A request and a promise

First, the request:

Tomorrow, my cousin S is getting married. Yay, S! I couldn't be more thrilled for her, so of course I will be there with bells on! However, it's in Indiana, so T will be on Bubba duty while I attend stag. (Zero problem with this, as the T is not so much a wedding person, anyway; I barely managed to get him to agree to attend a non-Elvis-officiated wedding for US.)

Plus my parents and grandparents are going, so it'll be some good, quality family time.

The wedding's being held at the groom's family farm somewhere smack-dab in the middle of rural Indiana. Since it's a bit of a haul, the wedding isn't until 4:00 and it's literally in the middle of nowhere, the plan is to drive out tomorrow, attend said festivities, stay the night and return Sunday.

See where this is going?

ROAD TRIP! With my parents. And grandparents. And NOT with my husband or my brother or his wife.

In other words: I'm 10 years old again.

The original plan, God help us all, was for all five of us to drive in one car. I had visions of myself on the dreaded b-tch seat in the back, sandwiched between my (perfectly lovely) grandparents, singing 500 choruses of "I've Been Working on the Railroad" and "You Are My Sunshine" like the family road trips of my youth, only this time peppered with long stretches of conversations that begin with, "So, why haven't you had any babies yet?"

I started panicking.

So I casually suggested to my mother that PERHAPS we could caravan -- I'll drive my nice, roomy car, she can drive her equally roomy car, and we can swap passengers. You know, to maximize the family fun.

Is it the greenest solution? Perhaps not. But is it the sanest? Hoo-yes.

(Incidentally, when my mom pitched the idea to Grandma, here was her response: "Oh. Hm. Um...is Shannon a good driver?" My mother's response, God love her: "No, she's awful. We're all going to crash in a ditch and go up in a ball of flames." Clearly I've taught her well.)

So the request? Say a prayer for us and/or me. For as much as I love and adore my family (and I do, I really REALLY do), I fear this may be a true test of my sanity. When you're a kid, a road trip is A) kind of an adventure and B) not exactly something you can opt of out because, well, you're 10 and your parents kind of rule your life. At 33, I can barely tolerate a road trip with MYSELF. To KROGER.

And now, the promise:

I realize it was WHOLLY unfair of me to post the reenactment of my bizarre salon encounter without saying how I felt about the actual haircut or ponying up some pics. Please accept my apology.

So let me tell you:

1. Against all odds and the laws of nature and/or reason, Little Miss Cuckoopants somehow managed to turn out a decent haircut. I KNOW! I was as surprised as you are. As baffled as she appeared to be throughout the entirety of the process, somehow my instructions soaked in amid the lack of understanding of what holiday it actually was, and she did a good job. (And I tipped her accordingly, even after she implied I might be old enough to receive Social Security benefits. I'm not made of stone, people.)
2. As with any new cut I get, I've spent the better part of this week trying to figure out how best to style it, which is my excuse for not showing you any pictures up to this point. This weekend, however, I'm snap some glamour shots and on Monday, I'll give you the goods. I may even try a few different styles just for funsies.

But you have to hold up your end of the bargain. And if you aren't the praying or meditating type, just hum a few choruses of "The Wheels on the Bus" in your head and have a little chuckle at my expense. Either/or.