Goin' South, Part II.

So, south to Atlanta in our gay little Chevy HHR... Having seen one or two or five too many movies featuring retarded southern sheriffs terrorizing tourists with speed traps and radar guns, I pegged the cruise control at exactly the speed limit and watched the miles and miles of those ram-rod straight trees roll past my windshield.

North Carolina gave way to South Carolina, and then Georgia.  I suppose I was mesmerized by the trees, as they are so few and far between here in California, a place where even the few we have are hunted down and lobotomized by the electric company if they come within ten feet of their power poles.

Growing near the Atlanta suburbs, the highway widened and things began looking more familiar to a Californian as national chain big box stores and fast food joints grew numerous at every exit.  Our destination found, we popped in to visit Maura's brother, a high-powered attorney of national note, and two of her sisters, Ruthie and Lizzie (the expectant one) who work with him.

Brother Johnny's office, with it's neo-Federal design and halls lined with Presidential portraits, suggested that he'd picked up part of the set from TV's West Wing at some Hollywood yard sale, or at least hired their designer.  Very impressive.

Tired from the drive and the remnants of jet lag (how can it be three hours earlier, yet feel it's three hours later?) we made it to our nice, warm, generic hotel and crashed for the night.

The baby shower/family reunion/meet the latest set of spouses/boyfriends/girlfriends party took the better part of the next day.  Ruthie held the bash at her beautiful house, which she shares with her boyfriend Keith, a stocky gent with a big passion for anything having to do with Michigan football.

Now, my timidity when faced with interacting with huge crowds of enthusiastic, if not slightly inebriated in-laws is well known, so Ruthie made it clear there were many places to "hide" in the massive Ruthie/Keith mansion.  No fear; I primed myself with several bottles of Corona and dealt with my social inadequacies head on. Or, at least, in the 'head'.  (Keith, bless 'em, has an amazing variety of reading material in the bathroom. I now know a great deal about high-dollar power boats. Thanks, Keith.)

Lizzie looks radiant in her final weeks of pregnancy, and her husband Bill prepared enough food to feed Delta's entire staff of starving Riwandans, plus several Haitian counties thrown in for good measure. It was (burp) very good.

Bill's parents were up from their home in Florida.  They look like they'd been sent over from Central Casting to play the perfect senior couple, which they are.  Bill's mom could easily get work in Hollywood  in one of those "I may be over 60, but I can look and act 45" commercials that pay Sally Field so much money.

Speaking of Hollywood, I feel sorry for dear Ruth, wasting all that time and money in law school when she should have been perfecting her stand-up comedy work.  She is devastatingly funny. Seriously,  this is a woman who could have  stolen roles from Lauren Graham, Jenna Elfman, Tina Fey, and half a dozen other big time comics. Oh well. Saturday Night Live's loss is disability law's gain.

I'd regale you with further observations of the event, but, well, you just had to be there.  And a word to Keith... let me know if you find a Grand Banks 42' in bristol condition with low hours on the Cats.  I'm a player.

Next: Heading downtown for a Coke.