Tiger Beat, Chapter 1: Road Trip Necessities

And now, at long last, with great fanfare and much squealing of kazoos, I bring you Chapter One in the Tiger Beat Chronicles, an epic tale of my trip to Clemson, Scarolina to watch Questicle embark upon adulthood, drink my weight in Frathouse Special brew, and eat my Very First Ever Chicken Biscuit.

Now what, I ask you, could be more exciting than tales of the loss of my chicken biscuit virginity?*

Thus we begin on Thursday morning, when Mom arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to collect my duffel bag, tote bag, garment bag, shoe bag, food bag, handbag, giftbag, windbag, bagpipe, and self to cart down to Scarolina. As usual, I was running no less than fifteen brain cells behind, so I fluttered about like a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox, simultaneously drying my hair, packing my makeup, and hugging the cat goodbye. Finally, twenty-five minutes and six Mango scratches behind schedule, we were off, guided by the comforting voice of the GPS who assumed, from the moment we lumbered off the curb, that we were complete morons in need of guidance, both geographically and philosophically.

All was well in the Tahoe powered by disco music and girl talk, until we both became hungry enough to consider eating at some roadside establishment whose kitchen output was rivaled only by its bathroom intake. Scanning the blue signs that littered the interstate like tattoos on a hairy redneck, I had an epiphany of epic proportions: WE SHOULD EAT AT TACO BELL.

Something I may have never disclosed, but which is a huge part of my personal being, is that I'm an obsessive foodie. There are three things in life that I take very seriously. The Three Fs. They are:

• Food
• Family
• Fart jokes
  

I think about food more often than thirteen-year-old boys think about boobies, and I spend about half of every weekend playing Dr. Jekyll/Chef Hyde in my kitchen, flinging spices and hoping to strike culinary gold before I accidentally puree my own knuckles. So for me to suggest we eat at Taco Bell sounds as strange as Jessica Simpson asking Marilyn Manson if she could open for him while slaughtering a family of pigs. But when I suggested T-Bell tacos, Mom must have been delirious from watching 350 cow-speckled miles of our lives bump past us, and figured it couldn't be half bad. Or at least, we likely would not die.

And oh, it was so good, good like cheese fries on a hangover, or aloe on that sunburn that you kind of want to heal, but kind of want to peel because peeling sunburn is so grotesquely delightful. You might have lost respect for me after this Ode to Fresco-Style Crunchy Beef Tacos, but I just don't care. T-Bell and I are tight, and there's nothing you can do to come between our love, unless our love results in my contracting the herp from T-Bell's special parts.

Fueled up in an ominous way that would ensure we drove as lightning-fast as possible to our destination, Mom and I hit the road again. We had gone about a hundred miles when it became crucial that we stop again: There were forces at work that we, mere mortal women with fabulous handbags, were powerless to stop. Did the car run out of gas? Did a rock hit the windshield? Did T-Bell come roaring to the gates in a way that demanded we screech to a halt immediately and dart behind the nearest tree?

Would you believe me if I said I saw a sign for an exit that had a HomeGoods AND a TJ Maxx in one giant building, and I shrieked like a middle schooler at High School Musical On Ice until Mom pulled over out of fear for her life? Smart lady, my mom.

I don't know if you've ever been to one of these magical Meccas, but there is nothing more wondrous to me than a store where I can buy both tart pans and tarty sandals, both with matching earrings. Never mind that Mom and I had each packed six pairs of shoes. Never mind that we only had two dressy events to attend that weekend. I am powerless against the song of the Shoe-Sirens, and I've got the overstuffed shoe rack, shoe bags, and eye-rolling husband to prove it!

Half an hour later, after happily stuffing six completely necessary and in no way superfluous shoes in the back of the magic Tahoe, we were on the road again, racing against time to Clemson to make sure we'd have enough time to choose the perfect shoe for dinner.

***

Thanks for tuning in to the first installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Stay tuned for our next episode, coming soon: Let Me See That Pong.

*This phrase banned in countries run by theocracies, monarchies, and common decency.