This edition of Saint Marty comes to you from Howell, Michigan, home of a Holiday Inn Express and the WiFi I am currently using. We are not going to the Fair, like the Arables and Zuckermans. We are here for another dance competition. My daughter and her friends will be competing all day tomorrow, with very few breaks. Considering that my daughter is currently recovering from strep throat, I have a feeling it's going to be a really long day for her.
The trip was fairly uneventful. No major catastrophes, unless you count my five-year-old son asking "Are we there yet?" every five minutes. I'm not exaggerating. It was a cold, rainy journey, and I am sad to report that Howell is not much warmer than the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. I was hoping to be surrounded by spring. Flowers. Green grass. Sunshine. The only hint of spring I encountered was the smell of manure wafting across the fields of corn stubble. That's it. The only evidence of the beginning of May. Cow shit.
Once upon a time, an adjunct English professor/itinerant saint named Marty went on a long road trip with his family. On the trip, he encountered rainstorms and fog and a lot of roadkill. When he got to his destination, he was so tired that he ordered pizza and went to bed.
Moral of the story: Jet's Pizza is pretty damn good.
And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.
|Saint Marty cooked tonight!|