Leaving on a Friday evening for NY is always full of expectation and excitement (see photo above taken from edge of woods in the Spring). After driving 6 of the 7 hours, however, I feel like I'm about to lose my mind. That last hour could fall under the same category as water torture - the kind where you're hung upside down with water dripping on you and you're left there to think about how much your head hurts, how much your joints ache, and how much you wonder what you did to deserve this (not that that's ever happened to me, but I have a vivid imagination, ok?). By the seventh hour, my butt hurts, my legs are cramped and I can't get comfortable no matter what I do. My husband and I snap at each other and sigh and moan everytime we think the other has said something stupid or nonsensical. "I mean, why would you say that? It makes absolutely no sense. Are you all right to drive? You sure don't act it." And I am not one who can sleep in a car, a plane, a train, a tent, a couch or on the floor. Give me a nice bed and that'll do the trick. My idea of roughing it, by the way, is spending a night in a Holiday Inn. So, again, by the seventh hour, I am tired, cranky, and sick of listening to the NPR podcasts my husband has downloaded which we have been listening to for hours.
By the time we arrived Friday night, Druck and I were less than pleasant toward each another, one reprimanding the other for what he/she left in the car and "it's not my stuff, so you get it and bring it in." Then, of course, when my husband does do the manly thing and pulls my one-ton suitcase out of the car, he has to remark the same remark that I mouth along with him as I stand inside, leaning against the wall, removing my shoes and staring at the ceiling: "You'd think you were traveling to Europe for the summer, for crying out loud, with all the stuff you have crammed into this suitcase." I sigh, kick my shoes to the side and start turning on lights.
This particular weekend was amazing because we had really nothing planned. Usually, Druck helps his Dad most of one day, we have dinner with his Dad and Shirley, and usually see another family member while there. Needless to say, there is a great deal of driving and doing once we arrive. This particular weekend, we had nothing on the agenda except getting together with my sister on Sunday evening to go through old pictures.
We ate well and even treated ourselves to purchasing fresh clams which we would steam and eat in drawn butter. This is a rarity in the mid-west and something I was unaware of when we moved here. There are many things that are either unheard of in the mid-west, or are not the real McCoy as they are in their place of origin, i.e., in New York. Salt potatoes are unheard of here, white hotdogs are completely unknown, and having fresh steamed clams whenever you want to purchase at your local grocery store is practically non-existent. And forget about getting Buffalo wings the way they are really supposed to be made.
As we walked back to our car with our various groceries, including the steamed clams, I commented. "I wonder why people never make pets of clams."
"What?" my husband replied, seemingly agitated with such a statement.
"No, seriously. They're alive when you get them so why couldn't you keep them in an aquarium just like you do other fish? People get hermit crabs, you know. Clams are a little less exciting, but not by much."
"They eat small mammals."
"REALLY." I say, more as a statement as I stared at him in disbelief.
"Yeah," he says and keeps walking.
"Now what kind of small mammal could a clam eat?" I looked at the ground and continued walking toward the car when I heard a small snicker and looked up to find Druck shaking his head and smiling.
"You idiot," I stammered and, with a huff, flopped into the car, crossed my arms, acted mad for 10 seconds, and burst out laughing.
Stay tuned for Part II. I'm sure you can't wait (choke).
Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma
