My Guy and I went on a little belated anniversary celebration road trip. Because we are collectively 800 years old, we traveled to Springfield, Illinois, home of Abraham Lincoln. Or, as we now call him, Abe. Because that’s how we roll.
|Us chillin’ with the A to the L. And in no way is this a completely unflattering, psycho killer photo of me. Nope. No way.|
The museum and Abe’s house were mega cool. Like any good trip, they left us wanting to learn more, more, more! Did you know Abe is the only president to hold a patent?
My Guy and I stayed at a quaint inn in what was the first upscale apartment building in Springfield. An upscale apartment building built by a self-made awesome businesswoman. In 1909. No biggie.
The inn met My Guy’s 1 and only criteria for hotel stays: we didn’t have to eat breakfast at the same table as a bunch of randoms. However, we got to listen in on the breakfast conversations of some interesting folks.
One woman was regaling her man friend with how she found out her dad was shacked up with a girlfriend even though he was in theory living with her mom. Hint: If your boyfriend is still married, don’t have a picture on your desk of his grandkid, and then tell all your coworkers that the cute baby is your boyfriend’s grandchild.
Another table spent their breakfast discussing the Holocaust. Instead of being thoughtful, this convo was peppered with comments like, “Do you know how many camps were in Poland? A lot. Since I’m a teacher, I teach my kids that.”
And then there was the table that was trying to figure out what movie that woman from that one show was in. And because it’s rude to eavesdrop, I had to use superhuman strength not to be all, “‘The Year of Living Dangerously!’ It was ‘The Year of Living Dangerously,’ which I’ve never even seen, but I know because I’m a human IMDB!”
Sigh. Even on vacation, I’m working.
Speaking of working it, the husband and I totally ate our way around town. It was good. We are now fat. And on our last night in town, we took on the local specialty, The Horseshoe.
The horseshoe is a piece of Texas toast with the meat of your choice piled on top. Then, that’s covered with a gallon of cheese sauce. And then the whole mess is suffocated with about 7 pounds of French fries.
|Behold the culinary awesomeness!|
When this entrée arrived at our table, My Guy moaned just a bit. Then he asked me, “What do we doooo?”
Well, we dug in. Or, more accurately, I chowed down on my spinach salad and ate some of his horseshoe’s fries.
Half a horseshoe later, My Guy was kind of whimpering. It was delicious, but it was a bit much. Like all road trips, there comes a time to go home.
It was time to go home and eat nothing but rice for several days. We’re eating rice, and we’re sad about the lack of eavesdropping opportunities in our house.