The not-so-greatest thing about living in the state is this: January. And February. March. Sometimes April. (I’ll let you know.)
It’s beautiful until it’s not.
My sister’s text: Want to dog-sit Poesie while I get away next weekend? Pack up the girls from NYC, rent a cabin in Hunter, take a road trip
Mine: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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| Want to hear something funny? |
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| We paid the bus driver and got outta dodge, Pure Murray style. |
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We drove three and a half hours to skate on someone else’s ice sheet and eat off other people’s pizza and see the game from someone else’s backyard and I don’t know if it was the ute-painted under the ice or the fact that I didn’t have to clean the bus after, but it all felt so time-wastingly, mind-numbingly perfect. Give me a roof I don’t own on a Saturday and my brain will shut down faster than I can lose a round at Head’s Up.
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Which is fast. (You know me and pop culture; we’re just not really running in the same circles these days, or ever.)
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Sidenote: I once spent thirty-eight seconds trying to explain Marilyn Monroe, but the person I was supposed to be explaining was Marilyn Manson, who I accidentally mixed up with Charles Manson, who I then wrongly described as Ted Bundy, and then my brain went to Al Bundy and before too long I was trying to conjure up the name of the girl in ‘Married With Children’ and the timer went off.
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| It gets messy in there, friends. But I redeem myself every.single.time with Animals Gone Wild, so you know. I can dominate that category. |
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| Anyway, where were we? |
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Getaways. They needn’t be costly or exotic, or even well-timed. But there’s something about watching your porch being decorated over a weekend that just feels so other-worldly, like a jolt to your perspective. Like you’re walking five thousand miles in someone else’s boots and then finding that – at the end of the day – when your head falls heavy on a pillow that is your own, you’re still you, and the person next to you is still with you, and you’re strangely enough, still home.
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