The motels that line US highways and byways have undergone a renaissance of sorts in the last few years. Once travelers took their chances with their choice of an over-night stay. Would the bed be comfortable, the shower good, the air conditioner in good working order? 

No longer. The road-side inns of  America have been McDonalized. One is as the other, as the other — as the other.

Tom Bodett, the only spokesman Motel 6 ever had, started it.

In an early commercial for the motel chain, he ad libbed, “We’ll leave the light on for you.” And all of a sudden inn-keepers began looking at customers as friends of the family rather than the meal tickets they are. 

Probably someone found a close out sale on pillow top mattresses and that got the ball rolling.  Now all of the beds are high and soft and the sheets and comforters are folded in mysterious ways that are really tough to replicate.   

Hair dryers, irons and luggage racks are standard. All have room darkening curtains covered by see-through panels framed by useless drapes. There is a big screen tv, a directory of houses of worship and a completely neutral listing of nearby restaurants. The shower rods bow out beyond the front of the tub and the shower curtain has a clear horizontal panel at eye level. 

I love these places! But it’s a good thing that Hitchcock made Psycho in 1960. The shower scene at the Bates motel just wouldn’t have been the same if Janet Leigh had been able to see Perkins through her clear plastic eye level panel.  “Get out, creep face!  This isn’t your room!” Fade to darkness.

If you tried to get to wordle (Sunday, Sunday post) and couldn’t, it’s because the url was wrong. It’s right now. (www.wordle.net)

Traveling by car across the US through each of the time zones is a great way to both see and hear the country. Despite regional differences there’s an underlying connectedness.

Easterners are always coming and going and love to talk about their traffic. 

Oh-my-god, we need to leave now, right now or we’re gonna get caught for hoours. Which way should we go?

Well, I’d take Kelly Drive over to Springfield, down Chestnut Hill and across to the interstate.

Are you kiddin’ me!? That’s a terrible way to go with the detour on Hanson and 7th. It pulls all that traffic onto Maple which flows into Springfield.

Why do you ask me which way if you aren’t going to pay attention? Go your own way. Don’t blame me when we’re late.

In the mid-west, weather is the first thing mentioned after hell-o. 

 So beautiful day, today, huh? Turned off the furnace and opened the doors!

You got that right. But su’posed to change later on this week.  Heard it on the weather channel.

Really? Well, I heard that we’re gonna have spring all week long. I’m planning on getting my flowers in.

 Well, good luck with that. I’d have a back up plan if I was you.  Don’t blame me if they freeze.   (Ha Ha)

People living in mountain time don’t talk much at all, they’re too busy breathing.

New mountain bike, I see. (Pant.)

Yeah. (Pant. Pant. Pant.)

I’ll slow down a little. (Pant)

If I have a stroke I’m blamin’ you.  (Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant.)  

And when they’re not eating, it seems like they’re talking about food on the west coast.  

So, let’s try the new pizza place next to the pharmacy — they have wood fired ovens and use a lot of leeks.

Oh, geeze, could we hold off on the pizza for a while? I’m in a mood for organic spring greens with a light balsamic vinaigrette.

Like where? Napoleons? — They have a good chopped salad, Rooster’s has that new Asian Undertow or there’s always Rossi’s with the gorgonzola on arugula.

Oh, yeah! Gorgonzola.  Well, you decide, and I won’t blame you if it sucks. 

I hear one reason there are not more revolutions is that people tend to compare themselves to people who are in the same boat they are rather than those who are better off.  

At least that is certainly the case with me.

I watch HGTV for hours without feeling the least bit dissatisfied with my surroundings. My friends are not among that group who are buying cliff-side villas in Italy or remodeling summer homes on the Cape.  Not that they couldn’t, mind you, it’s just that they wouldn’t.

Angela Ismalio changed all that for me. I was happily flipping through a magazine one day and happened upon her.  Her hair was streaming in the wind, her dress was billowing behind her and she was standing on the deck of her new 164 foot racing yacht, the Barracuda, that matched her outfit: the sails were a deep eggplant and the hull was a burnished gold-bronze. 

I can just barely swim but all of a sudden I want to OWN that yacht. 

A big name designer had done the interior in what some would call luxurious minimalism.  It is all dove grey leather and cashmere with edited accessories and lots of recessed lighting. Not exactly my taste, but workable — if you know what I mean.

The cut-line on the photo explains that Angela had grown up sitting on the terrace of her father’s office,  a Greek shipping magnate, and marveling “at the panoply of vessels streaming through the bay.” I could feel my emerging dis-satisfaction. Daughter of a magnate who was bright enough to marvel at a panoply!? No sly gossip about out of control drug use, over-the-top ego, or seamy love triangles?

No as a matter of fact, she has just finished producing and directing a documentary on great names in film-making called Great Directors; it is said to be an award contender.  

Angela, I’m sorry to say, you make me want to stand in front of  the white house lawn and carry a sign, A YACHT IN EVERY POT.

Pets usually die before you do. 

It’s something most pet owners come to know, understand and accept to be true.  And when it happens, it can simply bring you to your knees. My nephew Casey’s dog, Cody, was hit by a car and died not long ago. 

Cody wasn’t a puppy but he wasn’t an old dog either.  He was well-mannered and bright, played well with others and was eager and enthusiastic about his dog’s life.  He had been Casey’s dog before he bought his first house, before he married Miranda, before he had two kids and another on the way, maybe even before Casey knew how hard it was to lose a pet.

The whole family memorialized Cody on Facebook with a rush of photo downloads. Here’s one that shows his best side. For some reason his one ear grew straight while the other flopped forward. That’s one of the things that made him one of a kind. 

I look forward to Wednesdays because that’s when the lady in the paper puts in her 7 day menu plans. I like it that they are quick to prepare, lowish fat, and mostly use stuff you don’t have to buy at Whole Foods or Dean and Delucca.  I can usually count on at least 2-3 good ideas from the column; someone with a young  family would probably score higher as she always sticks in a couple of suggestions about food you pick up and eat with your hands. 

But I have to tell you, this week was a complete bust. I hope it isn’t a sign of the times — gradual audience disconnect, a feeble attempt at a rally and then a complete collapse.

Menu Lady,  in case you are listening, here is feedback from a representative of the people who love you best.

A fresh plum is not and will never be considered a dessert. I will never serve  lettuce wedges, potato wedges, tomato wedges and sweet potato wedges all in the same week. I don’t care if the kids love Mexican food, I will not heat up frozen  meatballs in taco sauce and serve them in taco shells. And really, serving deli tuna salad on a lettuce leaf surrounded with pickled beets and sprinkled with paprika for an evening meal is simply Lazeeeey.

Ok, I thought the catfish idea with the beer and the half cup of hot sauce for Thursday night was pretty adventurous but throwing chicken in with chicken soup, rice and cheddar cheese on Monday night was really the mark of an amateur. I did think your idea to buy a cheesecake and top it with fresh berries for Saturday night was a good one —  though, c’mon —  not the most original thought in the universe !

Buck up Menu Lady, — here comes fall. Bring on the chili and the red velvet cake, let’s get back to normal.

Thinking of the double feature at the Boulevard Drive-In can occasionally get me through a really bad winter in Kansas. I can picture myself with my husband lined up to buy tickets.

It's been a very warm and sunny day but promises to cool off for a perfect summer evening.

He drives in slowly through the middle rows to find the perfect spot which is never the first spot or the closest spot. The best ones are not too far from the bathroom but not too close either.

He avoids pick-ups that threaten the view and steers away from vans whose passengers spill out to set up up portable barbeque grills and folding chairs.

When he has eliminated all but 2 or 3 spots, he picks one and tests the speaker before he jockeys the car into the very best viewing position. Then he goes to the concession stand. He comes back with cokes and huge containers of slightly stale, perfectly done movie popcorn.

I adjust the speaker inside the back window and turn the volume so that we can both hear it. We lean back, adjust our pillows and enjoy the show.

Two hours later we wake up and drive home. We hardly ever stay for the second feature, lucky for us — it's usually a dog.