Travel disclaimer. Before you decide that you can break into my home and steal my collection of authentic diamonelle pendants (which will get you nothing but scornful looks at the pawn shop), please be assured that I’ll have a housesitter while I’m gone. Matt is 6’3” and 200 pounds of pure steroids. My house is also protected by Rottweilers, tiger traps, anti-aircraft guns, an alligator infested moat, and ninjas.
That said, we’re planning a trip to Western Pennsylvania to visit my hubby’s family for Christmas. It’s an eleven hour drive under ideal conditions—the fifth ring of hell during snow and holiday traffic. I’ve always enjoyed our visits there, and the family accepted me from the moment my brother-in-law caught me out back picking at the turkey carcass my first Thanksgiving visit.
Ferrel, PA is not a tourist Mecca. There are no gift shops, no red light district, and no Baskin-Robbins. There is, however a drive-through liquor store just over the Ohio border a few miles away. Obviously, convenience is important when you want to get hammered on the interstate.
It’s a Polish community, which means if I could find a charm for my charm bracelet, it would probably be a sausage. Try explaining a little silver penis on your bracelet at the next Ladies Auxiliary meeting and white elephant sale.
What can I expect? Excellent accommodations at the Red Roof Inn on Swamp Road (I’m not making that up), more food than a Carnival Cruise (without the mysterious stomach ailment at sea), some internet withdrawal (like an intervention without the annoying sermons and testimonials), a chance to wear my 30 year-old muk-luks (a nice way to say it’s going to feel like Siberia in August) and an honest welcome (until I start picking at the turkey carcass).
So I’ll be spending Christmas in a small house, in a small town, with snow, and a big dysfunctional and quirky family. Honestly, everyone should be so lucky.