Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Quick Takes: road trip
Hosted at Conversion Diary
Fourteen hour road trips are the devil's convention. He's always conspiring to make good marriages go awry, and this one nearly did us in. I was in and out of love with my husband just about every fifteen minutes or so:
We are in love for the A's, B's and C's of the Alphabet Game, giddy with the nostalgia of childhood road trips. By Q we are out of love: "Antiques does not count for Q." And any time someone uses a Lion's Den sign, I get irritated. (Walnut Bowls are fine though.)
He reaches across the middle console to rub the back of my neck, and we are in LOVE!
"You're tailgating," I say (out of love).
"Why don't we say the Rosary?" he says (in love).
He flips off the driver who's just cut him off (out of love).
We're still together, but barely.
To his credit, I am a difficult passenger. As has been said about many of the women in our family, "She's either in control or out of control," meaning, if I'm not driving, I'm going nuts. I gasp when I perceive a close call. I press on my air brakes. I alert my husband when his speed is creeping up.
To my credit, my husband is impossible to love when he's driving. The two are incompatible. Period.
We saw some beautiful things along the way:
Somewhere along the line, though, the word "vacation" stopped sounding like a relevant description of what actually happens when my husband and I, and our five children set out for some destination lasting more than two days. Some people know they're on vacation when they're spread out on a poolside lounger drinking a pineapple cocktail. I know I'm on vacation when I'm huddled behind some bushes, hiding from my kids, so I can smoke a cigarette in the middle of the day. I like to smoke on vacation because it's the only thing that really distinguishes a vacation from any other day of breaking up fights and wiping bottoms, albeit in a different location.
We stayed with my brother and his wife so that we could put the kids down and visit for awhile. However, my husband had a hotel room because he was there for a company meeting. I took him to the hotel around 11 pm so he could be up for his meeting in the morning. We had a drink with his co-workers, and we hung out for a little bit and I went back to my brother's around 12:30 am.
The next night, after the kids were asleep, and I visited for awhile with my brother and his wife, my husband called and asked if I could bring him some clean undershirts. So I did. He'd had meetings all day, dinner, and a team-building exercise. Whether or not we had team-building exercises of our own is no one's business, but I left the hotel around 12:30 again.
This time, in the lobby, the doorman asked, "Can I help you?"
"No," I said, "I'm just leaving."
"Have I seen you?" he asked.
"Yes. Last night."
"I've seen you leaving here?"
"Yes. My husband's staying here," I said.
"Oh, Riiiiighhhht," he said giving me a knowing wink.
So I've been mistaken for a Dallas whore, or at the least a philandering wife. Now, I must get back to my five children.
My sister sent this link to me. Very funny.