It’s 8 p.m. Eastern and I’m normally at work. But not today. I spent the afternoon driving along the Intracoastal Highway and had wine/dinner/cappuccino outdoors. Because it’s 75 degrees where I am. So, why not?
But yeah, I’m back in my hotel, in my jammies, settling in for what I hope will be a respectable sleep. I’ve never stayed at this hotel chain before (my soon-to-be-former company always paid for me to stay in style; since I’m footing the bill this time in an EXPENSIVE city, well, I got what I got).
This hotel aroma is reminiscent of what I envision a dead hooker would smell like. Yummy. *hork*
I have been driving a Chevy Cobalt all day. It’s not bad. It goes faster than my car does; I was being followed by a cop for a while and I was ready to explain that I can put my foot through the floor in my car and it still won’t go, but I just thought about tapping the gas on this one and I was suddenly going 65 on the A1A, which was 25 mph in that neighborhood.
Oops. 🙂
I have to issue a memo to all Florida drivers — THE GAS PEDAL IS ON THE RIGHT. Just like it was in your Model T when you were young, I presume. Hasn’t moved. I’ll help you find it if you’re still confused. 95 is the Interstate number, not the minimum age limit to drive on this road. Love, Goddess.
Can’t WAIT to brave the highways again tomorrow. Good thing my new mystery illness makes me drowsy as hell — I’m too sleepy to really be bothered by everyone else who dares to be on the road with me! 🙂