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Never leave Cape Cod on a Sunday afternoon.

Never.

Ever.

It took us two hours and forty minutes to clear the Bourne bridge. An accident at exit 5 backed up traffic past exit 3. It took us an additional hour and change to clear that. The rest of the way was just slow. My tonsils were floating for most of the journey. When did they remove all the sanitary facilities from the smaller rest stops? It was a brilliant move on the state's part, as now they can guarantee a demographically homogenized urea sample from the ground just beyound the chain link fence which encircles their "rest stops". I don't consider it "restful" to run the length of the stop looking for the port-o-john, or at least the spot of ground that smells the least like the backside of Ren-Faire.

Three and a half hours into the journey, baby was out of milk and not interested in sleep. Thank goodness breast pumps have cigarette lighter adapters. And of course a good Sunday dinner was sacrificed to the convenience gods of gluttony and the deep fryer.

So an otherwise restful weekend in the woods in a little cabin that smelled of mothballs and drove my allergies into overdrive had the finishing touches put on it by my own stupidity. I sat in the Masshole parade, cursing my own bad timing, and considering using the breakdown lane to get my Masshole Honor Badge. Passing two cars that had evidently had the same idea at different relative speeds cured me of that consideration.

Feh!