This was the first Thanksgiving I can remember spending outside of Florida, and it was packed to the gills with pot luck and po’ boys, gumbo and rocket ships, minor-league hockey and whiskey-pouring rock bands. And, of course, the rabid tumult of the Auburn/Alabama game—a Florida gal thrown into the Rolling Eagle-Tiger War Tide, or whatever the hell it is they’re cheering for up there. I managed not to get trampled, which is as much as I could’ve hoped.
FUEL’S ERRAND: I’m dwarfed by a full-size replica of the space shuttle at Huntsville’s U.S. Space and Rocket Center.
(The highlight of the holiday? When a nephew walked up to my dear, dear Cheetah Club Boyfriend—otherwise known to his younger cousins as “Uncle Buck”—and addressed him as “Uncle CCB.”)
Of course, nothing brings you back to the grind like a 14-hour drive home. Thankfully, CCB and I have a similar vocabulary when it comes to describing holiday traffic, so there were no virgin ears to offend. Yes, the spirit of the season is upon us—now get out of the damn left lane, ya jackass.
SEVERE TRAFFIC: Fat lotta good the sign does mid-gridlock. CCB is not amused.