Cimarrons and Communists

Well, we got our groove on. Boy did we ever.

As you may have gathered from reading this blog, nothing normal ever happens to us. EVER. It always has to be some dog and pony show. Our Get Our Groove On night away from the kids is case in point.

We stayed at a rather swank hotel in a rather swank area of the ATL. Our ride? My grandmother's old Cimarron. Yep, the ghetto pimp car from hell. All leather cow interior. Red, since you asked. The smell of cigarette smoke still evident with both windows rolled down. Mmmmmmm is for Marlboro.

Now, why in the world would we drive down the Connector at 65 mph with the windows down when it was 103 in the sun? Because the AC did not work. At all.

It was all good though. Hubbie and I thanked the iced coffee and drive-thru gods and let our hair blow in the wind.

We should have known we were in for trouble when the Check Engine light came on.

We arrived at SwankHotel and almost valet parked.

Instead, we killed time at the local overpriced mall where I got myself a fab pair of fakey sunglasses. Don't I look glamorous?



Here is where the dog and pony show starts:

We then spent a bit of time with our soon-to-be divorced friend who is currently in the pit of hell. Between cell phone outages and miscommunications we spent the better part of an hour sitting in his driveway waiting for him.

We left the visit with mosquito bites on every extremity and depressed as hell from the awful stories he told us about his divorce-in-progress.

Things picked up with dinner. The food was awesome. A nice stroll back to the hotel. Sleep was divine.

We got up at a decent hour because we wanted to cruise through our old neighborhood and surprise our friends.

Plus, there was a BBQ we had scheduled at my parents house. We didn't want to be late and make anyone wait.

Turns out, we were the ones doing the waiting.

See this? This is the Cimarron fucking broken down on the way out of the parking garage. Uh-huh. So not cool. It died every time Hubbie hit the gas pedal.



After an hour of tears, anger and frustration the Cimarron decided to work. If we popped her into reverse first.

Off we spluttered, shifting into reverse every time we wanted to drive forward until the car quit dying on us.

We stopped by a fast-foodish establishment to pick up a spinach and bacon panini that I have been craving. I was in heaven. Can you tell I am sweating my ass off?


We stopped at our Commie friend's house. We walked in and woke them up by Hubbie yelling down the hall for him to get his Communist bastard ass out of bed. Good times.

The time came to leave, and our friend the Cimarron actually worked the first time we cranked her. Don't know why or how, but she did. It must have been the oohs and aaahs of jealousy we evoked from our friends. 'Cause we had the baddest ride in town, bro! We said our goodbyes and were able to make it back to my parents house in good order.

Completely overheated and sweaty, but safe and sound.

And there is our simple night on the town.

Not for the faint of heart. Nor any members of Club McCarthy.