Three years ago, I packed up my husband, teen-aged daughter and the obligatory southern dog, Abbigail the Bassett Hound, to head west. Junior, or Bubba as he is sometimes called, had already opted to become a sophisticated college man in some state I still can't locate on a map, but his school mascot is a Hoosier. Near as I can tell, a "Hoosier" is a redneck who doesn't live in the south.
We left our home of Atlanta, Georgia, where a three bedroom house complete with basement and attic could be had for around $175,000, to move to the golden land of California for a new life. And contrary to some of those TV shows, we didn't find any texas tea to subsidize the move. Apparently, someone hasn't told these people out here that their million dollar home is just a double wide with no wheels.
Mary May June Bug, our lovely teenager of 14 years, was thrilled with the idea of moving out West, that is, right up until the day we actually started moving out West.
Now Hubby, or Hubby Bubby, as he likes to be called, was too smart to make the drive with three females in a car too small for two normal sized southern women, so he joined us later.
Let's just say there was not a Stuckeys between Atlanta and Bakersfield, California that we didn't hit.