Mrs. Linklater's Great Adventure Begins

The trunk holds four suitcases' worth of clothes 

and there are no baggage charges, thank you.

When I found out how much it costs to get to a wedding in Sea Island, Georgia, via fixed wing aircraft, I decided to drive. That's because you can't get to Sea Island on a commercial jet. Private jet, sure. Piper Cub, no problem. But otherwise, you fly into Savannah or Jacksonville, then rent a car. So I just rented a car, skipped the plane, and drove 1100 miles from Chicago. Saved a ton of money. And I could have made the trip in a comfortable 15 hours, but. . .
          I left at 4 AM CDT, two days after Mother's Day, in a rented silver Hyundai Sonata. 40 MPG, thank you very much. My SUV maxes out at 20 MPH. The majority of the trip couldn't have been more uneventful. Just an FYI, I had a couple of up close and tasty experiences with Wendy's new flatbread chicken sandwich. Messy as hell, but soooo good. 
          Meanwhile, who needs a GPS for I-294/S from Chicago to 1-80/E to 1-65/S through Indy and Louisville all the way to Nashville, 1-24/E to Chattanooga, I-75/S through Atlanta. 
          About Atlanta. . .
          For some reason Atlanta has no problem with a 70 MPH speed limit. Chicago dropped theirs to 55. Why? Because nobody goes 55, they go 70. So do the math for Atlanta. That's right, everybody is driving 85 MPH. That includes trucks, since Atlanta doesn't seem to see the need for a lower speed limit for trucks.  
          I arrived in Atlanta around 4:30 or 5 PM EDT. Rush hour. It was a beautiful, clear, and sunny day. Regardless, I saw four incidents making my way, bumper to bumper, through the city. One was a Dodge Hemi Huge Honkin' pick up turned upside down on its head. I have never, ever seen anything flipped over during rush hour in Chicago. Especially when it's sunny and clear. Upside down accidents are reserved for drunk drivers at 5 AM on the weekends. I'm just sayin'.
          Up a ways, there was a four car disaster moved off to the side. A little further [farther, I forget], a lone motorcycle lost a battle with a car. Easing on down the road, some lady got pulled over in a tricked out Mustang for something. I thought about taking an alternate route, except the radio said there were accidents all over the place. Did I mention it was clear and sunny? 
          I made it to Macon around 6 EDT, when the traffic had to negotiate a construction zone. In Georgia, the speed limit through construction zones is 60 MPH. In Chicago, it's 45. We kill plenty of people in 45 MPH construction zones in Chicago. So when I saw the amount of traffic, the speed of the traffic, and the narrow traffic lanes, I actually said out loud, "Someone's going to die." 
          Just before the turnoff to Savannah on I-16 out of Macon, traffic came to a halt. The cops had shut down the Interstate and everybody was kicked off the road. 
          Yep. Somebody died. After getting off the highway, I saw several emergency vehicles racing down the road with their lights flashing. 90% of the time it's a motorist, not a worker, by the way, according to Chicago radio ads reminding people to SLOW THE FUCK DOWN IN CONSTRUCTION ZONES. 
          At that point, the only decent alternate route to Sea Island was over back roads, which made me think of the strange banjo player in Deliverance, so I spent the night in a swank Holiday Inn Express that served a free breakfast. Avoiding rush hour, I could have made it to Sea Island by  7 or 8 PM EDT. Instead I drove the last three hours in the morning. I-16/E to Savannah. 1-95/S to Brunswick to the "Golden Isles" and Sea Island. Easy peasy. But still, a disappointment. 
          I did so want to hold the 1100 mile one day driving record for women way over sixty who only stop to eat and pee. And get gas. The kind with octane.  
          NEXT TIME: Sea Island, GA.       

A Dream Queen

All the buzz about the Jason Collins Sports Illustrated article, which details how and why the journeyman NBA center decided to come out, can't hold a sequin to this article by Sean Mulroy. He's a USC swimmer, who has been out and proud since he first stood on the Trojan pool deck his freshman year. [Ah, the irony of the Trojan team name.]  Frankly, compared to SI's not-very-blockbuster story, which details the first time any NBA or other big time professional athlete has come out in front of God and everyone, Sean's story is way more interesting.

          Before big meets, he designs a special Speedo for the occasion. And one of his latest creations caused such a stir that the officials banned it from the natatorium or wherever they're holding meets these days. Parents thought he was espousing the drug culture or "perpetuating an inappropriate message in a public setting" -- whatever the hell that means. Okay, maybe writing "Sharon Needles: Welcome to Party City" across the front of the suit was a bit over the top, but how much can anyone read on the crotch of a Speedo, anyway? [See below.]

Sean Mulroy [Stylin' USC swimmer]

Sharon Needles [Google Images]

                              Willi Ninja [Paris is Burning]        Ru Paul [Ru Paul's Drag Race]

For those of you who don't keep up with the latest in reality TV, Sean's custom-designed swimsuit for the Pac 12 Championships -- since banned -- featured the aforementioned Sharon Needles with her face lurking about Sean's package on the front of the suit, with a "cheek to cheek," [in a manner of speaking] pose on the back. Up above is a screenshot that says it all. 

           I'm sure you can imagine why the full frontal view of Sean's Speedo, as it were, was not chosen to share. Sharon, if you didn't know, is the outre drag queen [hmm, that may be redundant] who was the winner of the fourth season of Ru Paul's Drag Race competition. 

           Ru Paul, by the by, happens to be godparent to my friend Nancy's grandson. So I'm only a degree or so away from his bright and colorful female celebrity self. Not to mention that I am one of the few white suburban women of a certain age who has danced with the late Willi Ninja, the quintessential New York voguer. He was a better dancer than I, in case you were wondering. 

          Sean insists that his Just Spank Me Speedo wasn't promoting drug use -- au contraire. He is simply a huge fan of "drag queen fabulosity." And that phrase alone makes him more interesting than SI's first poster boy for gay athletes, Jason Collins, a perfectly nice young man it seems, but one who clearly lacks Sean's athletic style and creativity. 

Road Rash

Most people think I'm a Type A personality. Okay, I am. But not in the car. Get me in the car and I am a fuzzy wuzzy. Instead of driving five miles over the limit like EVERYONE ELSE, I drive five miles under. 
          You know how everyone else races to beat the light when it turns yellow? I don't do that. I slow down and stop. Yep, that's me, pissing you off. And I'm not ever in a hurry. Even when I'm in a hurry. The only other Type A personality I know who drives like I do is a Vietnam Vet I hung out with, whose Special Ops nickname in the Marines was Captain Midnight. He also played professional hockey, then became a trial lawyer, but lost his law license for punching out another attorney. Type A? Ya think? Outside the confines of a car the guy was so intense it was scary. Piercing black eyes, coal black hair. . .nice abs, but I digress. Inside the car he drove so slowly he had time to read a book at a stop sign. He was following me to a restaurant one day and I could have pulled over and parked just waiting for him to catch up. 
          But the rest of the world doesn't like drivers like me. Or him. Nope, they don't. The other day I starting making a phone call as I left a parking lot after visiting with a friend. There was a stoplight a block away. It was red. Naturally, I slowed down for the light. No sense in gunning the engine only to put on the brakes. Not when you can just ease on down the road.  
          As I started leaving a phone message, the light turned green. I noticed a red car was hovering right behind me as I turned right. The speed limit was 35. I accelerated to 32, which is kind of speedy for me. The bitch behind me thought I should go faster. There were two lanes. The one on my right was open, so she could have taken that one. But for some reason she was butt up on my bumper, honking. 
          You KNOW what I did, don't you? Yep, I slowed down. Way down. Hey, there was a stoplight just a block away. It was red. What's the hurry? Since I was going to turn left at the light, I moved over into the lefthand lane and stopped at the stoplight. 
          The Bitchmeister pulled up on my right and shouted at me that there was no cellphone use in this town. Oooo, I was doing something ILLEGAL!!! Then she said she knew I was on the phone because I was only going 20 miles an hour. To her, anything under the limit is probably 20 mph. I told her it wasn't because I was on the phone, since I always drive slowly. Just for the record, I was actually going 32 miles an hour, Bitch. "Well, you shouldn't be on the road then!"  And that comment was relevant, how? 
          Here's the good part. I'm so proud of what I did next. The light turned green and I hit the accelerator, laid some rubber and yelled, "Why Don't You Just Go F*ck Yourself!!!"
I thought she would keep on driving and leave me to my leisurely pace. Notsofast, telephone breath. I had pissed her off so much she made an illegal left turn from her lane so she could follow me, the whole time yelling -- "Asshole!" Me, "Turd Brain!" Her, "Bitch!" etc., etc., etc. 
          That was fun!! Maybe I'll drive even slower and see who else I can annoy.