push

What a push couple of days. Since Thursday, I've probably driven about 1,000 miles. I drew the short straw and have been down to an area called the Jicarilla every day since Friday. It's a long, slow, and mind-numbingly boring drive down Hwy 550 that takes you about halfway to Albuquerque. It's slow because while I drive a pick-up that can easily go 70 MPH, I must go 55 MPH because that's about as fast as the slowest vehicle in the convoy can go. And the scenery is non-existent. The drive is best done in the dark because then you don't feel so cheated by how desolate your surroundings are. (And you're more likely to hit something that you can take home and cook.) It's not a stark, high desert beauty which would be great. It's a flat, flat, flatness with some occasional hills and punctuated by incredibly sad looking towns every 15 miles.

The sad looking towns bit reminds me of what could easily be the single funniest line from my vacation with my family in Greece. We were in the car and drove past an empty and rather rundown looking playground.
Mom: What a sad looking playground. (Or something to that effect.)
Me: Why? Because it's not filled with children's laughter?
As I reread that, it's apparent that you had to be there. Maybe if you've spent enough time with me, you can envision the perfect timing and deadpan-ness necessary for that to be darkly hilarious.

For the record, we don't really draw straws to determine who goes where to do what. We pick names out of a hat.