Flaming Dinosaurs On The Road Again

After the Dixie Stampede, we planned to play miniature golf at Pirate's Cove. It's our nature. We always play there. I was still sick as a dog, in case y'all have forgotten, and did not really want to play. But I did, because it was vacation, by cracky, and my boys expected it. A funny thing happened on the way to Pirate's Cove. HH was taking a short cut, and there appeared out of nowhere a brand new golf course: Dinosaur Canyon. Nothing screams Play here, play here, come and play overpriced miniature golf HERE more than pirates, unless it's T. Rex and a flame-shooting volcano. The boys were reeled in.

Perhaps I neglected to mention that I was sick. You know how I am, a regular shrinking violet who does not like to talk about herself. I had taken some sweet, sweet Histinex before going to the Dixie Stampede, because of the oppressive pain in my sinuses, and the sharp shooting pains in my back every time I coughed. Which was about every 10.4 seconds, a hacking, unproductive cough meant only to keep me awake all night and sink those around me into a state of misery. But that was at 3:30, and by 7:30 it was wearing off. Oh, and it was not the balmy 70 degrees that we left at home, but 85 degrees with 99 percent humidity. So even though we were strolling around the mini-golf course at a leisurely pace, I had broken out into a flop sweat that soaked my scraggly lady-mullet and dripped down the sides of my face like I was in the last stages of the bubonic plague or yellow fever, or whatever disease makes you break out into a flop sweat on your death bed.

We still had a good time, except for those usurpers playing behind us, trying to take over our hole before their time. They started when we were on the third hole, and must have been playing faster than the speed of light. HH had already complained that we were rushing, which I didn't think we were, what with those people catching up to us in no time. They had a grown teenage girl who kept creeping into our space. Like when we were still playing, waiting for the lagging HH to tee off, she was right up in front of him, like she was part of our party. Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster, was that chick annoying! She did that the entire game. Back off, gal! People piss me off. Apparently, she missed the memo.

Oh, and the best part was when we got up by the fake volcano...IT ERUPTED. By that I mean it shot a giant flaming flame of burning propane into the atmosphere. Oh, yeah. We could feel the heat. It vaporized the flop sweat. But don't you worry 'bout Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She was born with plenty of flop sweat glands, and her patina of perspiration was restored instantly. After enduring the growling raptor at the last hole, the torture that the rest of the family refers to as mini golf was over. HH took me back to the room for some more sweet, sweet Histinex and air conditioning, and carted the boys off to ride bumper boats. Thank the Gummi Mary for small favors.

When the boys returned, they watched a little TV. HH again committed an embarrassing HH entertainment trivia faux pas when he looked at the screen and exclaimed: "That's Forrest Bueller's principal!" OK. To begin with, we all know that it's FERRIS Bueller. Don't we? Anybody? Somebody? Bueller? And we all know what Mr. Rooney, Ferris's principal, looked like. But this guy looked nothing like him. In fact, it was a totally different movie: Max Keeble's Big Move. It was Larry Miller, not sex-offender Jeffrey Jones. Anyhoo...you're welcome for the movie trivia lesson.

The next morning, we were off by 7:50 a.m. on the road to Arkansas. Which they really should mark better, because there was not a dotted line across the road like on the maps, or even a sign that said, "Welcome to Arkansas". One minute we were safely cruising down US 65 minding our own darn Missouri business, and the next minute we were accosted by a rest stop proclaiming to be the Arkansas visitor center. And let me tell you, perhaps they should take a few dollars from the education budget or something to pay a person to clean that restroom, because it was nasty. I thought only men crapped on the wall. Oh, the structure was fine. Tiled dividers all the way to the floor, so you couldn't spare a square if you wanted to, so all they would need would be a good hosing. But no. And there was no door on the front. And there was a man lurking around the entrance, allegedly trying to coral his twin 5-year-old daughters, methinks, but I don't want a man lurking around a non-existent door when I'm doing my business inside a crap-covered toilet stall. Sorry to you Arkansas dwellers. I hope this doesn't represent your entire state. It was just not the stellar welcome that I had anticipated. There was not even a junior high school band, or balloons, or cake with buttercream icing.

The one thing I noticed about Arkansas was that every single bridge had a sign that proclaimed "Bridge may ice in cold weather." Can y'all fill me in on why so much money is spent on these signs? Couldn't you, perhaps, start a public safety campain to inform the masses? Maybe post it in all state offices, and especially the license office, so that drivers will know those ol' bridges may ice in cold weather? Or make up a catchy little tune that the kids can sing in kindergarten, like the ABC song? Now I'm not trying to pick on poor ol' Arkansas. For several years, they were the only state behind Missouri in teacher salaries. I think they have surpassed us now. Sweet Gummi Mary on a paper plate! And I do admit that many Missouri bridges have their own catchy little sign to warn you: "Impassable in high water." But you might already know that, what with the water about halfway up the sign. But it's not on every bridge.

I don't have time to tell you about the entire diamond adventure tonight. But we did pass through Delight, Arkansas. Hometown of Glen Campbell. No wonder he left. That little town seemed stuck in the 1950s. Perhaps that is too flattering.

We stayed in Murfreesboro, which is a little one-horse town (if it gets a horse), with three motels. I did some research to make sure we stayed at the pick o' the litter: The Queen of Diamonds Inn. It had very nice rooms, bigger than most, and a nice decor. Plus they had an outdoor pool, and a continental breakfast of cereal and bagels and toast with all the fixin's. The boys were hoping for some donuts, but none were in sight.

Tomorrow we will go a-diamond minin'. Thanks to commenter Mike on the last post, who sent me this link: Girl turns up 2.9 carat diamond at park. Yep. It was the day after we left. Who knew we shoulda been walkin' those service roads?