Proving that no good deed goes unpunished, your Big Red Car agreed to do some light babysitting for My Perfect Daughter who is vacationing for the next two months — OK, just ten days, but it seems like a couple of months — with Her Perfect Husband, brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and her saintly and gracious mother-in-law.
I had signed up for some timely deliveries of the Perfect Granddaughter to her school, long walks in Forsyth Park, some pool/beach time, early wake ups, early bed time by 6:30 PM, and an orderly, peaceful regimen, but fate intervened.
This Hurricane Dorian — female name or male name? — crashed the party causing the Big Red Car to have to relocate the good times to Atlanta from Savannah.
The good times include My Perfect Granddaughter, Bella the Labrador (winner of the “best traveler” award), Mimi, and mois. Short, little babies require a huge amount of personal infrastructure, have picky eating habits, and demand specialized entertainment (who is this guy Elmo?) that must be carted along.
There was, of course, that “mandatory” evacuation order for everybody east of Interstate Highway 95, but that’s just a technicality.
So, ten or so hours later, here we are encamped in Hot ‘Lanta enjoying the sunshine and the change of scenery.
Atlanta is the New South, hip AF and moving at speed. The people are nice. It may be the New South, but it is still the genteel, pleasant, friendly South. You notice it right away. Texas is the west, but Atlanta is the South. I love the South.
I hate you, Hurricane Dorian. Would you please just blow yourself out, turn north and ravage the Atlantic? Go away.
But, hey, what the Hell do I really know anyway? I’m just a Big Red Car.