I made it back to my apartment around 8 p.m. -- nearly four days exactly since I'd left. My shoes, however... Well, they didn't come off until 1 a.m. or so. It was almost as though I didn't want to be home. I didn't want to kick my shoes off and get comfortable... because that would be the sure sign that the weekend was over. I'm not ready for the weekend to be over.

I've had something going on every weekend this year, but the weekends of February have been the most interesting to say the least. Two weeks ago, I went home with a 34-year-old woman from my uncle's 50th birthday bash. Last weekend, I was kidnapped by four friends and taken on an all-night gambling spree (I lost all of $32). This weekend saw me head off to Oakdale. It was long past time, I thought, for a trip "home."

I drove into town Saturday after spending Valentine's Day at my mom's house. Zoë's apartment was the first place I stopped in Oakdale. As it turns out, they had steaks ready for the grill and offered me one of the extras.

Saturday was spent eating steak, drinking beer and enjoying the company of old friends. The great thing about the "enjoying the company" part is that if felt like I never left. So many times, you meet up with old friends and the only thing you can talk about are "the good ol' days." It is your true friends that make you feel as though neither time or distance has entered the relationship.

The icing on the cake Saturday was went I mentioned Doc.

No one had spoken with her lately and I suggested giving her a call. I ended up talking to her for an hour and two minutes. I guess it'd really been that long. A hallmark of our friendship is how we pick on each other... Almost like two six-year-old's that secretly like each other. Saturday night was no different. I was dishing out my share... but I really just want to say, "hey, it's great to hear your voice. I really do miss you." I tried to convey as much in "our way" of communicating. I just hope the message got through.

Saturday night, I had a standing offer to crash at Zoë's place, but the sofa was already taken by another guest... And I didn't feel much like adding to the load. I ended up at the same Shoney's Inn I've stayed at a hundred times before. The alone time can be a good thing, sometimes... And, besides, the motel doesn't run out of hot water.

After checking out at noon, I gave Jonathan a call. I left a voice mail wondering aloud about what girl he went home with from a party the night before... or in what corner of Oakdale he might be passed out in. He called a few minutes later while on his way from spending the night with his ex-girlfriend. I knew one of my two guesses would be right. He invited me over to his place.

I thought I would just spend a couple of hours at Jonathan's and maybe head home. But it wasn't long before the beer came out of the fridge. When it ran out, Frank showed up with a 12 pack. Nate showed up shortly after, helped us finish the 12-pack and we piled into Nate's jeep to make a road trip for more.

Damn, we sound like alcoholics or something.

The law in Oakdale -- like much of the south -- is restrictive on those who partake in intoxicating spirits. No beer or alcohol sales are allowed on Sunday. So, we had to drive out to the edge of the boondocks to a town where the extra business (and taxes) are appreciated and where beer sales are allowed.

The place we patronized resembled little more than a ragged old house trailer with a drive-thur window tacked onto one side. The shop owner slid an old cigar box out the window, into which we placed our $25. Within a minute, the cigar box was replaced with a 24-pack of Bud Light. We navigated the rutted-out muddy parking lot and were on our way.

Until the beer run, I was the proud owner of a buzz. So much of a buzz, in fact, that I called Christy. What was I thinking? I was having a good time... And in no way would a drunk dial help that. I don't remember what I said, just enough that Christy called back a few minutes after we hung up... upset about something I'd said. I did my best to smooth things over. We're supposed to get together this weekend. Maybe I can find out what I said exactly and set the record straight.

The combination of the drunk dial, the Wendy's Extra Value Meal we picked up on the way back to Jonathan's and the cold temperatures I endured as I sat outside on the second phone call to Christy all sort of sobered me up. Sara called to invite us to a crawfish boil. We grabbed the beer and headed out being the good friends that we are... but the air was too cold, snow was falling and the folks there weren't exactly our closest buds. We headed back to Jonathan's and as the clock neared 11 p.m., I headed back to Smallville.

My life isn't stressful. I have a job, and a home, and a truck and friend and enough money to pay the bills. But it was all beginning to drive me nuts. A road trip just a few hours down the road was exactly what I needed. It recharged my batteries and I'm ready to tackle the few problems I face there in Franklin and Lakeland. Well, maybe. I'm at least ready to address them... and that's as good as any place to start the tackling.