MY EPIC ROAD TRIP: BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES, CHAPTER 1

Bad decisions make good stories, and I now have the tee shirt to prove it.

My nephews march with Spartans Drum Corps and tour all over the eastern United States before the culminating championships in Indianapolis mid-August. Unfortunately, their closest show to me this season is in Syracuse, NY. So, me being me, I start planning a trip out to Syracuse, with a plan to take in what I like to refer to as "roadside oddities" on my way. If I plan it right, I can even stop in Cooperstown to tour the Baseball Hall of Fame.

I plan three different routes just for fun: I-90 (through NY, this is a given), route 2 Mohawk Trail in Massachusetts, or route 9 across southern Vermont through Bennington. There are too many possibilities, and I want to see everything. Route 9 is a no-go because, if I pass through Bennington, then I also need to see part of the Mohawk Trail and vice versa. So, both 2 and 9 are ruled out simply because of the high distraction value. 

That leaves route 90, a rather tame initial journey where the most exciting thing is the speed trap crossing over Massachusetts into New York state. But, there are multiple side trips to see roadside attractions across New York. This is a huge draw.

However, my sister-in-law is also planning a solo drive to Syracuse because her husband, one of my crazy-arse brothers, has been volunteering on the corps' food truck -- feeding something like 300,000 kids and staff (okay, maybe 200) three meals a day and basically not sleeping for six straight weeks -- and his tenure is up with the Syracuse show. My brother and his family live in the North Country of New York, a little over an hour south of Montreal.

I have a brilliant idea! I'll take the backroads and scenic byways to my sister-in-law, and we can drive to 'Cuse together. Even crazier . . . she agrees to this evil plan of mine.

Me being me, I start planning with the roadside oddities. What can I see and do that is totally whacked? Again, route 2 and route 9 compete for my attention, but, again, I discount both because it would mean at least one extra day of travel. There's simply too much to see, so that needs to be a separate trip or done in a Winnebago. I start plotting routes 30 or 100 or 7 through Vermont. They're all winners, but some of the directions involve north-south deviations to traverse the Green Mountains. My car has 93,000 miles on it. Is this my brightest idea? (Hold that thought.)

By now, I've put way too much time into this. I could've hopped into the car and used the day I've already spent plotting this out rather than actually . . . well . . . plotting this out. I mean, really. Just get in my car, hop on 93 to 89, jump the Grand Isle ferry, and get 'er done. 

But, anyone who knows me also understands this is not how I operate. I get easily bored on the highway. People drive like idiots, and there's not too much to see for 80% of the drive. Plus, my foot and butt get tired just sitting there driving. It's like a really stressful plane trip without benefit of free drinks and snacks and bathroom.

You'll have to wait until next week's blog for more of the story, but, I promise you, it's epic. I did make it home mostly safely and mostly intact, no thanks to my own stupidity. But, as the tee shirt says, bad decisions make good stories. My friends, I trust it will be worth the wait.

PREPPING FOR THE ARTISTIC APOCALYPSE

It's that time of year again: Time when I truly believe I might find a spare moment to be creative.

I have a mish-mash of projects either half-finished or thoughtfully un-started -- fabric waiting to be cut out and sewn; yarn waiting to be knitted into rectangles; glue sticks waiting to hot-glue something together. 

Truth be told, I'm not remotely talented when it comes to hands-on creativity. Oh, I can write you a poem, story, or essay at a moment's notice. What do you need?  A report? With or without citations? Flash fiction? Limerick? The sad part about my particular talent is that AI has come along and blown it all to Neptune. What takes me months to do, AI can create in a millisecond.

No matter. I'm prepped and ready for the Artistic Apocalypse. 

You need cray-pas? I got you. Colored pencil that turn to water colors? Check. Oil paints? Acrylic paints? Fabric paints? Yes, yes, and yes. Drawing pencils? Charcoal pencils? Calligraphy pens? You don't even have to ask.

Back in college, I had to take a drawing class to fulfill a fine arts elective. It was 101-level, meaning we were all supposed to suck at it. But, much to our mutual horror, we had an art major in our class because, like us, Drawing 101 fit into his schedule as a fine arts credit. We all felt like pathetic failures.

Hope does spring eternal.

Last summer I reorganized all of my random supplies. This summer perhaps I should attempt to use them. If not, then I'll do what I did with half the excess craft stuff from last summer's clean out: I'll donate it. 

What's that you ask? What happened to the other half of the excess craft stuff from last summer? Don't look in my closet at school. You just might find that I pretend to do crafts at work, too.

Like I said, when that artistic apocalypse hits, whether I'm at home or in class, I'm ready.

CAPTURING THE (DAIRY) QUEEN

I am massively depressed about the massive ice cream recall. So, I decide that I will make my own ice cream, hopefully free of extraneous additives and other poisons that caused the massive mess in the first place. 

Recently, my brother-in-law churned out some fabulous vanilla ice cream using an electric ice cream maker. It was so easy that I thought maybe I'd get myself an ice cream maker.

Then, reality hit.

I don't need that much ice cream in the house at any given moment because I will convince myself that I must eat up all of the ice cream in order to save the masses from possible ice cream induced brain-freeze and ice cream related cooties. But, the ice cream process itself does seem rather interesting. So, I do what any lazy person might do: I scour the internet in search of easy ice cream recipes.

I find one that sounds simple enough: heavy cream + sugar + vanilla + salt = shake for 5 minutes in a mason jar, then freeze for four hours.

I have one mason jar with an airtight seal lid. So, all I really need is a cup of heavy cream to give this a whirl. I go to the store and discover only a quart size of heavy cream. Anything smaller is light cream or whipping cream or half and half. If the recipe calls for one cup of heavy cream, then technically I can experiment with this four times. 

This sounds like a wonderful, devious, fattening plan!

I assemble the ingredients into the mason jar, secure the lid, and start shaking the contents rather carefully so I don't drop it. Let me tell you, five minutes is a rather long time to be shaking a mason jar. I switch off from arm to arm, putz around the apartment while I do this, empty the dishwasher, change out the toilet paper roll, put away the new roll of aluminum foil, and just plain doubt myself that this is even going to work. 

I give the shaking one more minute for extra measure, just in case I didn't thicken the mixture enough (but not too much as it might solidify into a butter-like substance). To be honest, my expectations are reasonably low. However, when I open the cover of the jar, a substance like soft-serve vanilla ice cream is in the jar. I add some chocolate chips to it and put the whole jar in the freezer. 

Hmmmmmm. I wonder if I can make a chocolate version? Back to the internet go I.

Unfortunately, all the recipes involve melting things down or special-ordering stuff. Whatever. I've never met a science experiment that didn't have some element of failure attached to it, so why start now. I don't have any more mason jars, but I do have those plastic disposable soup containers.

I mix together a second batch, but this time I generously add chocolate syrup. The top goes back on, and I start rocking and rolling that stuff for five to six minutes. When I peek inside prior to the freezing portion of this exercise, I see light brown ice cream about the consistency of soft serve. This looks promising. 

Four hours later, the ice cream is pretty much frozen solid. I taste the vanilla chocolate chip, then I try the chocolate. Remember, my expectations are not lofty here.

Holy. Dairy. Queen. I think I might be on to something. 

Another recipe suggests that this shake-an-ice-cream technique will work with evaporated milk. I put that on my shopping list. I call my sister to tell her that she and her husband are bad influences in the dessert department, and, while expounding on the benefits of non-store-bought frozen deliciousness, I wonder out loud how it might work with some coffee added.

I may have created my own Frankenstein on this one. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, I have some ice cream to polish off and some bigger-waisted clothing to order.

GO "FOURTH" AND READ!

A lot of stores are open for business on the Fourth of July. That doesn't surprise me anymore. 

There used to be these things in Massachusetts called The Blue Laws that prevented people from doing anything except going to church and mowing their lawns on Sunday . . . unless you forgot to fill the gas can on Saturday. Then, you weren't mowing your lawn on Sunday. These Blue Laws also extended to state and federal holidays. In other words, nobody except police and firemen and hospital staff worked when the Blue Laws were in effect.

What does surprise me about stores being open on Independence Day is that now stores are posting their holiday hours as "Open normal business hours." I mean, seriously. How many people are going to be out shopping on the Fourth of July for anything other than burgers and beer?

This is my mindset when I decide to go to the Used Book Superstore on July 4th. 

I tried this same trip last Independence Day. That time, I got within two-tenths of a mile and had to turn back because the road was closed for a parade. Bad planning on my part. This year, I wise up. I am not going over until three o'clock, after the parade-goers have packed it in and taken off. That gives me two hours to turn in old books and then buy more. This way of thinking means that anyone who had parked in the big lot for the parade will be long gone, and most sane people will be at barbecues and pool parties or in the ER after blowing their fingers off with M-80's.

I mosey on down with my grocery bag full of books to sell, pull into the parking lot of the bookstore, and . . . hesitate. Every single parking spot (except for a couple of the handicapped spots) is occupied. I have to park in an adjacent lot. I also notice two other people bringing books in to sell, and I mean bags full of books. 

I wait in line to get my return-books credit and am pleased to add twenty dollars to my account. I grab a carriage and begin to maneuver through the wide aisles and quickly realize that having a cart is a truly stupid idea.

This place is mobbed.

I have never seen so many people in this store, leading to multiple conversations about writing and publishing, and strangers sharing author recommendations with each other. The check-out line looks like Christmas mall shopping. It's so packed that I only buy myself a couple of books and decide to carry over a balance for next time. 

When it's my turn at the register, I say to the clerk, "I'm so glad you're open today, but I thought maybe it would be dead in here on the holiday."

"Me, too," she says with a small grin. "This is quite a surprise."

As I sit in my car, prepping to head home and checking my text messages that I ignored inside the store, I notice two people unloading boxes and boxes and more boxes of books to donate and/or sell. Some people may be at parties that are popping, but the real magic is popping right here in the bookstore.