Trip to Magna Faire
Ever hear the proverb, "Be careful what you wish for?" Well, that was the trip to Magna Faire this year, which makes it all Hilary's fault.
The trip started out innocuous enough. Me, Barbara, Wynalie, Hilary and Breana in Barbara's van left Murfreesboro around 6 p.m. with the first of multiple showings of "Charlotte's Web" playing on the DVD (apparently my four-year-old is not the ONLY four-year-old who wants to watch a movie again and again and again).
Hilary had brought her Garmin and Wynalie was operating it as she was riding shotgun. That might've been the first clue there. Apparently Wynalies and Garmins don't mix.
We weren't actually going to site, but to a hotel that Hilary had booked. The Garmin said it couldn't find that address, so we figure, "Oh, we'll just go with the closest one on that street and find it ourselves."
Bad, bad idea. If Garmin can't find the address, stop right there. Unpack the car and stay home. Or go inside to Google Maps and print out directions.
Unaware of the events about to unfold, we had a lovely dinner at Cracker Barrel near the TN state line and then crossed over into Alabama. We had fun in the car telling stories about all the messed up trips we have had on the way to events, and Hilary said, "I wish I had a story like that." HA!
I think we were somewhere on the second showing of "Charlotte's Web" (hey now, look at him now, Zuckerman's famous pig!), when the Garmin told us to exit the interstate. So, we did. It then toured us through a lovely little town called Nocahula Falls with a great Christmas light display. But then we left the lovely little town and continued on into more and more rural area.
Banjos were playing, UFOs were hovering ... Nothing was open, not even the gas stations. And then Garmin excitedly announced -- "Arrived at destination!" In the middle of a country road. Yeeeahhhhh.
So, Barbara pulls into a closed gas station and we consider our options. We have two blackberrys, an iPhone and a Garmin in the car -- problem is that we don't know WHERE we are. It's kind of hard to get directions without at least a starting point. Nevertheless, we are furiously working on our technological gadgets, sure the answer has to be *somewhere* in them.
About that time, a car pulls into the gas station. A relatively normal guy gets out and starts to pump gas (apparently, the store was closed, but the pumps were open). Since she was the only one not shaking, cursing at, or beating a technical device against the upholstery, Barbara puts on her best helpless chick -- bat, bat, bat eyelashes - face and tells him how lost we are. He takes a deep manful breath, puts his hands on his hips, and tells us how to get back to the interstate.
And he actually knew what he was talking about (unlike the pimply-face teenager at the gas station outside the S. Carolina border, but that's a whole other story).
So, after an hour wondering in the wastelands of Alabama, we finally arrive at the hotel -- and the Oscar Meyer Weiner mobile is sitting in the parking lot. The excitement of the Weiner Mobile snaps what is left of our little minds, and we pile out of the van hollering "My bologna has a first name -- it's O-S-C-A-R!" Much giggling and taking of photos ensues.
We finally haul our slap-happy selves into the hotel lobby to check in. The 12-year-old working the desk asked us how we were, and Hilary told him about getting lost. First words out of his mouth, "You didn't try to find us with a Garmin did you? That never works for some reason."
AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!
Apparently NASA is testing some GPS-cloaking device at the Fairfield Inn in Gadsen. Just sayin'.
The trip started out innocuous enough. Me, Barbara, Wynalie, Hilary and Breana in Barbara's van left Murfreesboro around 6 p.m. with the first of multiple showings of "Charlotte's Web" playing on the DVD (apparently my four-year-old is not the ONLY four-year-old who wants to watch a movie again and again and again).
Hilary had brought her Garmin and Wynalie was operating it as she was riding shotgun. That might've been the first clue there. Apparently Wynalies and Garmins don't mix.
We weren't actually going to site, but to a hotel that Hilary had booked. The Garmin said it couldn't find that address, so we figure, "Oh, we'll just go with the closest one on that street and find it ourselves."
Bad, bad idea. If Garmin can't find the address, stop right there. Unpack the car and stay home. Or go inside to Google Maps and print out directions.
Unaware of the events about to unfold, we had a lovely dinner at Cracker Barrel near the TN state line and then crossed over into Alabama. We had fun in the car telling stories about all the messed up trips we have had on the way to events, and Hilary said, "I wish I had a story like that." HA!
I think we were somewhere on the second showing of "Charlotte's Web" (hey now, look at him now, Zuckerman's famous pig!), when the Garmin told us to exit the interstate. So, we did. It then toured us through a lovely little town called Nocahula Falls with a great Christmas light display. But then we left the lovely little town and continued on into more and more rural area.
Banjos were playing, UFOs were hovering ... Nothing was open, not even the gas stations. And then Garmin excitedly announced -- "Arrived at destination!" In the middle of a country road. Yeeeahhhhh.
So, Barbara pulls into a closed gas station and we consider our options. We have two blackberrys, an iPhone and a Garmin in the car -- problem is that we don't know WHERE we are. It's kind of hard to get directions without at least a starting point. Nevertheless, we are furiously working on our technological gadgets, sure the answer has to be *somewhere* in them.
About that time, a car pulls into the gas station. A relatively normal guy gets out and starts to pump gas (apparently, the store was closed, but the pumps were open). Since she was the only one not shaking, cursing at, or beating a technical device against the upholstery, Barbara puts on her best helpless chick -- bat, bat, bat eyelashes - face and tells him how lost we are. He takes a deep manful breath, puts his hands on his hips, and tells us how to get back to the interstate.
And he actually knew what he was talking about (unlike the pimply-face teenager at the gas station outside the S. Carolina border, but that's a whole other story).
So, after an hour wondering in the wastelands of Alabama, we finally arrive at the hotel -- and the Oscar Meyer Weiner mobile is sitting in the parking lot. The excitement of the Weiner Mobile snaps what is left of our little minds, and we pile out of the van hollering "My bologna has a first name -- it's O-S-C-A-R!" Much giggling and taking of photos ensues.
We finally haul our slap-happy selves into the hotel lobby to check in. The 12-year-old working the desk asked us how we were, and Hilary told him about getting lost. First words out of his mouth, "You didn't try to find us with a Garmin did you? That never works for some reason."
AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!
Apparently NASA is testing some GPS-cloaking device at the Fairfield Inn in Gadsen. Just sayin'.