As the time for our move draws nearer, I’ve started recently doing what I always do before a move --- analyzing all the things we’ve loved about our current home and what I’ll miss when we leave. Besides the obvious and predictable (friends, school, etc, yawn) it’s usually local restaurants that top the list, since I know I’ll most likely never get another chance to eat at these places.
I had one of those moments this past weekend. The kids had friends with them, and Blaine and I took them all to the kid-friendly (see also: cheap) local pizza parlor called Stevie B’s. Similar, I think, to what a CiCi’s Pizza might be? Not sure, since we don’t have those here. Basically, a relatively decent pizza buffet (with, I might add, the most pathetic salad bar I’ve ever seen) and a small arcade area, where the kids can go through five dollars worth of tokens apiece in about forty-five seconds flat and then squeal with glee to go to the ticket exchange counter and discover they’ve earned enough tickets to trade for a plastic spider ring, a pair of Chinese finger handcuffs, and three Tootsie Rolls. Ah, to be eight years old again and have no concept of the value of money.
While my kids will certainly miss the buckets of cinnamon jaw breakers and vampire teeth, all there for the winning, you know what I’ll miss? One of their specialties, the Baked Potatoe Pizza. Can you think of anything more delicious for a carboholic like myself? Pizza crust, with an alfredo-y, ranch-dressing-y sauce, then thin slices of potatoe, bacon pieces and cheese. It is like heaven on a plate, if you ask me. Really, I can think of nothing more perfect in this world, except perhaps Brad Pitt’s ass.
Although, the item that will rank highest on my “What I WON’T miss about Georgia” list came to light today: the fact that it’s the fourth week in October, and I’m still wearing summer clothes. This time of year, I should be sporting my favorite jeans, a fuzzy and oh-so-warm ultra-fleece pullover, and a great pair of boots. Not shorts, sleeveless shirts, and sandals. Didn’t Mother Nature get the memo about me not shaving after October 1st? What’s up with this eighty-five degree weather the week before Halloween? And the humidity, my GOD, the fecking ninety-bazillion degrees of humidity, who the hell ordered that? It’s like walking around outside with a wet rag on my face, and you all know how I feel about that. **And** the humidity does such lovely things to my hair (she said sarcastically.) No shaving, and no sweating. Those are my rules for October, but it doesn’t appear anyone is paying attention. Especially not the gobshites in charge of global warming.
(Why, yes, “fecking” and “gobshites”. I just finished another Marian Keyes novel, how did you guess?)
I think I’ll go have me a piece or two or seven of baked potatoe pizza, to make myself feel better about this weather, except then I’ll most likely gain another five pounds and schlepping this giant body around in this kind of Amazon jungle weather will probably give me a heart attack.
So, what was I saying? About how much I’m going to miss Georgia???