Vegas Vacation 3: Meatloaf Irony − 8 May, 1999
For some reason, my wife and I, along with her brother and his wife, were getting an early start on a road trip this morning. I'm not sure how exactly this all came about, but it started months ago. No doubt we were sitting around one evening drinking and the topic of travel came up, which turned into a discussion on road trips, and then Las Vegas came up.
"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's all go on a road trip to Vegas together!"
I don't know which one of us drunk-ass idiots spewed out that bit of inspired genius, but somehow it led to us all waking up too fucking early this morning to head out on an eight-day road trip.
Eight. Fucking. Days.
What the hell were we thinking?
Don't get me wrong, I love my brother-in-law and his wife dearly, and we have great times together. But a week-long road trip is like marriage: you'd better be damned sure about what you're getting yourself into.
Now, among the four of us, there wasn't an appropriate vehicle to be had for such a road trip. My wife and I had a pickup and a Jeep Wrangler, and my brother-in-law and his wife had a pickup. What to do, what to do?
Mooch. (And we're all pretty damn good moochers.)
It's a good thing my mother-in-law is such a soft touch. That's how we ended up taking her old Ford Explorer on the trip.
Back to it being early in the morning. My brother-in-law and his wife came down the night before so we could get an early start. We packed up the mooched Explorer, stopped at a gas station to fill up with gas and road trip junk food and started our journey. Oh, the hedonistic glories of road trip junk food: beef jerky, pork rinds, pistachios, Twizzlers... I put on ten pounds just thinking about it.
We decided to take the same route my wife and I took on our Vegas road trip a few years ago. Our first overnight stop would be with a friend of my wife's family in Durango, so we blew through the San Luis Valley without stopping, except for gas.
We did, however, stop at the summit of Wolf Creek Pass to stretch our legs and take a few pictures. There was a ton of snow up there, but fortunately it wasn't on the road. (And, yes, we did play CW McCall's "Wolf Creek Pass" as we drove over. The combination of dork and hick is a sad, sad thing.)
Along the way to Durango, we went back and forth on whether we should stop and get something to bring Cheryl as a "dinner gift." This eventually turned to speculation on what Cheryl would be serving for dinner.
My wife had only one thing to say: "I don't care, as long as it's not meatloaf."
You see, she has this unnatural hatred for the almighty meatloaf. The concept of a "loaf of meat" to her is repulsive; along with the other ingredients she believes have no business being mixed with meat.
She doesn't have a problem with meatballs, though. I gave up trying to figure it out.
We arrived at Durango in the early afternoon. It wasn't too much trouble to find Cheryl's place, just a little north of Durango. We almost immediately set off to her son's workplace -- one of the nearby ski resorts.
After all the obligatory pleasantries, we strolled the resort for a short while and wasted some film. Why do we always think waterfowl on a pond is so damned interesting? Fucking Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and National Geographic have brainwashed us all.
Mercifully, we stopped in town at an historic bar for a quick drink before heading back to Cheryl's place. The bar (or tavern) had been around a long time. Nice place, good for a beer or three, but they could have done without the cheesy old-west burlesque theme they had going on with the servers and piano player. I blame them for effectively killing off every western-style sexual fantasy I've ever had.
Back at Cheryl's, we hung around outside and watched the Silverton train rumble by, not more than 100 yards away. Historically significant or not, that's got to suck, living right next that thing.
It wasn't long before Cheryl announced that dinner was ready. We made our way inside and sat around the table.
Imagine my wife's surprise when Cheryl set out a nice, big meatloaf for dinner.
My wife's brother and I could hardly contain our glee.
He asked her several times, loudly, throughout dinner, "How's the meatloaf?"
To my wife's credit, she choked down a pretty big piece, and smiled the whole time. By the end of dinner, though, she was wishing she could trade places with her brother's wife, who had skipped dinner and gone to bed because she felt a little travel sick.
Facing another long day of driving tomorrow, we turned in shortly after dinner.
Good lord, it has only been one day.
"Hey, I've got a great idea! Let's all go on a road trip to Vegas together!"
I don't know which one of us drunk-ass idiots spewed out that bit of inspired genius, but somehow it led to us all waking up too fucking early this morning to head out on an eight-day road trip.
Eight. Fucking. Days.
What the hell were we thinking?
Don't get me wrong, I love my brother-in-law and his wife dearly, and we have great times together. But a week-long road trip is like marriage: you'd better be damned sure about what you're getting yourself into.
Now, among the four of us, there wasn't an appropriate vehicle to be had for such a road trip. My wife and I had a pickup and a Jeep Wrangler, and my brother-in-law and his wife had a pickup. What to do, what to do?
Mooch. (And we're all pretty damn good moochers.)
It's a good thing my mother-in-law is such a soft touch. That's how we ended up taking her old Ford Explorer on the trip.
Back to it being early in the morning. My brother-in-law and his wife came down the night before so we could get an early start. We packed up the mooched Explorer, stopped at a gas station to fill up with gas and road trip junk food and started our journey. Oh, the hedonistic glories of road trip junk food: beef jerky, pork rinds, pistachios, Twizzlers... I put on ten pounds just thinking about it.
We decided to take the same route my wife and I took on our Vegas road trip a few years ago. Our first overnight stop would be with a friend of my wife's family in Durango, so we blew through the San Luis Valley without stopping, except for gas.
We did, however, stop at the summit of Wolf Creek Pass to stretch our legs and take a few pictures. There was a ton of snow up there, but fortunately it wasn't on the road. (And, yes, we did play CW McCall's "Wolf Creek Pass" as we drove over. The combination of dork and hick is a sad, sad thing.)
Along the way to Durango, we went back and forth on whether we should stop and get something to bring Cheryl as a "dinner gift." This eventually turned to speculation on what Cheryl would be serving for dinner.
My wife had only one thing to say: "I don't care, as long as it's not meatloaf."
You see, she has this unnatural hatred for the almighty meatloaf. The concept of a "loaf of meat" to her is repulsive; along with the other ingredients she believes have no business being mixed with meat.
She doesn't have a problem with meatballs, though. I gave up trying to figure it out.
We arrived at Durango in the early afternoon. It wasn't too much trouble to find Cheryl's place, just a little north of Durango. We almost immediately set off to her son's workplace -- one of the nearby ski resorts.
After all the obligatory pleasantries, we strolled the resort for a short while and wasted some film. Why do we always think waterfowl on a pond is so damned interesting? Fucking Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom and National Geographic have brainwashed us all.
Mercifully, we stopped in town at an historic bar for a quick drink before heading back to Cheryl's place. The bar (or tavern) had been around a long time. Nice place, good for a beer or three, but they could have done without the cheesy old-west burlesque theme they had going on with the servers and piano player. I blame them for effectively killing off every western-style sexual fantasy I've ever had.
Back at Cheryl's, we hung around outside and watched the Silverton train rumble by, not more than 100 yards away. Historically significant or not, that's got to suck, living right next that thing.
It wasn't long before Cheryl announced that dinner was ready. We made our way inside and sat around the table.
Imagine my wife's surprise when Cheryl set out a nice, big meatloaf for dinner.
My wife's brother and I could hardly contain our glee.
He asked her several times, loudly, throughout dinner, "How's the meatloaf?"
To my wife's credit, she choked down a pretty big piece, and smiled the whole time. By the end of dinner, though, she was wishing she could trade places with her brother's wife, who had skipped dinner and gone to bed because she felt a little travel sick.
Facing another long day of driving tomorrow, we turned in shortly after dinner.
Good lord, it has only been one day.
junk food pitstop
wolf creek pass
waterfowl fascination
old west burlesque
Comments:
bmccosar (April 12, 2008. 04:58pm)
This sound like it's going to be a great story -- I'm looking forward to the next episodes.