On the way home from North Carolina, as we were sitting in traffic in Knoxville for hours and hours and hours and hours because of this mess, my dad said,
“If you’re sure you’re not going to have a family of your own, you should really get a hard-topped convertible.” People, I had no idea a hard-topped convertible was an accoutrement of spinster. I always thought the “spin” in “spinster” was your spinning wheel, which you were relegated to working on all the time because you had no man’s income.
But apparently it has to do with the wheel of a fancy car, which I will be able to afford, I’m sure, right after I purchase Edmund Baxter’s old house.
So, my parents. They were fine. They wander around naked quiet a bit and fight pretty much constantly and only didn’t sit in the back of the van and make out while I drove because my mom was still kind of mad at my dad for reasons I forget.
But they mostly behaved and they let me stay at the motel while they went to my sister-in-law’s house, so that was nice.
And the drive home from Knoxville is pretty much all downhill, with trucks. And long.
Boy am I tired.
Tiny Cat Pants 