Hubs is really, really tired. Mostly because he is a control freak and can't let me drive without giving instructions every two seconds.
"No, slow down."
"Put your signal on."
"What the *%&** are you doing?!"
Granted, I'm not as talented as he is, but I have successfully driven for at least 22 years with no accidents, so I consider myself okay. I just can't convince him of that.
Did we see anything interesting on the drive? Not really. Lots of flat, hot, desolate, desert and tiny towns (if you could call them that). The one interesting thing was the Death Valley Candy company store, which interestingly enough sold Jake the salted licorice that made him so ill, he was moaning from the back seat like Mom, just shoot me now, because if you don't this licorice is going to slowly kill me. We did see the town that's the birthplace of Route 66, with the tourists, the souveniers, and the highest gas prices we've seen yet to match. It wasn't intentional. Jake had to use a bathroom and suddenly it was like, Oh! Where did all these people come from? We're on Route 66? Okay....holy crap look at those gas prices?!? Gas in the south...not too bad. It gets more expensive the farther north you go. Hit a tourist area though and it's like...WOW! I'm scared to see it at home?!
Anyway, at this point in the vacation, it's time to slow down a bit. The plan for the next few days? Hike. Sightsee. Go to a museum. Shop for a new TV, since they are so cheap here. Hit JC Penny's and Old Navy for clothes for all of us. Jake is dying to see a Barnes and Noble. We plan to visit a Cold Stone Creamery at least once, too. Swim. Sleep. Watch movies.
After all, isn't that what you're supposed to do on a vacation?