Last week, I got an invitation to a jewelry party. I forgot to RSVP for it, but had M call to the hostess last night to see if I was still able to go. She said of course, so I left the house shortly before 6 p.m. to head down to Smyrna for the party.
Because of the race in Dover this weekend, I decided I didn’t want to deal with traffic on Route 1 or Route 13. The alternate is Route 9. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the movie Wrong Turn, but here’s a synopsis:
A young med student takes his eyes off the road and hits a group of campers, They seem to be having car trouble to, so they go off and look for a phone and come across a cabin home to three cannibal brothers disfigured from generations of inbreeding.
Had it been dark outside, I think I’d have pushed my luck on 1 or 13 because seriously? Route 9 itself wasn’t that bad, but the last turn I made before turning onto my friend’s street was straight out of a horror movie. There was one house on the road and a restaurant called Boondocks.That was it.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to arrive somewhere before night fall.