on Monday and it wouldn’t start. (Yeap! Right in the parking lot of the place that took my almost $700...the car they just fixed wouldn't start. Oxymoronic, no?) AAA says they will send a tow truck, and make arrangements for me to stay at the always delightful Days Inn in Ruther Glen, VA (no, I have never heard of it either…apparently in it’s entirety, the town consists of the Days Inn, the Super 8 Motel, Arthur’s Steak House, a Wendy's, and one very questionable gas station).

Because I turned the car off, it’s getting cold inside. Did I mention that I forgot my coat?? It was nice in Durham today, and I had on my jacket. I meant to bring a real coat, but I forgot. Thankfully I dressed Jordann appropriately and remembered to bring her very warm Princess Tiana blanket (thanks Momma Simon), and Brandon, well, he’s all set with that fur coat action, soooooo. I am the only one freezing.

We wait. No tow truck. No trooper. No heat. It’s 11:27. Thanks 5-0! If I had been traveling a single mile over the speed limit, they would be on me like a sheet on a klansman, but I need help, so now I wait. And wait.

I call 911 again, and they tell me the trooper couldn’t find me. Find me? Hmmmm…curious… there is a fairly large SUV on the side of I-95 with hazzards on…and he couldn’t find me. OK. Perhaps I should have mentioned that I was stranded in a Krispy Kreme truck… My mother told me to be nice to the Virginia troopers…for obvious reasons… I “thank” the dispatcher for “trying” and she says she will send him again.

11:44. No trooper. No tow truck. No heat.

I get out to walk to the mile marker sign to give the trooper and the towing company a more precise location. It's freezing, and I have no coat...traffic is zooming by fast enough for me to be blown into the ditch by the tailwinds...but I have no fear...until..."aaawhoooooo!!!". OK...I probably made up the coyote sound in my head (do they have coyotes in Ruther Glen, VA??), but I had a vision of my limbs being carried away by wild animals while my Princess watches in horror and Brandon's mouth waters...so I hustle back to the car. No mile marker to report to anyone. I'll wait.

Finally, at 11:51, what I thought was a state trooper pulls up behind me. Thank goodness he got there so quickly! We discuss the situation, and I discover that he isn’t a state trooper, but a local police officer who just happened to see me on the side of the road and stopped to see if I needed help. At 11:54, the tow truck comes. But still no state trooper. So reliable. YAY!

The tow truck driver is very nice. We chat. I am moving my stuff into the cab of his tow truck, when I discover that I don’t have a leash. So here I am…struggling with Jordann, her car seat, and a leashless cocker spaniel on the slippery, grassy, slope-y shoulder of I-95. My Donna Summer CD falls into the ditch. Damn! She worked hard to make that!

So, when Ritchie (per the nametag) finally has what used to be my Envoy all loaded up on the truck. He tells me that it’s his first day on the job, and he was supposed to get off at 12:00. Great, ‘cause now it’s 12:12, and I’m sure Ritchie has things to do. He uses his CB radio (which Jordann finds fascinating) to call to find out where he is supposed to take me. Wonderful, Ritchie…aren’t you supposed to know this? The other “CB person” tells him to take me to the Days Inn at exit 101. Posh! I know there will be chocolates on the hand-fluffed pillow!! Whoo-hoo!

We exit at 101, and Ritchie turns into the hotel parking lot. I ask him to go inside to make sure they are pet friendly, and they are. Yessss!!! This is getting better by the minute! He unloads my car in the farthest corner of the darkest edge of the parking lot (wonderful, maybe someone will steal it…oh no…wait…it won’t start…dern!), and I go inside to pay. “Wow”, I think to myself, “this Days Inn is seedier than I even imagined it would be.” And I look at the sticker on the bullet proof glass, and it says Super 8 Motel!!!!

Dammit!!! Ritchie dropped me at the wrong place. And here I am at the Motel Cootie, with a sleepy kid, a leashless cocker spanil, several bags, and a car seat, and they didn’t even leave the light on for me. Aaarrrggghhhh!!!

Well, can’t go anywhere now. I have no idea where the Days Inn is, and even if I did, I’d have no way to get there. So we walk outside in the cold to room 127. (I have to tie my scarf around Brandon’s neck in lieu of a leash. Very stylish! I am considering getting him one of his own. In fact, it looks so good on him that I may market this...I'll call it "The Scleash". More on that later.) Room 127 is gross. The carpet is dirty, the toilet seat was wet, and I am not even going to tell you what is going on with this exposed box spring…eeewww! (You've heard that I am a germophobe, no? Understandably, I was prepared with clorox wipes...but not enough to do the room even a modicum of sanitary justice.) Jordann is sleeping on her Princess Tiana blanket with strict instructions not to put her feet on the floor when she wakes up. Brandon is on the “couch”, which frankly, does not appear to be fit for a dog. And here I am…still up at 2:12am telling you my story.

Oh…and the moral of the story is…if you are taking a long drive at night, and panning on going to sleep right when you reach your destination…don’t wear your pajamas in the car and put a scarf on your head. You never know what’s gonna happen, and you want to make sure you don’t look like Aunt Jemima in the event that your car blows up.

And tomorrow, the saga continues

Classy Places, Classy People!

When you frequent classy places, you meet classy people.

But tonight, I dined at Golden Corral, so that wasn't the case!

Truth be told, I wanted to go to The Cheesecake Factory. But having just come from the hair appointment from hell, and looking like a brokedown, orange haired Shirley Temple, I didn't feel classy enough to dine there. (I hold TCF in the highest regard...remind me to tell you how I stood in line for hours just to have the distinction of being TCF-Raleigh's first customer. I digress...) And moreover, I didn't want to run into anyone I knew with my hair looking like it did, soooo to Golden Corral we went.

If you've never been to a Golden Corral, let me set the stage... (Mind you, I haven't been to the Golden Corral in YEARS! It was the sneezing incident of '07...a serving spoon, some mashed potatoes, and a germ splattered plastic buffet protector that has kept me away for so long.) As you approach the parking lot, the fresh fragrence of grease fills the air. Inside, it is immediately evident that this establishment is a favorite amongst folks with homes on wheels, ifyaknowwhatImean... The air feels germy, and the tables usually look dirty in a superficially clean sorta way.

But I'm not knockin' it (save the sneezing incident of '07), 'cause when I'm in the mood for some good ol'-fashioned artery cloggin' grease in unlimited abundance, it's defintiely my top choice.

I get our tray and drinks, pay "Shelsea", who is enthusiastically tending the register, and look for a table without food particles or wet rag residue. One fairly out of the way near the window will do the trick!

The instant I set the tray down, I hear the three men at the next table snickering, and I feel eyes on me. Two are thirtysomething and Black, one is White, sixtyish, very large, and clearly lives in one of the wheeled residences I mentioned earlier. They are all obviously factory workers or manual laborers of some sort. Between the three of them, shey share a full set of teeth. To move now would be too obvious, so I smile and nod (to indicate that I am not intimidated and could care less). The least hideous of the three mumbles "hmmmm...sho is fine".

Great!!! I reminisce about the love note I received (via the cashier) from the snaggle-toothed pancake flipper at Biscuitville one PMS Sunday in 1998. Good times! I pick up our chipped plastic plates, wipe them vigorously with a Wet One (you know I am a germophobe, right?), and head for the buffet.

Upon our return to the table, the large White laborer shouts at me,"Looka heah, my frien heah...he thank you a cutie!" He could as well have been wearing overalls with a wife beater and chewing on a sprig of wheat straw.

"Oh?" I smile and pretend to be engrossed in getting Jordann situated.

Obviously given the "in" by his large redneck friend, Phillip (as he later iintroduces himself) has the imaginary green light to approach our table.

"How you doin' tanite?"

"We are well, thank you. And yourself?" I thought I could fend him off with my super-proper grammar skills. No such luck.

"My name Phillip Barker." (Note the intentional omission of the requisite verb 'is'? Yeah...)

He extends his hand to shake. I, the germophobe, am completely grossed out.

"Phillip, I just washed my hands to eat dinner, sooooooooo..."

"My bad." He smiles with the intention of being charming. "So, we fi'in to leave, you think we could keep in contack?" (For those who have not yet secured their 2010 Edition of 'Powerfully Effective Urban Pick Up Lines', "Can we keep in contack?" has surpassed "can I get yo numba?" in both frequency of use and rate of success.)

"No, I don't think my boyfriend would like that."

And leave it to Jordann, who has been surprisingly quiet until this opportunity to share..."MOMMY, YOU DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND!"

No use in debating it with her, clearly she is much smarter than I. I can only smile at Phillip, who probably didn't even pick up on the fact that my 4-year old just busted me mid-lie.

"OK," Phillip says, "if you change yo mind, look me up. Phillip Barker. I lives in Durham."

Yes, Phillip. I'll be sure to do just that. Certainly there is only one Phillip Barker in Durham. And I know you will be well worth the search.

And maybe the actual man of my dreams was at The Cheesecake Factory... If you see him, please let him know I'm sorry I missed our date...