Honey and I set out Saturday morning to drive from the coast of that ocean on the right side to Atlanta, from whence we came. We had borrowed my Dad’s car, so as to better transport four bicycles. That’s right. Four. Our two “out-of-town” bikes and my parents’ massive sprongy ones. The ootbs are a cheap Ibex and my “old” bike that was replaced by the steel/carbon bit of loveliness hanging in the garage. The ootbs live in my parents’ basement (not that anyone cares about this, but it’s my blog. Skip ahead if you want).

Anyway, there are two ways to go from Atlanta to the Grand Strand in South Carolina. Freeway and not freeway. On the way in, we chose not. On the way back, convinced by an acquaintance, we choose freeway. We were pushing along I-20 at lunchtime and I suggested a stop in Columbia, SC. We saw nothing that appealed. Honey and I are trying not to eat any fast food. So, we needed them “big cities” and the glory of Columbia is found on I-26 (or so I’m told) not I-20.

So, we pushed on to Augusta. While it is true that suburban America is remarkably similar in chain stores, that can be of some comfort sometimes. For example, when Jesus is your barista, Starbucks is a welcome sight. Even a Starbucks that has been open only three weeks and you (being the scrupulously honest person you are) have to tell the cashier to charge you for an extra shot of espresso, because you don’t just get four shots because you want them. Shots cost.

Anyway, we saw a sign for the Garden of Olive and pulled off figuring that where there is a Garden of Olive, similar chain restaurants will occur. Not that chain restaurants are good, mind you. They just have some choices that are ok. So we drive up and down this street and finally settle on TGIFridays.

Save our souls now, sweet Jesus the barista. What happened at TGIFridays in Augusta, Georgia is surely just as clear a sign of the “end times” as frogs and locusts falling on our heads. Ok, I’m overreacting. But only by a little.

Herewith the problems:

TV in bathroom.
There was a TV in the bathroom. Above the sinks. On commercials. Only commercials. No actual programming. Honey said she couldn’t get around one slack-jawed girl of about 12 who was watching a commercial for a mortgage broker. 12 year olds in Augusta could have adjustable rate mortgages, but I doubt it.

Lack of shampoo.
The table behind us, of which I had an excellent view, had no shampoo at home. Rather than going to get some, they came to Fridays to have ribs.

Ribs, children eating them.
Children can have ribs, I guess. But a wet nap and hand sucking are not sufficient clean-up techniques. Especially when one apparently doesn’t have shampoo at home. Clean will never be achieved.

Cheese, restaurant pouring on everything.
Really, does every single fucking item on the menu need liquid cheese?

Cheese, so called “grown-up macaroni and.”
Which has ham and bacon and mushrooms. Still looks like mac and cheese (on the picture) to me.

Lettuce, school cafeteria style.
Honey’s mother used to work in a cafeteria. The lettuce used at Fridays tasted like the bagged variety sent to the middle-school cafeteria.

Hurricane glasses, collectible.
One can get cocktails such as Mudslides and Mango Margaritas in a take-home collectible glass for just $2 more. Collect all four. Put them in a cabinet. Invite people over to see them. Go ahead.

We left as quickly as we could. There are places in America worth visiting. There are places in America that are cheese free. If anyone knows any along I-20 in eastern Georgia, please let me know.

Meanwhile, I’ll be curled up under my desk. Sipping bottled water from my collectible hurricane glass. Call me when it’s safe to come out again.

Honey and I have been invited to a 4th of July party tomorrow. I waffled on going at first because the Dean who just hired me will be there and I was invited before she offered me the job. It didn’t seem good to go if I didn’t get the job. I am also afraid on behalf of Biscuit about the fireworks. Reddo was very afraid of fireworks. In fact, one of my last clear memories of him is him running back up onto the porch to be let in almost immediately after asking for a “woof about” in the yard. With Reddo there were woof abouts, with Biscuit, now it’s “Bisc-abouts”). Reddo’s great regret about our house, I’m sure, was that our bed was too low for him to crawl under during fireworks. Before he lived with us, he had been my parents’ dog and my mother has this massive bed with a springer spaniel size crawl under space. Biscuit did not like the thunder storm that happened shortly after we got her. There was a lot of yelping and crying. She’s calmed down a lot since her feverish first six-seven months in our house. I’m going to give her a Benadryl and hope for the best. We may or may not take her with us to the party. She’s been pseudo-invited.

I’m supposed to bring cobbler to the party. How I got myself into bringing cobbler is a testament to my “sure, I know how to do that/know all about that” bravado. Since I’m from the South, the hosts made an assumption that I could cook, and what’s more I could cook cobbler. I didn’t do a thing to dissuade that notion. I made it two years ago for this same event. I didn’t think it was very good. Nevertheless, the cobbler has been requested again. Sigh.

My mother is an excellent cook. She rejects many of the fussier aspects of Southern womanhood–lace, pink, sewing, flower arranging–but embraces others–shoe coordinating, cooking, ablutions, baby powder. She didn’t teach me any of them. Why she didn’t teach me to cook probably has a lot to do with her impatience in teaching anyone to do anything and my life-long weight issues. To this day, she is disappointed in my unwillingness to be girly. Whatever.

So I’m off in a bit to buy some ingredients for the cobbler. I don’t know what recipe I used last time. I’m using a different one this time. I wonder if anyone will notice.

On the bright side, I bought some tough looking new pedals for my new bike. Nothing girly about them.

Happy 4th everybody. May your cobbler be tasty, your dogs be calm, and your mothers be accepting.

 Next entries »