suicide run

Flip the clock to ‘wake’ and it says 9:05. My watch currently says 12:59; it’d be in my best interests to make good on my weeks-old threat to get at least some sleep before attempting to roll directly from my bed to the car.

Tomorrow is Suicide Run, when the Jetta heads for Atlanta’s Hartsfield Int’l Airport at 9:20 in the morning, in the hopes of getting there in time to pick up Chris after his flight arrives from Denver. Objective obtained, we’ll head to points north for dinner with Jody and Kari. (“Perimeter Mall? Uh, sure, I can find that. Just send directions.”)

After dinner, we’ll pack up yet again and head northwest on I-75, tacking west at Chattanooga and picking up Hwy. 72 to take us westbound, home.

There are plenty of ways to get there from here, when ‘there’ and ‘here’ consist of Huntsville and Atlanta. The lack of a directly connecting freeway between the two cities means the average traveler has four choices, two indirect freeway routes (the southern route via Birmingham, or the northern route via Chattanooga) or two slightly-more-direct collections of back roads. Jeff and I have tried all of them, and we haven’t found a clear winner. Back roads work best in daylight; freeways work best at night or with unfamiliar drivers.

Suicide runs are best done on freeways, where the curves are nonexistent, the speed limits are high, and there are plenty of gas stations to provide you with the caffeine you need to survive the trip home.

Chris has offered to help with some of the driving. In an uncharacteristic fit of reasonability, I plan to take him up on his offer.

* * * * *

I’d say, “There’s nothing like a sudden change in houseguesting plans to make you go on a two-day cleaning tear,” but I think that statement has more to do with my own personal neuroses than it does with the actions of most normal, rational human beings.

As a result of sudden houseguest plans, the kitchen is now loaded for bear (or, at the very least, a geekfest). I hauled in the last of the groceries just as Jeff pulled into the garage this evening; he asked what the bags were for and I replied: “Booze and the makings for salsa, cookies, and brownies.”

(Local geeks: show up! Eat the food! Please! I beg of you! If you don’t, we will!)

If we could live on just those, and orange juice, I don’t think we’d be leaving until next Thursday at the earliest. For now, I’m hoping that my body can take a combination of alcohol, bagels, salsa, freshly-baked cookies, and conversation — and compress them into a suitable replacement for the hours of sleep that I’m fully aware I’m not going to get over the next few days.

If you’re lucky, we’ll even remember to snap a photo of Chris, Jody, Kari, and me at the restaurant. Stranger things have happened.

Current music: Great Big Sea, “Mari-Mac”
Rufus Wainwright, “April Fools”

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