Last weekend, John and I drove to my parent's house to see my family and my grandfather, who isn't physically well anymore. In 60 hours, we spent a day and a half at my parent's house, visited with my grandpa, older brother, nephew, younger brothers, John's mom and sister, and drove 1400 miles. It felt so crazy, such a whirlwind trip, but I am so glad we went. And though the drive was long (oh, so long), it was wonderful to have some time together, unrushed and without having to worry about getting up early for work.
We divided our return trip into two parts, staying overnight halfway through the trip, rather than driving straight through (as we had on the way to my parent's house, leaving home at 3 when I finished work, and getting to their house about 2:30 in the morning. TOO! MUCH! SITTING!). And I have to say, Motel 6? Creeped me out. A suspicious hair, black and curly, on my sheets? No! No no no no! Help me forget so I can sleep! I didn't touch the bedspread - have you seen that "Dateline" episode? It's forever influenced my conduct in hotel rooms (for this instance, "hotel" is a bit of a stretch!), and I've been trying to bring John around to my point of view. If he were the only one, he would've slept just under the bedspread - whereas I, quite actually, freaked out if it even brushed against my skin. TOUCHING! GERMY SPERMY UNWASHED FILTH!!
That night, I dreamed that someone in the room next door was getting their throat slit.
John's dreams? That the price of oil fell to forty-five dollars a barrel.
