(Although that’s mostly because I don’t care what people say, your boobs never go back after having a baby and all my clothes look borderline obscene now.)
Last week, Buzz and I took a vacation to Atlanta! Well. Okay. He went to a conference and worked hard all day and answered emails at night. I spent a lot of time napping in the air conditioned room, eating pita chips in bed, and quoting Gone with the Wind.
(And snapchatting my sister and friend, because I’m mature like that.)
Anyway. It was all- around a lovely break, even for Buzz who had to work.
We had so much southern food, and it was sooo good. Like, cornbread with real corn in it. I KNOW, YOU GUYS. I didn’t know that was a thing.
Our hotel was in Midtown, and it was gorgeous. Like way nicer than anything we would have stayed at. (Thank you, Buzz’s company!) Even though Midtown is so yuppie that I managed to go almost the whole time without hearing a single Southern accent, which frankly was disappointing.
We were on the 11th floor with a corner room. It was gorgeous, and there were several afternoon thunderstorms that were soooo cool to watch.
I wandered around Midtown a lot, because we didn’t have a car and after three hours of napping and Snapped marathons, I became convinced that Buzz was going to start poisoning me with arsenic so he could have an affair with a coworker. I mean, it’s the only logical conclusion.
(Also, we needed pita chips and brownies and wine. Obviously I had to find a grocery.)
(Party in our room! Whoo!)
We also hung out in the hotel bar a lot, and I took a ton of pictures and generally embarrassed Buzz in front of his coworkers. Oh well. I’M ON VACATION SUCKAS.
The hotel bar was suuuuper cool, and I enjoy any and all hotel bars as a rule.
(I look super wrinkled in that shot. I’m going to say it was bad lighting.)
The last day I had to check out at noon and Buzz still had to, you know, like work for a few more hours, so I went to Margaret Mitchell’s House to kill a few hours and a few hundred dollars THE BOOKS I NEED ALL THE BOOKS.
(Seriously.) (Gone with the Wind and the Politics of Memory? I NEED THAT
I USED TO BE I’M A HISTORIAN!)
I freaking love Gone with the Wind. I read it for the first time when I was 12, I think. I know my grandpa was living with us because I had the cheap mass market paperback edition with the ever-popular marital rape scene on the cover and he would have yelled at me. So I kept it hidden. And kept a list of the dirty parts. Because I was a 12-year-old pervert apparently.
Anyway. LOVE. I didn’t know that much about Margaret Mitchell herself, and it was a very interesting tour. Mostly because my tour guide was AMAZING and I wanted to take her home with me and have her be my best friend and make her say cute little sayings in her adorable Southern accent ALL DAY LONG.
(But alas, I didn’t check any baggage and I couldn’t kidnap her in my carry-on.)
In case anyone is wondering, I now have a 75th anniversary edition of Gone with the Wind, an apron that says “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn,” and every quasi-historical book written about Margaret Mitchell EVER.
And a coffee mug. Because I forgot I was moving, apparently.
We missed Squeaks and Buddy terribly, of course, but it was super nice to get away and (for me at least) relax.
(Look at me all rejuvenated. And poor Buzz. Conference-pale and worn. Still adorable.)