THE VACATION FROM HELL

I don't ask for much from my life.  Small monetary payments that would support a third world country, the figure I had and hated at twenty-one, eyebrows - NONE OF THESE ARE COMING TO ME ANY TIME SOON.  ...is a simple one week vacation also too much to ask?

I AM NOT A MOUNTAIN WOMAN

So we rented this cabin in North Carolina.  I wanted the mountains.  I wanted "awsome mountain views".  I wanted a jacuzzi and wine and cheese and nice shopping - no great shopping - and I wanted everything that I found in my size category (no I'm not telling) to be actually that size.  I usually see something I absolutely have to have - reach for the garment (or tent, whatever) and it is always about five sizes smaller.  Some damn anorexic bitch is constantly hiding her size selection into my supersized ones and I want her to stop.  But I digress...

The horror began last Wednesday.  The three of us left early in the monring.  For us 11:30 a.m. is early in  the morning.  There was Richie, me and our cat Poncho, or now known as Skinny Poncho.  He used to be Pinhead because he was so fat his head looked like an afterthought.  I'm rambling again.

My first lucid memory is going through Macon, Georgia in our old Ford Van, the car without air conditioning.  It was hot.  Florida is never that hot.  Hell is not even that hot.  I'm talking hot.  It was so hot that asphalt achieved a liquid state.  I had to close the window because of the blast of heat melting my mascarra. 

By the time we reached Maggie Valley, North Carolina we were both exhausted.  The old van kind of limped into the Real Estate lot and we flowed out of the doors on trembling limbs.  After a few bitchy comments between me and the lady behind the desk my husband took over, got the directions to the cabin, and the keys.  Then he dragged me out of the office, prying my fingers loose from the door frame just after I made the slicing motion across my neck and pointed at the Queen of the Dead.  I could have held on for a lot longer if not for that.

Well, we followed the directions to the Cabin of Doom, up the mountain, I felt like an astronaut waiting on my back for mission control to kick in - up we went, up, up, there were rutts in the road and switchbacks at bizarre angles, the old van motor was grinding and grinding away, then we crested the hill...and we began our descent.  Into the bowels of the earth.  It was a straight shot down.  Like a ski slope. I could see the wrecks of previous attempts, could see the blood splatters, the body parts. 

An interesting aside - the little forrest animals we think of as sweet and timid on level ground are seriously aggressive up there in the montains.  They live on the roadkill.

We picked up an alarming amount of speed at one point and passed right by the driveway to the cabin, which was angled off to the left.  I was screaming anyway so I told Rich he had passed the driveway.  This is what I said, "AAAAHHHHHHHOMYGODOMYGODTURNTURNTORATORATORA"  Richie slammed on the brakes and the van kept on a'goin' - for several thousand feet until it finally stopped.

My nails were imbedded into the armrest of my chair; my eyes were popping out and in like a cartoon wolf - BOING,BOING,BOING.  After a moment he had calmed himself, he tried to put the van into reverse but the van kept a'goin' and a'goin' (after spending a week with the road company of "Song of the South" my lanaguage is a bit y'all)  (Plus we visited Paula Deen's restaurant later that week - y'all). (She's real mad about the fire I started - y'all) I continued to scream as I looked deep into my husband's eyes and vowed I would use his body to break my fall...

...to be continued.