That title's not mine. It belongs to Buffalo Tom's Sodajerk. That song is about masturbation. This blog is not. This blog is not about much of anything, to be quite honest.
I arrived home tonight after my spending the better part of our Christmas break in Wyoming. I can't begin to tell you how weary I am (clearly, not too weary to begin catching up on MySpace). Yeah, according to Google, it should have taken 20 hours to drive there (I'm sure they don't include gas and food breaks, naturally). It took 25 there and 24 home. The tricky part is that I'm relatively certain that the entire 25/24 hours took place in Nebraska, the longest (?) and most boring state ever. I was like Jack Nicholson in The Shining by the time I got through it.
I have to get mushy now. I'm sorry, I'll post random pictures to amuse you afterward, I promise.
The last 4 hours on the way there were horrible. The roads were clear, the weather was amazing- until I crossed into Wyoming. Initially, it was merely ridiculously high winds blowing immense amounts of snow about making it nearly impossible for me to see anything. That wasn't so bad. Then, I drove on a thick, solid sheet of ice for my final 1.5 hours. That really blew monkey butt. That period of time had me using my daughter to talk Josh at our destination because I was too freaked out to talk and drive. Ultimately, I yelled at him to stop calling me. He laughed at me and, as I was possessed by demons at that time, it really pissed me off. He said I wouldn't be mad when I got there, I'd be happy. Whatever.
He was right.
When I got there, he was waiting outside to show me where he wanted me to park and he was genuinely happy to see me. Moments like that, seeing that expression on someone's face, are what life is all about, people. I wasn't irritated anymore.
I won't tell you about how everytime I neared a destination on the drive home, thick currents of fog ensured that my speedometer wouldn't exceed 45 mph. Wait a minute, I just did.
Promises broken? Everytime I see him, I promise myself I won't cry on the one night we go out, just the two of us, to drink and have a good time. I failed. Again. I hate being female sometimes. Sometimes, I feel sorry for men for having to put up with us. I'm totally lying.
Pictures, pictures:
First, I'd like to note that, in Nebraska, there was an exit sign (couldn't whip out camera fast enough) announcing the exit to "Boy Town" immediately above the exit sign for some Mormon retreat. It was awesome.
The beverage to the right of my Diet Coke is my mom's famous "Vodka...with a splash of cranberry juice." Literally, it was just a splash. I'm surprised it changed colors. After two of them, I didn't look like this.
This is what happens when I ask my daughter to take a picture of the bridge over I 80 in Nebraska. It's a museum or something. All I know is it's in the middle of nowhere and completely uncalled for.
Here is a picture of the actual bridge.
This picture says it all. It was above the entrance to a convenience store. In Nebraska.
Good times. As long as you don't shoot. Shoot what? With what?
This is a picture of Josh when we took the kids to play Glow Golf in a mall. We haven't actually discussed it yet; still, I'm positive that we are psychically synced (sp?) enough to agree not to ever take our kids to mini golf again unless they are old enough to be dropped off.
This is what happens when children play X-Box for 4 solid days because their parents are busy remodeling a bathroom as a Christmas gift to one of the parent's mother and it is taking much longer than expected.
This is a picture of my sister's ass. 
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