On the seventh day, I rested.
OK, not totally, but I've always wanted an excuse to say that. On the seventh day of vacation, since it was my last one, I was still sick, and Sean had a whole bunch of work stuff to get done as well as needing his dishwasher replaced, I slept in and then laid around reading a book all day. Eventually Sean and I decided that we needed to do something, so he took me to dinner at Five Guys, where I had a delicious bacon cheese hot dog and fries:
Seriously, I might have dreams about that hot dog. The bacon was crispy, the cheese melted cheddar instead of melted processed cheez food, and the hot dog perfectly grilled. The fries were good, kind of like small steak fries, but really that hot dog was perfect. Sean said the burgers are, too, but I will always pick a hot dog over a hamburger if one is available, and especially if this one is available.
After dinner, we decided to go see "Drag Me To Hell", because we'd both been told that it was really good despite how cheesy and awful the previews looked. We were both lied to, but the movie was actually the kind of bad that almost wraps back around to good, like "Showgirls" or "Mommie Dearest". Not quite, but close, and also, what's with Sam Raimi's oral fixation? This movie was all about stuff going into mouths, coming out of mouths, mouths on mouths, and some bizarre denture moments. It also had a talking goat. I'm not really sure what else I can add.
After we laughed our way back from the movie, we did my laundry, then both went to bed. Separately. Sean isn't that kind of friend, nosy people who asked. You know who you are.
This morning I got up at five, loaded the car, and hugged Sean goodbye so that I could hit the road. The way back was over an hour longer than the way down, because I had to stop at every single rest area, a few gas stations, and a McDonald's along the way to pee. I don't know if it was the Mountain Dew or if the cold medicine I took has diuretic side effects or what, but I was counting the miles between stops.
Oh, and Georgia? Putting up a big sign that there are extra toilets at the rest area north of Atlanta doesn't excuse the fact that it's 136 miles from the previous rest stop. I'm not stopping in the middle of downtown Atlanta to pee, even if it does mean I might see Real Housewife Kim waiting for medical test results at Chili's. 136 miles is an unacceptable distance between toilets.
The free hot dogs at the welcome center almost make up for it:
As much as I enjoyed it, though, I'd rather have had the toilet.
Even with their excessive distance, though, Georgia comes out head and shoulders above Florida on the rest stop front, if only because none of the ones in Georgia feature this kind of warning:
Poisonous snakes? Under normal circumstances, that would be enough to get me to skip that rest area all together, but today I had to pee so badly that the floor of the bathroom could have looked like the scene in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" and I still would have gone in.
Thankfully, I'm home. I had a great vacation, even with this cold/flu/whatever I have, and now I just have to spend tomorrow getting ready to get back to work.