Maroon 7

My sister-in-law, Sandie, who agreed to accompany me on a cross-country journey to Utah, and I headed out at the crack of dawn.  The chill of the morning wakened my senses enough to indulge in more than my usual early morning grunting. 

We talked about reality TV, the reality of world situations, and our not-always-so pretty own personal realities.  “I really like the guy from Maroon 7,”  I said, admitting I’d watched The Voice.

 “I think,” laughed Sandie, “it’s Maroon 5.”  She’s a whole generation younger than I am, so she would know better.  “His name is Adam Levine.  He’s really cute.”  I didn’t have to be young to recognize that.  Even with tattoos, he was still cute.  :-)  

“Oh, I just upped the group’s version.”   That’s what we I.T. people do; we upgrade.

After hours of Hollywood, home life, and other hoopla banter, we arrived at Aunt Piggy’s in Vegas for a pit stop.  As expected a delicious lunch awaited us — barbecue brisket sandwiches (from the recipe of meat cooked in Pepsi I’d shared a couple of years ago) and her famous (at least in the family) potato salad.  My favorite oatmeal cookies sat on the counter, fresh from the oven.  So much for the plans to eat healthy and lose the ten pounds I’d lost in the spring that found me once again this summer.  I guess you can’t sneak sugar and whipped cream and get away with it.  Maybe I’d start eating healthy tomorrow.  Then again oatmeal is healthy, right?

We chatted about family weddings, GPS’s, and new recipes.  Uncle Bob had listened to one of those demented GPS ladies to navigate them to a grandson’s wedding in Carson City.  Circling for two hours looking for the Hampton Inn, after stopping for several conflicting sets of directions, he got pulled over by a policeman.  “You were speeding,” claimed the officer.

“We’re lost,” Aunt Piggy leaned across the driver and sighed.  “And it’s his birthday.”  She pointed to Uncle Bob.

The officer glanced at the license Uncle Bob had handed him.  “I have a rule.  I don’t give tickets on birthdays.”  He smiled.  “Follow me.  I’ll guide you to the hotel.”

He headed in a northerly direction.  The last instructions Uncle Bob had received said to go south, but he didn’t dare disobey the law.  Within minutes, the officer pulled into the Marriott lot, and looked up.  He strolled to Uncle Bob’s car window.  “I goofed,” he confessed.  They eventually found the hotel simply by the process of elimination.

Not only is Aunt Piggy an expert in getting Uncle Bob out of trouble, she’s great at running.  She pulled out a scrapbook of her first and second place finishes in 2 mile and 5K events.  (Funny, her certificate listed her age group as 75 to 99.  I wondered how many participants ran in the next group.)  She runs so she could partake without any guilt of her favorite treats.  That morning after her jog, she’d eaten three donuts — a glazed, a chocolate glazed, and a devil’s food cake.  She once had a donut eating contest with her grandkids and consumed eight.  I know I can beat the Worm and the Mouse.  The Bug may give me a run for the glazes.

And then there was the new dessert recipe she shared:

1 yellow cake mix, prepared and baked and directed
Top with a mixture of 8 oz. Philadelphia cream cheese (room temperature) and 1 small vanilla pudding
Pat layer with 1 large can crushed pineapple, drained
Spread container of Cool Whip on top and sprinkle with coconut

“What’s the name of cake,” I asked, jotting down the recipe.

“I don’t know,” Aunt Piggy said.  “But when I served it, a friend said, ‘why don’t you give your guests a gun and just let them shoot themselves?’”

“Call it Suicide Cake,” Sandie laughed.

With full stomachs, Sandie and I continued our journey.  We fantasized about the death-by-cake recipe.  “How about a banana split version,” I said.  “Substitute bananas for the pineapple and top with sliced sweetened strawberries, drizzled in chocolate.”  Visions of ecstasy took over, as I entered the freeway going South.  It wasn’t more than a couple of exits before I realized we were headed home. 

But soon we were onto the valley of blue skies and red rocks.  I tried to downplay the gorgeous sky overlooking the red bluffs.  I was afraid if I let on Sandie might try to ace me out of the St. George sky-painter job for our next life.  (If we get next lives, sky painter certainly seemed a lot easier than wife and mother.)  That thought triggered a confession.  “I wish I’d been a better mother,” I groaned.  I was sure I’d be a lot better at flinging scenic colors overhead. 

“At least none of your kids are mass murderers,” Sandie consoled. 

“Yeah,” I said cheerfully.  “They’re all really nice adults.  I guess I’m better than I remembered.”  Even better at applying what I’d learned to my grandparenting skills.     

Thanks for reminding me, Sandie, and making the long drive enjoyable.

Related posts:

1. On the fast track
2. Family vacation nightmare
3. Family vacation Chevy Chase style
4. Bottoms up!
5. Serenity Park