05

Oct

Real Housewives of . . . . Nah.

realoc

I had to drive to and through Laguna Beach today.  While there, I saw no fewer than three Lamborghini’s and two Ferrari’s in the span of four blocks.  The other predominant vehicle of choice there is Mercedes-Benz.

Why was I there?  It’s a long, uninteresting story, but it involves ebay, Craigslist, and a complicated sale and swap of various vintage Alfa Romeo interior parts.

First stop:  the OC.

Several aspects of the area made an immediate impression on my jaded Muggle self.

First, it’s sickeningly beautiful.  Wonderful sunny weather, the smell of salt air, and beautiful wind-swept ocean vistas everywhere you care to look.

Both those positives are offset by heavy traffic, stop lights every fifty feet, and what I will simply refer to as moronic behavior everywhere, beginning with the drivers.

According to my observation, these folks come in two basic varieties:  rich jerks who tailgate you, and rich jerks who meander obliviously down the Pacific Coast Highway, with nary a care in the world.

Clearly it was time to activate Zen-me — roll up the windows, turn on the a/c, and crank up some tasty tunes, which I did.

In other words, I wasn’t bothered too much.

As I chilled myself out, I had the opportunity to view some of the folks walking the sidewalks and holding up traffic in the crosswalks.

Basically, they all looked the same to me.  (Note to self:  I love make these kinds of broad generalizations.  Keep it up, self!)

All the women were outfitted by Prada (is that right, or should I be referencing some other designer now?), and the men wore oversized shades and tried to look cool with their smokes.

Oh, right, a lot of the guys weren’t wearing shirts.

At least that part gave me some hope.  It is a fervent desire of mine to live long enough to when I’m perfectly comfortable walking around in nothing more than my brown leathery skin and a two sizes too small pair of red Speedo swim trunks.

Are they even called swim trunks anymore?  Seems very 1950s-ish.

speedoOf course, the above photo in no way, shape or form resembles anything close to me, either in the past, the distant past, or ever.  It’s basically just for reference, folks.

Fortunately, the guy I was meeting lived well off the main thoroughfare, and he seemed normal enough.  Plus, we shared the same (ridiculous) passion for kidding ourselves into thinking we’re actually restoring old Italian sports cars.  For reference, old Italian sports cars are never completely restored.  They always need something, no matter how much money you’ve lost invested in them.

And the Italians are laughing all the way to the bank, but that’s the nature of the business.

After making our parts/money exchange, I returned to the Pacific Coast Highway, waded into the OC traffic going north, and got out of there as quickly and as sanely as I could.

The Garmin directed me to my second and final destination in LA, where I made my last parts deal with a vaguely Middle Eastern guy who had been out of work for a couple of years.

Interestingly enough, we each wished we were doing what the other person was occupied with.  He wanted a steady job with a big company that provided benefits, and I wanted to work out of a scary industrial park in a warehouse space crammed with old Alfas, BMWs, and Mercedes.

He was certainly nice enough, and we spent a good hour examining his cars, his parts, and talking about deals we missed.

Soon enough I was on the way home, hopeful that a wildfire just off the Interstate wasn’t going to close it down.

It didn’t, and I arrived home to my humble San Diego Muggle abode, in our standard, sub-optimal subdivision.

About a block from the house, ambling down the sidewalk, was an older lady wearing snowboots, a hunting cap, and a crazy overcoat — all this on an 80 degree day here.  No Prada here.

Ah, home.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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23

Sep

Driving in LA

This past weekend, I helped a friend move into her apartment in LA. I was mentally unprepared for the concentration and sheer determination it took to complete this task. When we loaded up my (Dad’s) truck, I played a dangerous game of furniture Tetris but managed to stuff four chairs, a desk, and two mattresses in the bed of the pick-up. Then I did some magical knots with bungee cords and secured everything down to a reasonable level of stability.

After the road trips to and from Philly, I felt pretty confident in my packing and bungee-ing ability. And, as far as I know, I didn’t kill anybody with errant, flying furniture so mission accomplished on that front.

However, there were various problems with this driving situation despite the successes.

My two other pals each filled her car with what wouldn’t fit in the truck. We planned a route with the lowest amount of ominous red chunks of traffic and since I could not really see to either side of me or out the back window, we decided on a caravan formation where I would be in the middle.

I don’t know if you’ve tried to keep three cars together on the 405, but it is nigh impossible. And futile. And frustrating. And anxiety-inducing.


Seriously though, even going at disgustingly slow speed, it was hard to annoy other drivers enough to leave our little line of cars. I’m pretty sure most drivers didn’t want to drive behind me anyway because I probably looked like a traffic accident waiting to happen but people loved to cut me off in the front. Which is their right as an American citizen. As an American, it is your right – nay – your duty to annoy and harass other drivers as you feel fit.

I think the most terrifying aspect of the entire ordeal was merging because I was relying on other people’s instincts to move out of the way and sheer luck. I basically kept a pleading look on my face the entire time I was on the road and hoped people understood that I couldn’t see anything. I also put my blinker on and looked to the sides for a full thirty seconds before I took the dive into another lane.

But, let’s be real, nobody cares or cared. They were just trying to go on their merry way and far away from what probably looked to them like a roving furniture store.

 

Alas, I did make it to the apartment in one piece. But not before panicking multiple times and having to give myself a pep talk. You can do this. You’re amazing. You’re in a truck, people respect you. Look how high you are compared to everyone else. You are elevated to the status of Queen and nobody – NOBODY – will take your throne. You will guide your people with a gentle hand but a harsh word. You are the Supreme Ruler of All the Land. 

Unrelated: all of LA hates me.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Road Trip

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13

Sep

Well-Behaved Women Never Made History

katharine-hepburn-6-the-philadelphia-story

Ah, children.

Their ability to take the finest parental notions and twist them to meet their own needs knows no boundaries.

Take my own Daughter.*

Please.

After spending countless hours and thousands of dollars researching, saving for, and funding one of the finest university educations we could afford (at a foo-foo Lesbian Cult College, no less), it has all come back to haunt me.

But first, a little context is definitely in order.

As the father of two girls (we also have a son, but he doesn’t figure into this particular diatribe), I am well aware of the pitfalls they will face in this male-dominated world of ours.  In my simple Muggle mind, I calculate I have exactly two options regarding their preparation for life outside of the family home:

1)  Nurture, encourage, coax, and beat it into them to think for themselves, and become independent and strong.

2)  Buy a burka and call it a day.

That simple, homespun formula success for Daughter fortunately included a post-secondary education that focused on the developing Strong Minds and Strong Bodies.  I was somewhat heartened to note the abundance seemingly “leftist” feminine bumper stickers that adorned many of the vehicles around campus.  Yes, there were a few “Imagine Whirled Peas,” but there were also many “Well Behaved Women Never Made History” ones, too.

“Yes, this place will be good for Daughter,” I thought.  “When she’s finished here, she’ll be well-equipped to handle herself, even when I’m no longer around.” (Sobbing sound added for effect here, please.)

I suppose a few cracks began to appear in the foundation during our Road Trips (read any of those blogs for reference), when it began to become clear that common sense navigation was impossible without the assistance of an iPhone app — “The Starbucks is supposed to be right here!  It’s right here on GoogleMaps.  I don’t know where it is.  Let’s just keep going.”

You know.  That kind of thing.

So lately, Daughter has taken it upon herself to lower her standards somewhat while she stalks around the house.  Her recent references to etiquette notwithstanding, she occasionally descends into behavior more suited for an “All Men Are Pigs Locker Room” than the family living room.

And her excuse?

Well-behaved women never made history.

Repetitive belching?  No, that’s too polite.  Mega-Burping?

“Well-behaved women never made history, Dad.”

General cleanliness and helping out around the house?

“Well-behaved women never made history, Dad.”

Passing gas (some children do read this blog), in public (in the home).

“Well-behaved women never made history, Dad.”

Keeping her car clean?

“Well-behaved women never made history, Dad.”

Okay.  I get it.

When I was her age, I literally couldn’t imagine any sort of fate worse than having to move back home with my parents.  After all, it was very difficult trying to explain to my mom on Saturday afternoon why there was a completely frozen can of beer in the freezer (left over from the night before).

No one needs that kind of grief.

But there is one saving grace in this entire dilemma, and I keep reminding myself of it.

That is, though well-behaved women never made history, neither did well-behaved men.

Therefore, I have license, at a minimum, to walk around without a shirt, wear my shorts hiked up as high as I deem fit, and act like a Visigoth whenever the mood suits me.

Kids.

Don’t you just love ’em?

– Dad

*(Daughter Number One, not Daughter Number Two — she has her own issues, after all.)

11 years ago Short URL Comments

College/Family/Humor/Laugh at My Expense/Lesbian Cult/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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10

Aug

I Did One Smart Thing Today

gloves

I put on disposable gloves before I started working on the truck.

Oh, I tried to be smart.

Oh, I tried to be someone I’m not.

Oh, I tried to keep my tools organized.

But after two hopeless hours in the driveway, it went to hell and a handbasket.

The gameplan was simple and, in fact, showed a bit of foresight on my part:   After the multitude of coast-to-coast trips with Daughter in my trusty Nissan Frontier, I figured some new spark plugs were in order.  This particular engine only requires plugs every 100,000 miles, but after the abuse it’s been through, I decided to put some in with “only” 70,000 miles showing on the clock.

That was my big project for the day.

Speaking of abuse, I hinted to Daughter earlier this week that both the nice and appropriate thing to do after borrowing one’s vehicle is to return it with a full tank of gas and gently washed.  After her latest trip in my truck to the northern parts of our fair state, Daughter saw fit to bring it back filthy and with only a quarter tank of petrol.

When I queried her on the subject, she sullenly responded it had a quarter tank when she picked it up (thus, why would she put any more gas in, after all), and she didn’t comment on the external layer of road filth, courtesy of her, as well.

Oh, wait a minute.  She did wash a vehicle this week.  The only problem was it was hers.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve been hounding her for many, many moons to clean up the Cabrio.

“It’s the most expensive thing you own.  If you don’t take care of it, it won’t last.  Keep it clean,” I earnestly advised.

Silence.  Of course.

Eventually she saw fit to hose it down, but she didn’t see fit to put all the towels and cleaning materials away afterward.

Kids.  Don’t you love ’em?

But back to my disaster at hand.

For those of you who don’t know, changing spark plugs is usually a rather straightforward affair.  There may be one or two that are difficult to get into position to remove but, for the most part, it’s not a big deal.  However, I had done some research on my particular truck and engine, and I had discovered that in order to gain access to two of the plugs, essentially the entire top of the engine needed to be removed.

Well, not really the top of the engine, but all of the intake manifold crap (that’s a technical term), along with the associated hoses, vacuum lines, and electrical connectors.

So I decided to just take the whole thing one step at a time.  I laid my tools out, and I methodically worked my way around that V-6 engine.  Before I knew it, I was two-thirds of the way through.  I just had those two inaccessible plugs left to go.

This was going well!

To make a ridiculously long story short, I spent the next two and a half hours trying to change those damn plugs.  What had begun as a pleasant afternoon’s task, was turning into a really horrific adventure.

I literally started calculating how much sunlight I had left and whether I could complete the job in time.

When all seemed lost, I figured it out.  I finally got the intake manifold off and the plugs replaced.  Ha!

Ha!  Wouldn’t you know it?  When I was putting everything back together, I dropped a socket and extension somewhere in the nether regions of the back of the engine.

And the damn things simply disappeared.

After spending the next hour exploring every nook and cranny looking for the stupid things (Stupid!  Stupid!  Stupid!), I gave up and buttoned everything back together, since it was approaching dinnertime.

What an idiot I am, of course, but when I turned the key to start the truck and check my handiwork, Lordy, it fired right up!

Perhaps not quite a Festivus miracle, but damn close.

So, I took the truck for a quick spin around the block to ensure everything was working properly, and it was, but where the hell had that socket and extension gone to?

I was resigned to the fact that it was jammed forever in the bowels of the engine compartment, never to be seen again.  I just hoped it wouldn’t lodge against something important and short out the truck, or cause a fire, or cause an explosion.

“I don’t know, Fred.  It looks like the fire started somewhere in the back of the engine compartment,” said the future fireman as he hosed down what was left of the Nissan.

In a final act of desperation before closing up shop for the night, I crawled under the truck one last time to see where the dumb socket was hiding.  I guess it really wasn’t that dumb, since I couldn’t find it.  I also guess that makes me dumber than the socket.

As I scrambled around on my back, I verified there was not a socket anywhere my blue latex-covered hands could reach.

I gave up.

I happened to turn my head a bit when I went to scoot out from under, something shiny way behind the engine on the exhaust system caught my eye.

Yep.  It was the socket.

Like the magical Kennedy assassination bullet, it had mysteriously worked its way through several trajectories and landed three feet behind anywhere it should have reasonably been resting.

Success, but conditional.

In the final analysis, it took me about two and a half hours to change the plugs, and about four hours to find the missing socket.

What an idiot I am.

But because the first decision I made today to wear disposable gloves was the best decision, I have clean hands tonight.

Yes, my left forearm is gouged and bleeding, but my hands are clean.

I am happy with that little victory but, after all, I am a very sad, sad man.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Anxiety/Embarrassing Stories/Humor/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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27

Jul

The Benefits of Higher Education?

diploma

It is with some small sense of amusement that I have followed Daughter’s travels this year through her blog posts (when she remembers and when convenient).  Of course, many of those miles were covered with Yours Truly.

And it’s always good to obtain another perspective on my admittedly skewed sense of reality, I figure.

Though I have to admit the time together has been enjoyable for the most part, I have detected some troubling details along the way which give me pause concerning Daughter’s Real World Coping Tools (DRWCTs).

Case in point:  During our epic Road Trip Return to California from the barren and humorless east coast, Daughter asked me on day (in a fit of utter boredom) to quiz her on random history facts and figures.

Why?  I have no idea.

But I learned to quickly retreat from querying subjects such as “the importance and effects of the Treaty of Versailles,” because the challenge was met with either:  1)  A completely blank stare, or 2)  A completely unrelated counter-question, such as, “Does this have something to do with French Cooking?”, or 3)  The request for a hint, such as, “What letter does the answer start with?”, or 4) The request for a longer hint, such as, “What are the first two words of the answer?”

Soon I regressed to asking for basic items like the year we declared our independence from Great Britain and what century did the Civil War take place.

She was mostly coherent if I kept it at a high level.

However, the whole drill soon became very annoying to me, and made me begin to question the value of the education she was receiving at her exclusive and expensive Lesbian Cult College.

So I chose to stop the intellectual enterprise and focus on determining the location of the next foo-foo coffee shop, via iPhone app, no less.

That was then (two months ago), this is now.

Daughter recently borrowed my truck for yet another road trip, this time with a collection of her friends, all invited to a chum’s wedding somewhere hundreds of miles north of us.

As parents, all we asked for was an occasional text letting us know that the group was safe and sound and had arrived at their destination (San Francisco) in close to one piece.

I believe that over the four-day adventure, we received a total of one transmission.

I calculate that as a 25% success rate.

But all’s well that ends well, right?  Eventually the merry band of sisters returned home in one piece and, apparently, a good time was had by all.

In Sacramento.

Not San Francisco.

Daughter claimed she was confused and wasn’t quite sure how she mixed up the two destinations.

But I know, and my conclusion is based on many miles and many hours together not talking about History, and Geography, and English Literature.

You see, both cities start with the letter S.

Anyone could make that mistake, I know.

But I now wonder how often Daughter really knows what’s going on and where she’s headed.

For instance, right now she’s supposed to be at the gym.  I surmise she’s either really at the gym, or at the go-kart track (no!), gelato shop, or any other place with a name that starts with the letter G.

I just hope it’s somewhere in the general vicinity of this city, but you never know.

Kids.  Don’t you just love ’em?

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Embarrassing Stories/Family/Humor/Lesbian Cult/Road Trip

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27

Jul

CA Road Trip, Part III

Day 3.

Wedding day! I felt like *I* was getting married that day. I was nervous and anxious the entire day. My friends and I woke up and hung out at the hotel for a while until it was time to get ready. I started the process around 2.5 hours before we had to leave – and guess what – we still almost didn’t make it to the shuttle on time.

I was putting on my eyeshadow by very slowly dragging it across my eyelid and then pausing to admire the effect like a proud show pony. Normally I’m very haphazard with my makeup because I don’t have the time or patience to make myself into some sort of sparkly princess on the daily. Anyway, back to the make up process. It was slow. Layer by layer I attempted to re-create what nature had not given me – symmetry and interesting features. With a little help from well-placed (mmm debatable) color and lines, I produced some sort of semi-attractive look and gave myself a pat on the back.

When it came down to getting on the dress, things went downhill fast. The zipper would NOT go up. I stood around half-dressed while my friends tried to fix the broken zipper. I was worried that I was going to wear a trash bag or various wrappers from the gluten free snacks I had consumed earlier on in the day. Not fitting into your dress despite four people tugging and pulling on you and your garment does not make you feel good about yourself.  I briefly felt like Miss Piggy of the Muppets in that hotel room. My friends told me that it was the zipper and not me that caused such a chaotic dress process which made me feel slightly better. Luckily, they were able to get the zipper fixed enough to get it to zip up and I wore the heck out of that dress – if I do say so myself. I never plan on wearing it again.

How I felt.

How I felt.

Thank you to my sister who went into my digital sketchbook and added this pleasant surprise.

Thank you to my sister who went into my digital sketchbook and added this pleasant surprise after apparently seeing the Miss Piggy drawing.

When we arrived at the wedding venue, I started to feel extremely anxious and nervous again.  In part, I was nervous because I was about to witness my friend get married at the ripe old age of 22. It made me think about my life decisions and how much all of my friends and I have grown up. It also inspired a set of panicky questions I asked myself internally. Wasn’t this kind of thing supposed to happen at some undetermined point in the future? Isn’t growing up supposed to be a gradual process and not this wham-bam-thank-you-m’am series of events it has turned out to be? AM I SUPPOSED TO BE MARRIED RIGHT NOW? BECAUSE – LOL – NO. 

As soon as I sat down for the ceremony, my eyes took this as a cue to fill up with water and I was on the verge on starting some serious waterworks rivaling the Bellagio fountain in Las Vegas. I had to give myself a pep talk in order to not cry:

Michelle, you spent over two hours putting on makeup. Crying right now? Seriously? Do you even realize how much eyeliner and mascara you’re wearing right now? Things are going to get reeeal messy and unflattering if you add water to all that black liquid eyeliner. I know you want to cry but you are only allowed to tear up. Those tears SHALL NOT PASS from the outer confines of your eye. 

While I did tear up, I avoided crying all over myself. And let’s be real, if I cried as much as I wanted to, people would just shake their heads and judge me and think to themselves: Poor girl, she only has her cats, that’s why she’s crying so much.

Because this was a high school friend’s wedding, there were quite a few friends from high school present at the wedding. I don’t know if you guys enjoy keeping in touch with everybody you’ve ever met in your life, but I do not. Some of my high school friends, I realized after some reflection, are just not people I want in my life for various reasons. So, naturally, I deleted them off Facebook. Now, it’s not like these people and I were besties from the start so I thought they wouldn’t notice or care. If I had known the bitterness and acrid comments I received at the wedding from former friends, I probably would have thought harder about de-friending people. (JUST KIDDING, NO REGRETS.)

Upon seeing one “friend”:

This was my reaction:

In my head, I went to my Manners Book voice and said to myself: This is not the time nor the place, Michelle. Be a classy woman. And then I smiled and moved on to greet the next person.

I felt a little weirded out and slightly annoyed by my interaction with some of these people but luckily, there was champagne inside and I helped myself to a glass.

After I had finished the champagne, a waiter came to our table and left two full bottles of wine. Well, isn’t that convenient. I poured myself another glass.

After imbibing and eating, all of the guests were invited downstairs to the dance floor. There, the father-daughter and mother-son dances set me on the path to tears again. But, even with wine in my system, I managed to keep it together.

Then, the bouquet toss happened. I tried to position myself in a place where I thought the bouquet wouldn’t go. Of course, it came straight at me and I sidestepped to avoid it. This is what happened:

After successfully avoiding the bouquet, my friends and I got down with our bad selves on the dance floor. Nothing can convince you to dance more than the suggestive power of alcohol.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Road Trip

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25

Jul

CA Road Trip, Part II

Day 2.

My friends and I left our friend’s house in the afternoon. Despite agreements otherwise to wake up at 9am, we woke up at 8am (I COULD HAVE USED THAT EXTRA HOUR WE AGREED ON, LADIES) on the dot and bustled around. Just kidding! All the other girls got up but I rolled around in bed for a while complaining about my lack of sleep before slowly – ever so slowly – inching my way to the bathroom to transform my face from Scary Alien Face to Normal Human Face.

I always feel like a banana slug in the mornings. And when I feel like a banana slug, I don’t want to move. I just want to sit and stew in my own filth. However, obligations lit the necessary fire under my butt to get me going; we had to pick up a friend from the airport.

Both my friend and I ended up getting to the airport very early and I spent my time and money filling up on StarButts drinks I didn’t need and shouldn’t have consumed. The acid from the copious amounts of coffee I was consuming probably burned multiple holes throughout my digestive tract, but it did its job: I was awake still. Awake and in need of a fire department to put out the burning in my intestines and esophagus.

After retrieving my friend from the airport, we drove to the hotel. In one of the fastest changes in history, I whipped on my bathing suit and jumped into the pool. I was gross from the car and going into the pool seemed ideal after being stuck in an enclosed space all day. Sadly, the pool was more of a puddle. That must be how Shamu feels – a whale in a small puddle. I feel you, Shamu. Nonetheless, I made the most of it by splashing around and yelling loudly at my friends. Much like Shamu does (?).

Pretty sure I scared the other people who were at the pool away. There were about 5 or 6 people in the pool when I got there but ten minutes later, I was alone with my friends – who both chose to not wear their suits and judge coldly from the safety of land.

They attempted to take photos of me when I repeatedly beached myself and made whale noises but alas, I was too quick for their slow reaction times. Who knew whales were capable of such stealth? Shamu, you feel me?

So, after a certain amount of time of being a beached whale, we returned to the hotel room where we decided to go to downtown Sacramento to eat dinner.

I expected the Capitol of California to be a bustling hub of activity with politicians arguing in the streets and the CA Republic flag flying proudly from every building. What I did not expect was a total ghost town where I was convinced – CONVINCED – that there was some sort of underground level where all the cool people went. It probably worked out for the best that there was no underground meeting of cool people because I wouldn’t know what to do with myself in such a situation except dance or twerk.

Anyway, we went back to the hotel and lounged before falling asleep. Slightly more bored and disappointed for having visited our Capitol and without so much as one CA-themed song playing in our heads.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Road Trip

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24

Jul

CA Road Trip, Part I

In case you haven’t noticed, a lot of my posts lately have been in a series format. Apparently, I am constantly going on trips to everywhere. (This is news to me? Yes.) I drove to Sacramento this past weekend for a friend’s wedding. I totally thought it was in San Francisco and went out of my way to tell people it was there, but it wasn’t. I was simply confused. When I get stressed out by travel plans I usually get confused. It must be the panic that seeps into my common sense and colors everything I do with a tint of insanity and confusion. My dad will never let me live this down but I don’t really feel that bad about my major geography mistake because, well, I know I will be watching my dad with the utmost vigilance waiting for him to make an error of some kind. (I won’t be waiting for too long.)

So, the road trip. I can tell you this, you do not know if you are friends with somebody until you travel with him or her. I was apprehensive going on this car trip because I was worried my two friends and I would start off as pals but end up with a Capulet-Montague feud on our hands. Luckily, we are all still friends and going strong!  Nobody died!

Part of our getting-along success was due to our creation of a safe word. This safe word was to be used when any of us were verging on an argument or other heated interaction. It was “seabass”. Of course, it was completely abused:

Friend 1: “So, I was talking to so-and-so the other day and…”

Me: “SEEEEEEEABASS!!!!!!!!!!!”

We took a route that was supposed to take around 8 hours. However, a friend – who, ironically, was asleep during the “scenic” part – advised us to go up a certain way along the coast because it was prettier than the direct route. Well, yes, she had that part right – it was gorgeous. The trees and mountains juxtaposed with the coastline was a beautiful sight to see. It made me feel like I was in a music video. The kind of music video that ends with a car careening off a narrow mountain road into the rocks and sea below. Sort of like an updated ending to the original Grimm brothers retelling of The Little Mermaid where Ariel falls into the sea and dies instead of the Disneyfied version where she bags the man and a nice gang of servants and a cool house. I digress.

I could have lived without the hairpin turns and the motorcyclists weaving in and out of lanes like it was their job though on this scenic route. I hate motorcyclists. Conditionally, that is. I hate the ones that are a few inches from crashing into you just because they want to get wherever they are going NOW – no, not even now – YESTERDAY.  Who goes into the oncoming lane around a blind curve to get ahead of me? MOTORCYCLISTS. Who almost rams into me after deciding they didn’t want to pass me yet? MOTORCYCLISTS. Who killed JFK? MOTORCYCLISTS.

My artistic re-interpretation of the scenic route. Not shown: almost driving off cliffs and kamikaze motorcyclists.

Anyway, we stopped here and there along the way and played lots of throwback CDs. We didn’t notice somehow that 11 hours had elapsed when we finally arrived at a friend’s house for the night. I don’t know how we added on those three extra hours. It must have been driving up and down the mountain roads at 10 mph. But that still doesn’t explain how it took that much time. My theory is that we passed through some sort of other dimension and when we came back into our dimension, time had passed. I watched a show on PBS about it – I can’t explain it to you plebeians though – it’s all very complex and science-y.

The 11 hours went by pretty fast, I have to say. A lot of it was taken up by dancing and blasting music. These were my go-to moves:

Everybody else on the road:

There were many parts of Day 1 where my friends and I made casual educational references that sort of made me proud. For example, we noticed that the terrifying bridges we crossed were all built in the early 30’s (not super confidence-inspiring driving over bridges that are 80 years old, however) which maybe were Public Works projects during the Great Depression (?). And, as we passed through the Salinas Valley, I remembered that East of Eden was set there. I pat myself on the back when I remembered that one – you done good, California education system! I haz a smart. I just don’t know California geography. Whatever.

– Daughter

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

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25

May

See a Pattern Here? I Don’t.

spark

“Changing spark plugs is not Rocket Science. Most Muggles can perform this procedure quite easily, given the proper tools and motivation.” — Anonymous Dog Scientist

Nothing at all profound happened to me today, which is the case for most days.

I got up (late), ate my oatmeal, and drank my tea.  I then ran an errand this morning that is supposed to result in a surprise birthday present for someone in about two months.  Stopped and had a coffee by myself.  Came home.

Oh, while I was drinking coffee on the outside patio I was able to observe the local cops lie in wait at a gas station across the street, a perfect vantage from which to pull over Miscreant Muggles for minor traffic infringements.

There was another guy pacing around with his drink near me.  He was unshaven and wore a white t-shirt and jeans.  Of course I was unshaven, too, so there was nothing remarkable about that.  He was staring at the police cruiser and asked me if I knew what was going on.

“Nope,” I replied.  “In fact I’m waiting here until they leave because the plates are expired on my truck.”  Lest he think I was a Malcontent, I added, “I’ve paid all the fees and everything (which I had), but I don’t have the sticker yet.”

“Then you should probably leave now, while they’re hassling that other dude.”

He had a point but, after all, I hadn’t finished my coffee, and I was happy enjoying a brief interlude of solace in the morning sun before I headed back to the maelstrom of suburban life, with its broken sprinklers (we now have at least two to worry about) and HOA Nazi’s on the prowl (“Your palm fronds are dead.  Why are they dead, and what are you going to do about them?”).

So as sound as his advice was, I decided to finish my coffee and take my chances.  It wasn’t as if I was like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape riding a stolen motorcycle toward the Swiss border, I was simply in my truck with an aged-out sticker, and I was sure because of the angle at which the cop had parked, he wouldn’t be able to see my rear plate.

I was right, and I drove all of three minutes home with just the slightest of headaches beginning to form.

Because the notion of thrift had been deeply ingrained in me from a very early age, it is nearly impossible to actually take an entire day off and relax.  I must, absolutely must, accomplish something practical, or I have sinned grievously.  Even though I now know that’s a crock and will probably lead to an early grave, I still feel obligated to make the best use of my time most days.

Except when I’m at my place of employment, but that’s another story.

I thus figured I would spend a couple of hours in the early part of the afternoon catching up on the deferred maintenance for my poor truck.  It had not only endured two heavily laden, nearly non-stop coast-to-coast drives within the last five months, it had also suffered through the worst part of a Philadelphia Winter and had been subjected to unknown indignities by Daughter at the same time.

An oil change was the least I could do for it, and I was going to throw in a new air filter and plugs for good measure.

Since I’ve drained and refilled oil a bazillion times with countless vehicles in my life, that part of the service interval was almost a complete piece of cake.  The main challenge was keeping myself from becoming covered with petroleum products while preventing those same products from gracing one of the few unblemished areas of the driveway remaining, and removing the oil filter itself, which I apparently welded on last August the last time I did this.

After a few moments of consternation with the filter, I managed to loosen and remove it without losing any of my digits on the knife-sharp tin cover surrounding it.

I would have liked more oil to have drained from the sump, but I’ll keep an eye on the level the next few weeks since I fear this engine might be burning a bit of the brown stuff, rather than leaking it.  That would be just my luck, but it did pass smog on Tuesday so all is not lost yet.

Next, I changed the air filter.  Fortunately I had to remove only two snaps and one screw to access it.  Unfortunately, it was filthy and appeared as if I neglected to change it last go round.  Oh, well, worse things can happen, I suppose (like the engine burning oil).

Finally, I was ready for the last bit in this three-part play:  The Changing of the Spark Plugs; or, Where’s Roger Rabbit (it’s actually Who Framed Roger Rabbit, but the way I mis-remembered it at first works better in this context).

The first step in changing the plugs is locating the plugs.

I could not locate the plugs.  I could open the hood.  I could see the battery.  Shoot, I’d even already changed the oil.  But those damn darn spark plugs were nowhere to be seen.

And as I discovered, not being seen was the key to solving the mystery.  I zeroed in on several assemblies that looked suspiciously close to some kind of fuel injection / spark plug thingies (that’s a Snap-On technical term), but I couldn’t be sure.

One lunch break and a quick internet search later, I determined I had, in fact, located said plugs — they just didn’t look like anything I’d ever seen before.  And to make matters worse, a couple of them seemed to be completely inaccessible without essentially removing the top part of the engine first.

“Houston.  We have yet another problem.”

As I scanned several on-line forums, the prevailing wisdom seemed to be to leave the job to the professionals and to wait to the factory-prescribed 105,000 mile change interval.  With that in mind, I’ve got about three years and 40,000 miles before I really, really have to worry about completing this job.

But then I found a post which very clearly illustrated how I could, in fact, take care of this procedure in about an hour.  Plus, a number of other posts made extremely chirpy claims about how much better their trucks ran when they replaced the plugs.

Cue guilt feelings.

But since I had already reached my two-hour work allotment and had managed to change the oil, filter, and air filter (i.e., accomplished something), I did what any self-respecting mechanic would do at that point:  I went inside and took a nap.

After all, those plugs aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, and Tomorrow is Another Day.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Family/Humor/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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20

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part VI

Dad’s Version  of the Events:

Day Five:  The Final Frontier.

These have been the Voyages of the Crew Cab Pickup, Frontier.

It’s five-day mission:  To explore strange, new roads; to seek out new family members and their new idiosyncracies; to boldly go where Daughter and I have never gone before . . . .  Whooooosh!!!

That “whoosh” was not the sound of the warp drive engaging.  Rather, it was the Mistral-like trade winds that buffeted us in the face every mile of the way since we left Dallas early Sunday morning.

And today was different, in that the hot, humid Texas heat was replaced by the searing, dry New Mexico and Arizona heat.  Why do people live in such places?  I’ll never know.

All I can say is Thank God for modern air conditioning and cruise control, which meant for us that our daily distance was more a function of our bladders and bleary-eyed fatigue than any sort of truck-dependent mechanical factors.  For the past couple of days, I reminisced to myself about the long-distance drives of my youth, in a Chevy Vega, no less.  You see, I had plenty of time to think to myself, since Daughter was usually good for one solid driving stint per day, with the balance of her other time spent napping, staring at her iPhone, and standing Tarp Watch.

But back to the Days of Yore, it was no air conditioning, no cruise control, no problem.  In my foolish, youthful long-distance driving zeal, I even used to roll up the passenger window during those incredibly hot and long summer journeys, thinking what I lost in perspiration was more than made up by improved aerodynamics.

What a bunch of crap that notion was!  No way, man.  It would have been better to have driven naked with all the windows down compared to what I actually put myself through otherwise.  However, I find those past experiences a useful context to judge how easy it is for me now.  Instead of worrying if I’ll blow an engine or have a flat, I’m more concerned about how far off the Interstate the next Starbucks happens to be.

It’s really sickening, when I think about it, but I will leave the pain and denial in my life to my gardening adventures (that damn clover!), while I prefer my driving to be comfortable and relatively stress free.

Never one to leave well enough alone, though, I induced stress on this latest trip by initiating a series of questions (historical) and transportational (practical) to gauge both Daughter’s general level of awareness and as well as her basic competencies in both areas.  Of course, best of all, it also offered me the chance to impart generational wisdom.

The results were mixed.  On the one hand, Daughter is a very intelligent and sensitive young woman, who has much to offer to the world which, one day, will award her a Pulitzer Prize.  On the other hand, she has a hard time figuring out miles per gallon and doesn’t react very well to the question/phrases, “Well, what would you do if I weren’t here?” and “That’s just an observation; not a criticism.”

In the end, we made it home safely today; we’re still talking to each other, though I don’t understand a lot of what she says; we still enjoy each other’s company (most of the time); and we both have an inherent dislike for Left Lane Bandits and Other Morons of the Open Road (of which there are plenty, and increasing daily, it seems).

Years from now, when my great, great grandchildren ask me about this trip and the most important lesson learned, I will slowly wipe away the spittle from my lower lip, adjust my diaper, and look deeply into the eyes of whichever kid I can focus on and grumble, “Never use yarn to tie down a tarp in a pickup truck bed.  It really sucks and doesn’t work for shi very well.”

Thanks, Daughter.  Now I have something to look forward to!

– Dad

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Daughter’s Version of Events: 

We made great time today because Dad fell asleep for a long stretch of the trip and after a quick risk assessment, I took liberties with the speed limit. The speed limit on a two-lane interstate is mostly a guide anyway, n’est-ce pas? As usual, semi-truck drivers and people who must have been in and out of R.E.M. sleep behind the wheel were great dangers on the road. But, to be fair, I’m also a hazard to myself because I get very competitive with semi-trucks who try to pass. They put on that blinker and it signals me to speed up while waggling my finger angrily at the driver. Usually, this is enough to discourage the driver from careening into my lane. It gives me a sick sense of pleasure depriving trucks the ability to cross into my lane in front of me. Maybe this is because I inherited the jerk gene. I hear it gets passed down through the Y chromosome only…

Today, other drivers were not a huge issue. I had bigger problems to worry about, like the giant dust devils that appeared out of nowhere and swept across the road without warning. Dad was asleep when one decided to cross the road right into the truck and I was temporarily thrown around a bit. Luckily, the truck was weighed down my pounds and pounds of my belongings so there was no way I was going anywhere. I was briefly terrified which helped to keep me awake. Maybe I should just watch horror films while I drive. I would be distracted, sure, but I’d be awake!

We also passed a lot of border patrol stops today and my father tested out some new material he must have been working on:

“Okay, Daughter, try not to look too Mexican. Think about being white.”

“PUT DOWN THE BURRITO.”

“Graci– I mean, thank you!!”

When we finally got home (the last hour was torture), I immediately forced my younger sister into indentured servitude and had her carry boxes from the truck. It turns out she is stronger than me. She’s only 11 but she has the bicep strength of an adult Slovakian wrestler.

My room is currently full of unpacked boxes and I am full of the promise of new tomorrows!! No, wait, I’m just full from dinner.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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19

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part V

Dad’s Version of Events:

Dante’s Inferno had nothing on us today.

I have seen The Apocalypse, and its name is Southwestern Texas. We awoke this morning to a cool breeze in Dallas, which lulled me into thinking the heat and humidity we drove into yesterday had broken.

Cruelly, that was not the case.

Not only did it turn out to be as miserably hot again today as it was on Saturday, a gale force wind worthy of The Perfect Storm reared its ugly head – in our faces. All day.

It was intimidating.

But let me return to the heat. How hot was it? I noticed several cars driving in the opposite direction (with the wind) with those heat-reflecting shields partially deployed in their windshields.

I imagined the associated conversation thusly:

“Good, God, the sun is burning my eyes through the windshield. Dear, please grab that aluminum foil heat reflector thing and pop it up on your side, would you?”

“Isn’t that going to affect your view? I mean, don’t you need to see out the front of the car?”

“Nah, it’s the passenger side. Not much happens over there and, besides, you’ll warn me if something’s about to explode or run into us.”

Yep. Something like that.

And I’ve never, ever seen people deploy their shield while driving. Parked; of course. Driving? Come on.

I am happy to reveal that I did not witness such behavior on our side of the Interstate but, then again, Daughter’s crap sh belongings pretty much obscured my vision anywhere to the back or side of us.

And the wind. My God, the wind!

Big rigs were weaving all over the place. Dust devils danced through the landscape around us. And occasionally a gust threatened to blow open one of our doors.

Well, not really on that last point, but it sure seemed like it, at times.

Prior to this leg of the journey, my trusty pickup was averaging almost 22 mpg. But today it plummeted to 17.5 mpg. Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s a head wind.

Out in the middle of nowhere, between the garden spots of Odessa and El Paso, there were actually two bicyclists laboring along the shoulder of the Interstate. They were clearly in the middle of some masochistic bike “adventure,” since they were festooned with sleeping bags and panniers. As we sped by them, I estimated they were tootling along at about 1.73 mph, with 24 miles to the next town of any significance. I thought it was illegal to bicycle on an Interstate Highway, so if there are any law enforcement officials reading this post, please note the location of these two cyclists.

Even though it’s been about six hours since we passed them, I figure they are still out there and have maybe managed to cover all of two miles in that time.

I’m telling you it was windy.

There were two essential highlights today. The first involved passing through an immigration checkpoint. When we realized what lay ahead of us on the road, it sparked a flurry of inappropriate comments from me to Daughter, such as:

“Be sure to turn the Spanish language radio station off when we roll the window down.”

“Remember to say ‘thank you’ instead of ‘gracias’ to the Border Patrol officer.”

Things like that.

The second highlight and, perhaps, the Tenth Festivus Miracle of the year was that Daughter was almost bright-eyed and bushy tailed for much of the drive, until she “hit the wall” later in the day and asked me why I wasn’t tired.

(Note to self: When traveling with Daughter, plan on a minimum of three coffee breaks before noon if there is any expectation of consciousness from her after 3:00 p.m.)

And tomorrow? If Allah and the Dust Devils are willing, we should roll up in front of our Home Sweet Home at some point in the afternoon, assuming:

1) We leave the hotel before 9:30 a.m.

2) The Tarpaulin Gods accept our sacrifice of Hampton Inn Shampoo and Conditioner.

3) We don’t get pulled over for an expired State of California license plate.

4) There are enough foo-foo coffee joints between New Mexico and California to keep us both focused and jazzed.

If all those things come true, we have a chance. If not, well, Hope Springs Eternal and Tomorrow is Another Day.

Or is that Tomorrow Never Dies?

I get it confused sometimes if I haven’t had any coffee.

– Dad

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Daughter’s Version of Events:

Miles and miles of.. nothing.

Miles and miles of… nothing.

I got up early for reeealsies today: 7am. Essentially the crack of dawn in my world. But I got up. My dad was probably pleasantly surprised that he didn’t have to drag me out of bed. Oh wait, nevermind. That’s never happened because I am the one always awake first on this road trip.

We made our way to Starbucks in the morning before hitting the road as per usual. I prefer local coffee places but my father has developed a taste for large corporate coffee with no personality. He loves to make fun of me for getting a soy latte which he terms “foo-foo” but I’m not the one who is constantly asking, “So, where’s the nearest Starbucks?” He is an addict.

I don’t love the coffee there but it’s drinkable and sometimes delicious if I use the powers of my imaaaagination. I like to call it Starbutts because it’s just immature enough to annoy my father. I don’t think I’ve actually said it out loud to him and to be honest, he probably wouldn’t notice if I did because he can’t hear most of the things I say.

Anyway, today I may or may not have angered the barista at Starbutts by asking if my drink was coming because it took longer than usual. I mentally berated myself because I was being the customer I always hated when I was working there. Sorry, hapless barista! I was just grumpy because the sun was waaaaay too close to the horizon for my liking.

After successfully acquiring coffee (I pray it was free of spit), we got back on the road and I fell asleep almost immediately. But then my turn behind the wheel came all too soon. It was incredibly windy so my usual multi-tasking was a no-no. I put my DJing, Starbucks-finding, and e-mail-checking to the side in order to keep the truck from blowing off the road. My Dad doesn’t know how to use my iPhone so I had to find Starbucks on my phone only at stoplights or slower portions of the road. Safety first!!!

Speaking of safety, my dad has avoided sleeping when I’ve driven the past four days because he doesn’t trust me or something. However, I happen to be a fantastic driver. I am the Danica Patrick of this road trip. And my dad is… he’s like the Ricky Bobby.

Well, anyway, today he stole my FaceTent(tm) and actually slept. Because of this, I had to rely on myself for two hours’ of entertainment. I sang songs with questionable content and  used the opportunity of him sleeping to push the speed limit a bit. Not a lot but enough to feel like I was James Bond or something. Going three miles over the speed limit is definitely equivalent to how James Bond feels.

Dad, stealing my idea.

Dad, stealing my idea.

As the day wore on, I got more and more tired. My eyes started to dry up and when I went to rub them, I accidentally got sunscreen in them. So, they ended up being dry and also burned with the intensity of one thousand suns (ironic considering it was, you know, sunscreen that caused this). I decided the best way to resolve my temporary blindness was to pour bottled water directly into my eyes while in the car. Surprisingly, it sort of worked and I was able to both see and blink without excruciating pain – success!!!

Not that there was much to see...

Not that there was much to see…

Tomorrow is hopefully the last day of driving. 9 or 10 hours of driving left! My dad is already asking if there’s a Starbutts around here.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL Comments

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18

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part IV

Dad’s Version of the Events:

Fab Fam Time in Dallas today — the southernmost tip of the Great Plains, which has been converted into an endless landscape of concrete, heat, humidity, and cookie cutter McMansions.  We declared a Unilateral Pajama Day, which seemed relevant, since I have been beset by restless slumber since the onset of the trip, and it really would be more appropriate for me to wear bed clothes since I’m half asleep most of the time.

The first attack of the Sleepless Nights occurred at Daughter’s apartment before we left.  In her admirable zeal to pack and be ready to rock and roll down the road, Daughter’s remaining unpacked bed linen was seemingly sourced from a local Salvation Army Drop Box.  That is to say, the pillow case on which I rested was made of near-burlap, and the covers had seen better days in the 1950s, from whence they came.

Subliminally or no, they put me in a restless stupor, which led to a funk, which led to an almost sleepless night — broken only by short naps where I dreamed I was in a concentration camp.

Fast forward to the wonderful abode of my lovely Spouse’s Sister, where we parked last night.  We all love spending time together, but there are hidden secrets which lurk throughout her picture perfect home.  For my part, I was looking forward to a quiet night catching up on some zzzz’s so that I could face the balance of the journey relatively refreshed and in sound state of mind.

Unfortunately, my attempts at slumber were interrupted on a continual basis after the lights went out.  The culprits?  A family of squirrels that was busy setting up a wi-fi transponder in the walls of my bedroom.  They were running cables and wires for most of the night, and I swear they took a smoke break around 3:00 a.m.

Clearly they were Union Squirrels.

Still, we all had a great time together there, when not bothered by rodents (Are squirrels rodents?), while Daughter napped and ate and napped.  For me, I managed to play some golf with Granddad  — well, he really played, while I rode in the cart, hit some balls, and gave the appearance of playing.  I did find four golf balls during the round, however, so I consider it a success.

We ended the day at Family Stop Number Two — my Bro’s house — with a Texas-size cookout and a house full of people I didn’t know, but who smiled a lot and reminded me, again, how dismal and sarcastic I really am.

We have truly been treated like royalty by our family here.  Well, the kind of faux-royalty present in some minor dukedoms and municipalities, but royalty nonetheless, and we are very appreciative and thankful.

Almost thankful enough to extend our stay, but, no.  We must attend and depart for our own Home.

So, kind of refreshed and somewhat rested (not really), we have committed to an early start in the morning on Sunday, and we are going to try to make San Diego in two days’ time, Allah Willing and if foo-foo coffee is available.

Time will tell if we can manage to stay on schedule, but the road beckons.  And don’t forget the Tarp Zombie Wars.  Sis-in-Law made a major Bungie Cord Investment, and we will put the new apparatus to the test in Southwestern Texas.

Yee-haw!  I have high hopes!

– Dad

————

Daughter’s Version of the Events: 

It felt good to stay off the roads today again for the sake of spending time with family. Well, I actually don’t know what I spent more time with today, my family or my pillow. I slept a lot. That reminds me, I should really look into Narcoleptics Anonymous. But then again, maybe not. I should probably just use that time to sleep some more.

Not the car.

Not the car.

What I realized seeing my cousins and other family today is that I’m really, really white compared to everyone else. (But also that I love my family! Of course.) You would never know that I’m second generation Persian. I look like any standard-issue European something-or-other. Spending all of winter inside because of East Coast Weather didn’t help matters; I have turned mostly transparent. It would be funny except I have realized the make-up powder brand I use does not make a “snow” color so I have had to make do. I now just rub flour into my face and call it a day. (And if I add a little yeast: PRESTO, bread.(?) I am not a baker, I don’t know.)

Also not the car.

Also not the car.

Anyway, I woke up today at ten and then lazed around. I made some toast and “researched” classes for next fall. Looks like I’m going to be taking art classes! I guess my school is only going to give me my degree after I complete the college requirement of finger painting. Only then am I educated.

After such hard work, I was naturally tired. So I napped to rest up before we took a thirty minute trip down to Southlake, TX. (I didn’t drive, but believe me, navigating for my father is an energy-expending task.)

We left in the evening and  as much as I wanted to withhold information while I navigated the roads, I knew that would be disastrous for both of us. (When I say ‘navigating’ you should know that I mean ‘reading MapQuest directions’). You would think that printing out directions instead of relying on my undependable phone and blindly following the print map would help cut down on arguing but we found a way to work in a disagreement nonetheless:

“YES DAD, STAY ON THIS ROAD”

“YES, THIS ONE”

“NO, NOT THAT ONE.”

“THAT ONE WE PASSED BACK THERE WAS ACTUALLY THE TURN.”

I was smug about being right about directions. Until we missed a turn. Even so, we got to my aunt and uncle’s house and I got to catch up with family I hadn’t seen and some family I hadn’t even met. The most entertaining family member is probably my aunt who is very Southern; the South seeps into just about everything she says*:

“Bless her heart, she is never going to find a man with that hair.”

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit!”

“Y’all, it’s time for a hoedown! Grab the pitchforks and dancing partners!”

– Daughter

* My aunt didn’t actually say any of these things. I just like to think she did.

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Road Trip

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17

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part III

Daughter’s Version of the Events (and the only version because Dad has gone to bed):

How being in the car makes me feel.

This morning, I got up before my Dad who seems to have absorbed the Southern pace of living: slow as molasses. Slower than Paula Deen trying to finish a marathon. Slower than a Southerner “driving.” Slower than a Southerner saying anything. I’m technically originally from the South so I’m allowed to make fun of it. When you are born in a Southern state, you get a set of rules along with your birth certificate that grants you permission to make fun of the South. And then, the barn hands hospital workers hand you a stick of butter and you deep fry the stork that brought you into the world.

But I digress.

Today, we left Little Rock, Arkansas behind. Of course, the trip started with trouble. The tarp covering all of my belongings was flapping around like an angry goose so we had to stop and adjust. The first time, I insisted that my Dad tie the tarp down tighter but he said, “No, let’s just go.” Well, lo and behold, not more than thirty seconds later on the interstate we were on the verge of losing the tarp again. Part of the problem is that the string my dad picked up is approximately the same thickness as dental floss. It turns out that dental floss is a less than perfect tie-down material.

My dad added another string, screwed around with the tarp, and then decided that his efforts were good enough. I was not convinced and took matters into my own hands, tying knots to secure more things as my dad sat inside the cab, leisurely sipping coffee.

After a shorter length of driving (5 hours) we made it to my aunt’s house in Texas. However, my father tested my patience by withholding navigational information purely to irritate me. I think he thinks he is somehow preparing me for the “real world” by refusing to communicate directions.

Me: “Did we miss the turn?”

Dad: “I don’t know, what would you do if I weren’t here?”

Me: “Well, that isn’t the case, so did we?”

Dad: “Yeah, and now we have to turn around.”

Me: “What? Are you serious?”

Dad: “No, you’re fine. The turn is not for a while.”

Despite the arguments about directions, we got to Texas in one piece. How I leave Texas, however, is another matter.

I went Razor scootering with my cousin who enjoyed the fact that he could bike a million times faster than I could scooter. Unfortunately, I did not wear shoes and when I went careening downhill and applied the brakes with my foot, the metal immediately heated to a molten lava level temperature and burned my foot. And then, after I realized I would be unable to use the brakes with my bare feet, I settled for using my foot to periodically hit the ground while I rolled downhill. So then I got road burn in addition to a metal-induced burn.

My grandparents came to join us for a home-cooked dinner of Chipotle and we spent time catching up while shoveling vaguely Mexican food into our gaping maws. My grandmother’s first words to me were, “Oh, you’ve gained weight!” Ah, yes. Grandparents.

After dinner, I played badminton with my grandpa and cousin until I messed up one too many times and sat myself down. At which point, my dad picked up a dead snake and chased me around with it while I screamed. Naturally.

Can’t choose your family.

– Daughter

 

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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16

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part II

Dad’s Version of Events (and only version because Daughter had to finish finals):

Ah, Day Two — the day everything becomes clearer; the day when the meaning of the Road Trip we call Life is revealed; the day when. . . .  Nope.  I was going for a vibe there and it just wasn’t happening.

Cut me some slack, please.  I’m cooped up in a pickup truck for 10-12 hours with Daughter, but the insight we provide each other is priceless!

For instance, we made a commitment last night to wake up bright and early and get on the road before everyone else.  You might have guessed what actually happened.  We hit the Interstate at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m. again.

See a pattern here?

And horror of all horrors, the closest Starbucks was eight miles back to the east from whence we came yesterday.  For foo-foo coffee, we’ll divert, we’ll get lost, we’ll sidetrack five miles out of the way (on occasion), but we never, ever go backwards.

That would go against the Prime Directive.

So, I we made a Command Decision and took off without our standard boost of high-octane caffeine and soy peppermint non-fat, non-dairy, non-human crapolatte.  Which, of course, meant that Daughter could immediately embark on her first nap of the day — at 10:00 a.m., no less.

I suppose it’s the Road Trip version of Pajama Day — an art perfected by the females in my house.

To recap, on our first day we managed to drive from Philadelphia to Bristol, Tennessee.  Right around six hundred miles.  Today our goal was Memphis, and depending on the Tarpaulin, Caffeine, and Latte Gods, perhaps even Little Rock.

Making Little Rock would almost, almost be like a Moon Shot for us.  So in the spirit of the moment, and to make the miles pass a little quicker, I began to sing random songs (not hits) that I find curiously enjoyable and which Daughter finds endlessly annoying.

In short order, she turned on the radio, and when we entered the blank coverage zone in the mountains, she turned up her iPhone.

I love Quality Family Time!

My feelings are not that badly affected by any of this, because I have heard myself sing.  But, still, it’s a little hurtful Daughter chose not to join in to a rousing chorus of whatever New Christy Minstrels (google them; they are still around) tune I was chopping.

When we finally did manage to find that first magical coffee break and switch roles (Me – Passenger; She – Driver), the next phase of the day’s drive began:  Dad, Keep Me Entertained While I’m Behind the Wheel by Asking Me History Questions.

I will not recount Daughter’s performance during said quiz.  Let’s just say that being “one or two years off” or “being in the right century” would not pass muster for most Jeopardy contestants.

Of course, I only asked questions from subjects I either knew fairly well or could fake knowledge of even better, but some of the responses I received from Daughter made me question our investment in her prestigious Lesbian Cult College over the past few years.

Maybe she didn’t take any History classes.  I don’t know.

But to be completely fair in this regard, let me offer a personal, revealing example of ineptitude from my own place of employment, where I find channeling Michael Scott from The Office to be an especially effective method of figuring out what’s going on with our financial performance.

When reviewing our revenue numbers, it is not uncommon for me to say to our Accountant Muggles, “Imagine you are explaining this to a fifth grader.”  And when that doesn’t work and I still don’t understand, it becomes, “Imagine you are explaining this to a third grader.”

If I don’t get it by then, we all agree to simply move on.

Maybe some of this stuff runs in the family.  I hope not.

Anyway, after Daughter’s less than stellar performance today, I have decided to scrounge up an elementary school history book from somewhere and give it to her for her birthday this year (instead of an iPad).

That should teach her!

And what of our favorite tarp and the resident zombies beneath?

I am happy to say that we nearly got it right today.  That is to say, we did not need to make any unplanned readjustment stops.  We figured out that if we sorta tucked everything in and kinda piled a bunch of junk on top, it only fluttered mildly and acted like a jib instead of one of those billowing big sails that I can’t remember the name of.

Now whether the stupid thing provides any sort of weather protection for the crap junk belongings in bed is another matter altogether.  I suspect not.

And the tarp was put to the test late this afternoon as we powered through a mild rain shower.  Our suitcases came out a little wet, but we didn’t really check anything else out back there.

After all, how much mold can form over the next four or five days?

We did have two significant accomplishments that I must report.

First, we learned a valuable lesson five months ago during our trip east, when we encountered an incredibly messy section of I-40 that is under construction between Memphis and Little Rock.  Duly prepared and remembering that nightmare, we detoured early and took a State Road that paralleled the Interstate and avoided the worst construction delays.

Taking the two-lane back road was something of a revelation for Daughter who, I take it, is really only familiar with Superhighways and suburban thoroughfares.

“What’s the speed limit here?”

“It’s forty, but be careful when going through town because it drops to twenty-five,” I replied.

“This is a town?  It’s so depressing.  Oh, wait, there’s a Taxidermist Shop.  That’s cool.”

I guess it was a little educational, but not much.

And our second accomplishment?  Daughter Yelped a gluten-free eatery for supper tonight, and it turned out to be both crowded and hip.  The food was really good, but we went home disappointed because the wait for the pizza was forty five minutes.  We settled for Za Za salad and dairy free ice cream.

Did I mention it was expensive?

Finally, I am happy to report that we did, in fact, arrive in Little Rock this evening, which means we have a much shorter day tomorrow, terminating with family in Dallas.

I also have to report that I will be the only Blog Writing Muggle today, as Daughter is busy finishing her final essay for the semester — due tomorrow.  I think she said it is about Buddhism, but at the time she was describing it I was singing pretty loudly and couldn’t quite make out what she was saying.

Namaste.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Lesbian Cult/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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15

May

Road Trip Diaries: Homeward Bound, Part I

Dad’s Version of the Events:

Let me start by saying that, though late to pick me up at the airport yesterday and forcing me to contort to a space in the truck’s passenger seat better suited to a Capuchin Monkey, Daughter did an exemplary job of preparing for the trip home.  She had already packed 97% of her stuff and had actually loaded most of it in the bed already – with the exception that she allowed for exactly three inches of leg room for both the front seats, she done good.

However, because of said space restrictions, a quick reallocation of physical assets was called for.  The criterion was simple:  If Daughter could afford to lose whatever item or box we were considering, it went back into the bed.  After all, for someone to steal some of the junk we’re hauling home, they clearly must be one step away from impending homelessness.

And, Presto!  We suddenly had room to stretch.

The Next Big Idea concerned the weather forecast and protecting her crap junk belongings in the back from the elements.

“We need one of those covering things,” said Daughter.

“A tarp.  It’s called a tarp.”

“But it’s 10:00 p.m.  What’s open at his hour?”*

(*Not the verbatim dialogue, but pretty close to it.)

Target, of course.

I’ll spare you the details of finding the Target, finding the tarp, and finding rope/twine/string – “We don’t sell no string anymore at Target, sir.”

But we did manage to source everything, and after a mostly sleepless night, we started out tired and fatigued this morning at the crack of dawn about 9:30 a.m.

We managed all of five minutes down the Interstate before making our first stop to adjust and secure the tarp.

Sufficiently satisfied, we began again and racked up another ten minutes before pulling over again to screw around with reconfigure the tarp.

Clearly, we are better suited to interpreting spurious GPS displays than we are tying down anything.  After all, I was given a choice between sports and Cub Scouts, and because I chose the former, I’m still paying the price in the “Life Skills Department, subtitle, Tying Knots.”

Our dilemma called for some real innovative thinking.  I decided to put my suitcase on top of the tarp and tie it down instead.  The only risk was that if anything went wrong, instead of losing a five dollar tarp, I would lose all my most valuable possessions in the bag.

“Dad.  Isn’t your suitcase going to fly off the back?”

“Nope.  And if it does, then the Universe needed it more than me.”

Whatever, it worked.

We wound up travelling nearly six hundred miles today, and I witnessed Daughter taking only one fitful nap.

I call that a success.

As an aside, many years ago when we first moved to Southern California, I asked a colleague at work about his experiences with the State’s law enforcement personnel on our local freeways.  He compared the likelihood of being pulled over akin to being that one unlucky wildebeest in a herd of thousands, singled out and dragged down by a constabulary pride of lions.

I took that story as a license to be prudent, diligent, and speedy, when safe to do so.  My last conversation with a policeman was sometime in the 1990s, and did not result in a ticket, so I guess the strategy worked.

I am happy to report that on the first day of our Father-Daughter (or is it Daughter-Father?) return journey to the Best Coast, we were not targeted by the pride.  However, I experienced a smidgen of Schadenfreude when I witnessed an older couple in a Cadillac SUV (New York plates) talking to the Virginia State Police on two separate occasions not more than twenty minutes apart.

I would think they would have gotten the message the first time.

As for us, when you’re rocking down the Interstate on cruise control, with a zombie-like passenger who looks ready to pass out at any moment throughout the day, while constantly focused on a petulant tarp out back that is billowing so much you think there were zombies underneath trying to escape, exceeding the speed limit doesn’t even enter into the equation — finding the next foo-foo coffee place does, but we don’t need to speed to get there.

– Dad

—————

Daughter’s Version of the Events:

Well, I woke up at 7am like my dad demanded only to twiddle my thumbs for an hour while I waited for him to wake up. Eventually, I had to wake him up and he immediately said he didn’t sleep and that’s why he didn’t wake up at 7. Ah, well, neither did I. I guess I’m just, you know, DEDICATED and RESPONSIBLE.

Anyway, after briefly stuffing last minute items into the truck bed, I drove my dad to my favorite coffee shop one last time. He complained about the price, of course. (Am I surprised? No. This is somebody who brags about finding pennies like they’re buried treasure and he is Long John Silver.) I found it ironic that he complained about the prices considering he is a very regular patron of a small, independently-owned coffee shop. You may have heard of it… Starbucks. However, he didn’t see things my way and continued to grumble about the high price of the coffee. I helpfully reminded him that he could not put a price on my happiness.

What do all these shapes and lines mean??

After that brief breakfast, we hit the road. The GPS died despite numerous attempts at revival. CPR just wasn’t enough to save our TomTom. One less navigational tool is honestly probably better for us, anyway. Now, with the GPS out of the picture (R.I.P.), there are less contradicting directions. This is the sort of thing that happens when we have too many navigational tools:

Dad: “What highway should we take?”

Me: “Well, the GPS says to take the 83. The AAA map says to take the 77. My phone GPS says that this road doesn’t exist.”

Of course, our trip had a snafu or four. We had to pull over multiple times because the tarp covering the mountain of belongings in the truck bed kept flying up like a magnificent sail. Well, it’d be more magnificent if it wasn’t in danger of flying off and then landing on someone’s windshield and causing a fiery crash worthy of a Michael Bay film.

Sidenote/humanity-affirming moment of the day: because we were in the South, a guy stopped on the freeway when we were struggling with the tarp and in his deep Southern drawl, asked if we needed help. I forget that people care about other people in some places!! I’ve been in Philly too long, clearly.

Anyway, my dad and I took turns driving today but Dad ended up taking on the bulk of the driving because my eyes were drying up into raisins. I tried to bring back FaceTent ™ but without a heavy black coat to mask out the sun, it was futile. Other materials let in sunlight and therefore, blind you even with your eyes closed.

All in all, it was a successful day. Well, besides the barista putting a boy’s name on my Starbucks cup instead of my actual girl name. And my dad yelling at me to find a Starbucks faster on my phone that had no signal. And when my dad yelled at me for not being able to see a semi I almost merged into. And when my dad told me I was driving too fast. And when my dad told me that I am now in charge of making sure my sister is an upstanding citizen. (HEAR THAT, SIS? I know you read it, little one.) But yeah, besides all that, it was a good day.

Nope, that's not my name.

Nope, that’s not my name.

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol?

Who are you trying to convince, Bristol, TN?

I bet you didn't know there were castles in Tennessee.

I bet you didn’t know there were castles in Tennessee.

– Daughter

 

 

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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11

May

I Am Not Worthy

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“What is that, a size Small? Nope. It’s Extra Small.”

T Minus Three Days and counting until I take that Big Jet Airliner back to the East Coast for the Father-Daughter Road Trip, Part Two — The Journey Home!

In the meantime we are toiling mightily here back at the homestead to prepare Daughter’s old room for her return.  In her absence, Her Space has been transformed by my Spouse into an Herbal Mad Scientist Laboratory, complete with potions and ingredients worthy of any Harry Potter movie.  Plus, it features “The Mat,” an in-bed device that would be right at home in Frankenweenie, which produces magical healing gamma rays and also doubles as an electronic termite deterrent.

But we all swear by it!

So in the midst of these busy preparations, I decided to take a full timeout today and head over to the foo-foo coffee place by myself.  Though I would really rather make these visits more of a family affair (so that I have someone to complain to), this morning I went alone.  After all, Daughter Number Two was in Full Recovery Mode after spending the past week at Sixth Grade Camp.  Translation:  She was still fast asleep at 10:00 a.m.  And in honor of this unexpected quietude, my Lovely Spouse unilaterally declared a Partial Pajama Day.  Translation:  I performed the morning dog walk, followed by coffee for one.

No matter, I had decided ahead of time to ride my bike for foo-foo, but I thought better of it when I realized I might begin to sweat at some point over the quarter-mile trip.  Thusly recalibrated, I zipped down the street in my car and ordered a large, black coffee.  I then parked myself on the sunny patio, and watched  the world go by.

As is typical around here on the weekends, the roads are filled with bicyclists.  Today was no exception.  They range from the Ultra Serious, to the Near Serious, to the Look Serious.  I usually fall somewhere between the latter two categories, and I am forever diligently trying to solidify my position in the middle.  However, it’s my own “middle” that seems to be solidifying these days, so I usually have to settle for giving it the old college try on those occasions when I am actually engaged in riding a bike (and not just thinking about it).

Well, I was a fairly happy camper there, drinking my drink and checking my email, until I glanced up and spied what appeared to be a professional bicycling racing team powering down the road in front of me.

They were a sight to behold.

And they just reinforced my own perception of cycling.  Although I might be a rank amateur, and getting “ranker” by the week, at least I look like a serious bicyclist, damn it.  I can drape spandex over my body with the best of them, and I am not too far gone that my gut hangs lower than the bike seat, like many my age.

These guys were spiffy.  Really spiffy.  And colorful.  Wow.

Much to my surprise, minutes after I first glimpsed them, the pro’s rode up the sidewalk and clambered off their bikes wearing their clip-in shoes, and ordered foo-foo coffee, just like me.

These guys.  They are really like me!  I love them, but not in a “man-love” sort of way — not that there’s anything wrong with that.

They all grabbed their foo-foo ice drinks, and parked at a table next to their bikes outside.

I got a really close look at them, and I then I sadly realized just how far I’ve fallen since my college days.

You see, back in Ancient Times, my primary mode of transportation was my bike.  And my first really solid road bike was a Fuji Gran Tourer SE that I bought from a guy who was short of rent money, when I was a sophomore at university.  Compared to what I had owned previously, it was akin to trading a Ford Pinto for a new Tesla.

Yep.  It was that good, and it made me good.

I loved that bike and had no fear of taking it anywhere.  And just to prove that I’m not making any (or at least most) of this stuff up, as a celebration for finally finishing graduate school, one of my college chums and I decided, on a whim, mind you, to take a hundred mile bike ride the last Saturday we were in school together.  Go ahead and ask him.  He’ll verify.

No preparation.  No special diet.  We just got up early and took off.

Admittedly, it took us all day to make the trip, but we did it and lived to tell the tale.  My butt was sore the next day, but it wasn’t like I was completely wasted or anything, or I needed a week to recover.  I just did it.  No worries.

That’s the kind of shape I used to be in.  No fear.

So keeping that kind of personal history in mind, I’m looking at the professionals today, and the differences between them and me (now) are striking.  First, their bikes are ultra clean and look like they were built by NASA.  I know for a fact that I could buy four of my beater Miatas for the cost of one of their rides.  That’s a little demoralizing.

And the guys themselves?  Other than being ripped and thin, the biggest one couldn’t have weighed more than 90 pounds soaking wet.

These days just my legs weigh 90 pounds.

Combine a light, muscular rider with a bike that hits the scales at, let’s say, two grams or so, well, it’s no wonder they can ride the Alps and get by on 3,000 calorie-a-day diets.

I guess the part that is most disheartening is that they make it all look so easy, and that has a tendency to make me sick.  Because these days for me, it seems that every waking moment my stinking knees and hips remind me of the glory years of physical prowess gone by — way by.

But all is not lost.

Though dusty, I have a five-year-old state-of-the-art road bike hanging in the garage, and a never-opened stationary trainer, as well.  Plus, Son still has in his possession my trusty Fuji from so many years ago.  It’s still providing yeoman service.

What value, and what a reminder that Hope does, indeed, spring eternal.

Maybe I’ll go for ride tomorrow.  Maybe I won’t.

And though I Am Not Worthy of comparing myself in the same sentence to the professionals, I do take confidence in knowing myself and recognizing my painful physical limitations.  I may not be completely at peace with them, but they are a part of me now.

I am 100% confident in one thing, however:  Tomorrow, I will get coffee.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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14

Apr

Bad, Daughter! Bad!

20130116-135740.jpg

“Where’s the coffee? Give me coffee!”

Apparently, Daughter and I will be embarking on yet another Epic Road Trip in approximately 30 days. 

What goes to the East Coast eventually must come back. 

I have it on Good Authority (the AAA Route Planning Lady who provided TripTiks for our original journey) that we will absolutely, definitely not encounter snow anywhere along our path in mid-May, unless we take a detour through Canada — which, by the way, we may end up doing if we have to depend on either my defective Tom-Tom or Daughter’s defective iPhone Maps app. 

“Dad, this road doesn’t exist on my phone.  We’re in another dimension.”

Yep.  I’m looking forward to that again, all righty. 

And that AAA Lady?  To quote her words to me in early January:  “I’ve looked at the ten-day forecast and you will have smooth sailing all the way.”

Two snow day delays later had me looking for her business card to make sure I avoided her travel advice in the future at all costs.

But our return trip, no matter how exciting it may turn out to be, is in quiet jeopardy today, because it is completely dependent on Daughter’s planning and responsiveness, especially to Yours Truly.

We have texted (not talked) about tentative travel dates or, rather, Daughter’s determination to depart from her Lesbian Cult College as soon as is practical this semester, but I find it very challenging to make arrangements when the responses from the other end are episodic, at best, and completely absent, at worst. 

I’m not sure exactly what kind of higher education she’s receiving, but if her blog posts are anywhere near accurate, she has replaced the contact sport of Varsity Soccer with Muggle Bar Pinball.  Given the lack of overt communication with me, Daughter’s posts are a frightening scary pathetic insightful look into the workings of the Modern College Female.

So, Daughter, I’ve got a medical appointment on the 13th.  That means I can fly out on the 14th.  As far as I’m concerned, if you have the truck packed up you can meet me at the airport and we can launch from there.  If not, we will leave bright and early on the 15th, and we will stop for your last cup of East Coast foo-foo coffee on the way out of town. 

I have planned for you to read to out loud to me for most mornings, beginning with Paradise Lost, and ending with Heart of Darkness.  I have also chosen some selections from My Losing Season, my all-time favorite book about basketball, for those times we find ourselves in the endless plains of Kansas, dodging tornadoes and flying cows.

Because like good literature, basketball heals all things. 

In the meantime, Daughter, please answer my texts, or write me an email, or even, God Forbid, give me a call on a real, live telephone. 

I look forward to talking to you.  I think you know my number!

Namaste!

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

College/Humor/Road Trip

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05

Apr

Bad Trips

CA8K25DZ[1]

“Yes, they are free. But you do have to return them. Really.”

I suppose one of the only good things about visiting my local hospital, other than the hope of receiving a clean bill of health upon departure, is having the opportunity to steal borrow books from their lending library. 

Basically what happens is I make a point to arrive at least thirty minutes before my appointment, with the expectation that I’ll actually be talking to a quack punk doctor medical professional roughly forty minutes after the scheduled time. 

During that intervening seventy-minute period, I usually spend a few minutes scanning email, CraigsList, and ESPN.com on my blackberry before becoming thoroughly frustrated with the crappy reception and shutting it down.

Then I take another five to ten minutes looking around the waiting room, carefully avoiding direct eye contact with any of the other Muggles there, thanking God I’m not in as bad shape as they appear to be.  Plus, many of them seem to feature wardrobes directly removed from a local clothes donation bin. 

I know that last comment may sound hurtful, but lots of these folks have taken the entire Pajama Day Phenomenon to an entirely new, public level.  I can also see this happening to me as I grow older, by the way.  I will  just want to be comfortable, and if that means wearing a faded flannel shirt, sweat pants, and bathroom slippers in public, so be it. 

And I will tell my family to just deal with it because I know I will be inviting grief from them.  Whatever.

So back to the waiting room — when I tire of being smug, I then quickly progress to becoming bored.  And if I stay bored too long, I’ll start to get angry about having to waste so much time sitting there in anticipation of being called back to the Magic Kingdom. 

It becomes an insidious cycle.

No doubt in acknowledgement of the inordinate waiting times, the hospital volunteers stock rolling carousels with “free” books for the patients to peruse and, I assume, take home. 

After all, no rules are posted.

Most of the titles are really, really trashy romance works of fiction, so I have a tendency to look for more “meaty” literature, if it happens to be available.  After all, I am a pseudo-intellectual (please pronounce that as “suedo-intellectual” for the appropriate effect).  And since none of these volumes cost me anything, I typically pick out something I normally wouldn’t even consider buying. 

Latest case in point.  I’m now reading a compilation of travel essays called Bad Trips, which could very easily characterize most of my recent journeys to the hospital. 

And like TheDailyTripBlog.com, if one didn’t know better, one might think that Bad Trips was about drugs.  It’s not, at least from what I’ve read so far. 

While the stories have been mildly entertaining and unremarkable, I discovered last night this paperback had a personal inscription, dated 1991, inside the front cover:

“To Evan, on his 29th Birthday, From His Extraordinary Parents, It Runs in the Family.”

In my mind, these few words are far more interesting than the contents of the book itself. 

For instance:

1)  Who the hell are you, Evan, and why did you donate this book?  Were you mad at your parents?  The book itself?  The fact that it was a paperback and not hard cover?  After all, who writes inscriptions in paperbacks?

2)  And to you, parents?  What kind of parents describe themselves as extraordinary?  Were you?  Did Evan think you weren’t?

3)  Why did you saddle your kid with the name “Evan”?

4)  What, exactly, runs in the family?  Taking trips?  Taking bad trips?  Drugs?  Trips?  Self-absorbed adjectival phrases?

Maybe the answers to these questions will be revealed the farther I progress into the book.  Maybe not.

So far, its contents have been a collection of bad hotels, worse food, and making the best of really crappy situations.

Sort of like going to see the doctor, I figure. 

Though part of me has a strong desire to know the substance behind the parent’s words and the child’s reaction, another part of me is more comfortable never knowing.  That way, I am free to create my own context which, in the end, will be just as real to me as whatever reality happens to be.

So, for today, I’m thinking that young Evan and his parents enjoyed taking trips just like Daughter and I do.  Eventually, Evan grew up, moved out, and carried on the same tradition.  Maybe he even became a travel writer.*  One year, as they realized the time had come to sell the family RV, Evan’s parents took the opportunity to acknowledge the shared gifts of the past by giving him this book on his birthday.  Over the years, Bad Trips, though treasured, got lost in the clutter of Evan’s immense library, and when he was in the process of remodeling during the last housing boom, it somehow wound up in the donation box in the garage.  Next stop was the hospital.

Or, he didn’t like his parents because he was sick of them referring to themselves as “extraordinary.”

Whatever the case, I am the book’s steward for a brief period of time before it moves on to the next reader on its journey. 

Evan, wherever you are, I think your parents were probably okay, and I think you must have had fun together.  I hope you remember them that way because I do. 

– Dad

*Note to Self:  check if any of the stories in Bad Trips are authored by a guy named Evan.

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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10

Mar

I’m Comfortable. Are You?

sedona

“You can’t tell what it looks like from the inside, and the windows are tinted. No one will recognize us anyway.”

I seem to spend more than my fair share around this house screwing around with cars.  Much like the Annual Pruning of the Rose Bushes (which I didn’t do this year yet — probably too late now), I consider wrenching on cars to be as therapeutic as working in the garden.  I was also going to add that it’s cheaper than seeing a shrink, but given the cost of some of the repairs we’ve underwritten in the last few years, that point is debatable.

I might insert an additional observation now, dating back to my youth.  When I was a kid, I think that few things were less appealing to me than being made to work in the yard.  I absolutely, positively could not stand it.  There was no worse waste of time than mowing the grass, pruning the bushes, and — especially — pulling weeds.  After all, pulling weeds was so pointless, because they always reappeared. 

It’s funny how things change as you grow older. 

These days if you presented me with a list of activities with which to spend my time, doing yard work absolutely, positively climbs close to the top.  I enjoy it that much now.  Being outside and seeing things grow (or killing them, as the case may be — weeds) makes me feel good.  While gardening, I don’t worry about what troubles me, and I can simply focus on the next task at hand.  I also have a tendency to exhaust myself, so a side benefit usually includes the increasingly rare occurence (for me) of sleeping through the  night. 

What could be better? 

Working on cars. 

Both gardening and spending time under the hood are very similar pursuits because I can usually see the fruits of my labor when I’m done.  Honestly, that’s not always a positive thing because sometimes I make things worse and not better, but there is a certain linear flow to whatever I do that makes a weird kind of sense to me, whether I’m ultimately successful or not. 

So I have devoted a fair number of hours lately to bringing Daughter’s mode of transport back up to snuff, and it’s nearly there.  I still have to finish up a few details only I will notice before I consider it done.  But an opportunity came up yesterday to make a two-hour drive to the north to retrieve some vital spare parts for my “other” project — my Alfa Romeo.  And best of all the price was right for the spares — they were free. 

Since Daughter still maintains short-term possession of my truck for the balance of the semester at her Lesbian Cult School, I had to borrow the Wife’s minivan (pictured above) to make the parts run. 

Point of Fact:  We have a number of friends, acquaintances, and family members who, apparently, wouldn’t be caught dead in a minivan. 

I guess to them driving a minivan is the modern equivalent of wearing a huge Scarlet A around your neck.  I’ve never understood that point of view.  We’ve owned three minivans, and though they all do end up as mobile stale food and trash conveyances, they are also wonderfully efficient haulers of families and their animals. 

I suppose the other side of the equation is that driving a minivan essentially labels you as someone who has given up — no more sports cars, or fine wines, or running marathons — something like that.  Instead of socializing with your hip friends at the latest “in” nightspot on Saturday nights, you check out a DVD from the library and try, really try, to watch the entire movie before you become too tired and have to go to bed, only to wake up again every two hours as the night wears on. 

You know; that kind of thing. 

The fact of the matter is, on my drive to the City of Angels and back yesterday, I was probably the fastest vehicle on the road.  I had the electric seat warmer going , the sunroof open, music playing, and the cruise control on 80 mph. 

All in my minivan.  No worries, mon.

You see, even though the minivan is uncool, it’s also almost completely transparent to Police Authorities.  The highway patrol is focused on those Porsches and BMWs in the left lane, while I’m cruising along faster than all of them somewhere else. 

It’s beautiful. 

And to be completely honest, my Wife’s minivan will literally run circles around the “sports car” that I’m fixing up.  It’s better built, more comfortable, smells better (at least right now it does), and has about twice the horsepower of the Alfa (and three times the horsepower of my old Beater Miata). 

The minivan is the ultimate Q-Ship, if you can wrap your head around the fact that everyone you know is sneering at you for driving it. 

Well, I picked up the parts before lunch, stuffed them in the van, and motored back to the south, making even better time than on the trip up.  I did it in quiet, safe, and secure comfort.

I do have to confess, however, that I did stop and purchase a foo-foo coffee for the trip.  I had some difficulty because it was very hard maneuvering the van in the parking lot to find a space, because the whole place is sized for little BMWs and Porsches — the kinds of cars Soccer Moms and Dads drive when they are not in their minivans.  Actually, they probably drive SUVs and not minivans, but that’s a topic for another blog.

As for me, I have lots of practice driving vehicles that potentially challenge my self-esteem.  Whether it’s bopping around in Daughter’s VW Cabrio, or taking Dandy Dog to the local dog park in the Wife’s minivan, I’ve reached a point where I pretty much don’t give a sh care about those kinds of things anymore. 

After all, Chevy Chase may not have ended up with Christie Brinkley in Vacation, but he didn’t have to.  He already had Beverly D’Angelo. 

Same here. 

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

Family/Humor/Lesbian Cult/Road Trip/The Daily Trip

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19

Jan

It’s Not Over ‘til It’s Over

Though I may have prematurely (last night) declared a “Pajama Day” today, both Daughter and I slept in a little bit longer since we weren’t staring another Road Warrior-inspired drive in the face.  Instead, it was a day to unload, unpack, and attempt to organize, and not necessarily in that order.

For my part, I cleared out of the truck the remaining detritus from the trip as best I could.  How many Starbucks Splash Sticks can one console hold?  Daughter doesn’t realize it yet, but these things are going to keep reappearing for months.  The sticks are everywhere, but I trust when my truck returns home sometime in May, Daughter promised me it will be immaculate – maybe I imagined that last part.

I also had a growing sense this morning that my buddy, Zak, and his Ghost Adventures crew would not be interested in their first-ever lockdown inside a pickup truck cab, since all the mysteriously missing items from the past few days have very magically reappeared.

To wit, I now have a very complete and functional Bluetooth earpiece and, by my count, the fifth Festivus Miracle of the year occurred when I also discovered the microscopic pin that holds my watchband together.  It just goes to show that you should never, ever skip the traditional Airing of Grievances during December.  Makes all the difference in the world.

And since part of my goal was to remove the essential “me” elements from the vehicle, I grabbed two sleeves of golf balls (what are these doing here, and when was the last time I actually played?), a nice ink pen, and two sunvisor CD holders.  Yes, the CDs were hidden under the passenger seat, but why risk Daughter’s reputation if one of her friends discovers that “ABBA Gold” disk or the “Steve Miller Band Greatest Hits” (who’s Steve Miller?).  There are also some “weird” mix compilations my Son made several years ago when he figured out how to use a CD burner.  I don’t even know what those contain.

Clearly all of this is not a problem for me, but I could see Daughter becoming socially scarred very easily should any of these be discovered by the wrong people.

Let’s not even begin to compare iPod playlists.   Even more embarrassment.  Trust me.

So Daughter gave me a big thank you hug this morning for sharing the trip with her, but I told her I was a bit surprised that she indicated on the blog it was over yesterday.  Well, for her, maybe it was, but for me, I’m flying home in the morning, so the saga continues – at least in my mind.

I thought it might be useful to wind up the road portion of the diary with my Top Ten Road Trip with Daughter Lessons Learned:

10)  There is no such thing as an early start – unless “early” means sometime after 10:00 a.m.

9)  Piling up crap in the back seat, which completely blocks rear view mirror visibility, is permissible if you have side mirrors and a semi-conscious passenger.

8)  A FaceTent ™ is a handy travel accessory, but its use should be avoided by the driver while driving, if at all possible.

7)  It is possible to become lost, even though you are simultaneously referencing an iPhone, Tom-Tom, and AAA TripTik.  In these cases, it is helpful to say in a loud voice to your Navigator (Daughter), “I know you don’t know what to do.  That’s not helpful and, no, I can’t look at your iPhone right now.”

6)  No matter how bad or long the previous day was, a foo-foo cup of coffee first thing recalibrates everyone into imagining the day ahead will be better than before, even though you know it won’t.

5)  Always, always believe the AAA Travel Planning Lady when she says, “I’ve looked at the ten-day forecast, and you won’t have any problems at all with weather along the way.”

4)  Hearing impairment radically cuts down on road noise, meaningful conversational interaction, and the ability to hear anything at all emanating from an iPhone.  It also dramatically increases Daughter annoyance.

3)  Though considered an ancient communication device by some, a BlackBerry can be used in emergencies to signal search aircraft by reflecting the sun.  Along the same lines, it is also useful for randomly blinding the driver (“No, I’m not high-fiving you.  You’re doing it again, Dad.”).

2)  The Human Bladder is the most important yet least understood tool in the Driver’s Arsenal.

1)  Remember to bring a Truck Driver Voodoo Doll (trademark).  Though not recommended, it is possible to stick pins, text, email, talk on the phone, and drink coffee simultaneously while driving.  But do not try this at home – only in moving vehicles.

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 1 Comment

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18

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part VI – Conclusion

I didn’t know that your collar bones could hurt, but apparently, they can when you’re really tired. I feel like a sumo wrestler is sitting on my collar bones and slowly crushing them into a fine powder which will then be sold on the black market to a traditional Chinese medicine man. (Is that racist? Sorry.) It may have been a short driving day but it was a long day nonetheless.

We woke up in a wintry ice palace and I was the grumpy ice princess (HEAVY IS THE HEAD THAT WEARS THE CROWN). Even though I was in bad mood because I was tired, it was hard to be disgruntled when the outside world looked like a pre-teen has just bedazzled the crap out of everything. It was so beautiful; I just wanted to run around in the snow, being one with nature. But nature was too cold for that type of hippie nonsense.

It's cold outside.

Cold.

Dad took the first shift of driving and I stared outside the window, absorbed by the cows dotting the countryside. I decided that one day, I  would like to have a pet cow. And I’d like to name it Big Mac. Not because I’d eat it, but because I think it would be hilarious. But maybe that’s just because I’m tired. Time to eat, Big Mac! Big Mac, come here, you silly old cow. Big Mac, you’re going to be a mother!!!! We shall name him: Happy Meal. 

Anyway, once again, we got lost on our trek to find coffee which resulted in tense tones and loud sighs of annoyance. Coffee seems to be driving a wedge between us. Once coffee was acquired, we sipped in silence. My father occasionally quizzed me on US history and then shook his head in utter dismay at my many wrong answers. When I asked him to quiz me more, he said, “No, it’s depressing.” Or something along those lines. Whatever, Dad. I know that there were 31 colonies, a Silverware War, and this guy, Jefferson Airplane, who sewed the first American flag together with shoelaces. Those are the only important facts you need to know.

Hi, trees.

Hi, trees.

We got to my apartment up at school in the early afternoon and then I spent a long time unpacking which was horrifically stressful. Unpacking/packing is playing Tetris with your belongings but it lacks any incentive. I spent a long time flopping around like a dying fish before I gave up and pulled a Scarlett O’Hara: “There’s always… tomorrow.”

A trip to Trader Joe’s to stock up on groceries almost resulted in a panic attack. It was some combination of the lack of sleep, grumpiness, and anxiety for school to start that resulted in me hyper-shopping to get it over with. It was so crowded that people were essentially tackling me to get to the kumquats first. Very overwhelming. So much so, my Fight-or-Flight response kicked in under this duress and I had to physically restrain myself from assaulting people by hugging my Organic Fair-Trade Ethiopian Medium Roast Trader Joe’s Brand Coffee to my chest (obviously, the ‘Fight’ response won out). I made my dad stand with the cart so I wouldn’t have to maneuver around the crowds and embraced my hunter-gatherer roots. I probably resembled a meerkat in the way I burrowed through the crowds unnoticed and then popped up briefly for air to observe my surroundings, scanning the landscape for danger.

I iz a mountain.

I iz a mountain.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. I actually preferred driving over flying. And even though I was grumpy and my dad never did learn the appropriate angle at which to text so as not to blind me, I had the best time with Pops. Sorry, I was grumpy today, Dad! You’re the best. Even though you want me to be blind. Maybe because you’re losing your hearing you want me to lose my sight so that, together, we can be a mutant Helen Keller. Good job if that’s the case, you win.

– Daughter

 

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Well, all’s well that ends well.

But I failed to mention that in yesterday’s severely snow-shortened drive, strange things started happening inside our truck on the penultimate day of our monster journey.

As may not be too obvious, I do occasionally try to be a law-abiding citizen while behind the wheel.  And that includes using a Bluetooth earpiece for my cell phone.  At some point, however, the hook device that holds the stupid thing to my ear became detached and walked away.

Not to worry, I thought.  I just crammed the thing in my ear canal, and that worked just fine – until it popped out after about six minutes and disappeared somewhere in the crevices between the front seat and our Hoarders pile in the back.  And to compound matters, while I was desperately scrounging under my seat for the bud, my new watch became entangled in part of the metal framework there and the band broke apart.

Okay.  Blinding snowstorm.  Manic semi truck drivers.  A growing list of missing personal items.  Unconscious Daughter.

Yep.  Let’s pull off and re-group.

What I couldn’t figure out was why, apparently, hundreds of other motorists did not follow us off the Interstate.  Things were that bad.

But we made the right call.  After taking an early exit, we unloaded and watched the snow pile up all around us in the hotel parking lot.  The only issue was my high-tech weather insulation device (black garbage bag from the Hampton Inn hotel) did not remain intact and my rolling suitcase became a little damp.  Did I fail to mention that we had so much crap junk personal belongings in the cab that we had to throw some stuff in the pickup bed?  That’s what poor planning will do for you.  Fortunately, every article of clothing I own is fully weather-proofed (in other words, my wife is constantly trying to get rid of most of the stuff I wear), so a little moisture doesn’t really matter.

So, after a nice dinner, and six hours of the Weather Channel, we went to bed early dreaming of Sugar Plums (Daughter) and not another episode of Ice Road Truckers (me).

It became very clear to me this morning that Daughter’s selfless cuticle sacrifice along the way appeased the Highway Gods, and we were blessed with sunny (cold) skies and clear roads when we arose.

Hallelujah.  I didn’t really say or even think that, but it seemed appropriate.

We proceeded to celebrate our good fortune with not just one, but two foo-foo coffee stops.  And I even let Daughter drive.

“Dad.  I can drive now.  Okay?  Okay?  You need to wear the hearing aid in the ear closest to me.”

“But then I can’t wear my Bluetooth,” I replied.  Very cunning.

As luck or good fortune or Weather Channel channeling would have it, the day was anticlimactic.  It was an easy, short day (just a few hours), and we arrived at our destination 2981 miles and six days after we started.

The good news is that Daughter and I are still talking to each other.  She is still napping religiously.  And we carried about 500 extra pounds of unmelted snow in the bed of the truck for extra traction on perfectly clear roads.

Truth is, I began to realize a couple of days ago that this trip with Daughter was unique, and I tried to do a better job of focusing on the moment(s), just so I could remember for when I get old (say, toward the end of next week).  For reference, Zen-me has just about finished reading the Dalai Lama’s Cat, and I have taken to heart that I cannot change those external forces beyond my control, but I can change that which I do control – how I think and react.

So, where does that leave me at journey’s end?

I’ve got a few more chapters to get through before I come to peace with the sh da assh semi-professional Truck Drivers of this world.  That much is clear.

Sorry.

And finally, though I am concerned about Daughter (her errant driving patterns, some of her music, her fingernails), I think she’s going to be okay and I’m proud of her.

The question is, will she be able to get up early enough on Sunday to take me to the airport?

As if I didn’t already know, I think tomorrow will be a Pajama Day.

Shotgun!

– Dad

 

11 years ago Short URL 5 Comments

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17

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Daughter-Father Epic, Part V

Welllll. We were going to try for Pennsylvania today but the weather replied, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS,” and snowed us right off the road. Not literally, luckily. My dad tapped out when the snow started to get serious – no more Mr. Nice Snow, as they say (?). My dad had been driving the whole day anyway, it was “too dangerous” for me to drive apparently, so he was glad to get off the road. I was glad to get off the road because I was sitting in abject terror for 3/4 of the drive today; semis were flying around the roads like they were in the Ice Capades. The remaining quarter of the time, I was asleep. Not driving is exhausting! I can only be in a state of pure, unadulterated fear for so long before my body poops out and resorts to its only defense: sleep.

Sneeeew.

Sneeeew.

We stopped driving early in the day and spent most of the afternoon lounging around the hotel room like we owned the place (we sorta do, right? Maybe it’s considered more of a timeshare). I was supposed to be picking my classes for next semester during the extra time I had today but sitting and looking at funny pictures on the internet won out instead. Clearly, I have my priorities straight. I’m definitely ready to be a Serious Academic again.

Trying to get an artsy angle… aaaand failing.

The Weather Channel was on for a good five hours straight because it turns out weather is an important factor for travel. (WHAT?!) Unfortunately, the main weather lady was making really inane comments and saying things like, “We’ll have Bob Whatshisface, the resident meteorologist, make sense of all of these pretty colors on the Doppler radar in a second!” First of all, I understand there is a limited amount of information and fluff you can work into Weather Channel programming, but those ‘pretty colors’? Yeah, no. That’s like looking at a tornado and saying that you like that little turny-twisty dance it does. Iago is no joke. Except for that name. That’s a joke. It reminds me of an iguana. And iguanas are not that scary. They need to start giving these storms more threatening names. THOR IS COMING, EXPECT ROAD DELAYS. ZEUS IS COMING, 400 FEET OF SNOW EXPECTED. ACHILLES IS COMING, STOCK UP ON EMERGENCY SUPPLIES. Nope. “Iago is coming, expect a shortage of flies and other insects.”

I want to go swimming.

I want to go swimming.

Dad and I spend a good amount of time prancing around taking photos of the snow. In the midst of prancing, however, I discovered one of my boots had a hole in it because water began to seep into my boots and was immediately absorbed by my fuzzy socks – it was straight of a scene from a paper towel commercial, you guys. I might as well have been wearing sponges in my boots. My actual snow boots are buried in the Hoarders-style mountain of things stuffed into the cab of the truck, unreachable by any mortal. This means I’ll be in my holey boots until I get to PA. Such is life.

FOOD.

FOOD.

But to end things on a positive note, we did eat a delicious meal at a “fancy” restaurant. I say “fancy” with quotation marks because my dad had to put real pants on instead of wearing his shorts. They also had those baby forks and little plates – obviously upscale for us plebes. In my fog of exhaustion, I forgot to put my napkin on my lap and Dad decided to point this out to the waitress in order to embarrass/shame me. Cute, Dad.

– Daughter

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Not only did we drive thirteen hours and lose yet another hour to time zone changes yesterday (what’s the deal with time zones?), I evidently failed to reserve a hotel room correctly while simultaneously texting, driving, and emailing.  How could I screw up something so simple?

So, there I was at the front desk last night, without a confirmation number, but with lots of credit cards.  Thinking fast (or as fast as my mileage-addled brain would allow), I winked at the front desk clerk, and she he magically discovered an available room.

Old School Tactic, Daughter.

But it was almost 11:00 p.m. by then, anyway.

And I already knew we could kiss today’s Early Start goodbye.  And to add further insult, I was asleep before Daughter.

Yep.  It was a long day.

As I anticipated, the Highway Gods exacted their revenge today, even while Daughter “mailed it in” from the passenger seat, the beneficiary of a modified (multi-layer) FaceTent (trademarked).  That’s right, when the first driving shift (mine) was over, the second (mine) then started.  And Daughter started her second nap stint.

To be absolutely fair, I felt the most prudent course of action was for me to handle the load.  The weather absolutely sucked, and got worse from there.  No more desolate landscapes with 80 mph-posted speed limits.  We’re talking 60 mph max, heavy rain turning to snow, and semi tractor-trailer rigs as far as the eye could see (which wasn’t far).

Quite frankly, I don’t like experiencing life in the slow lane, off cruise control, staring at the butt-end of yet another freaking hideously large truck.

And to continue my rant from my last entry, many of these semi guys simply have no shame.  At least that’s the way it appears to me.

Cut in front of a fast-closing vehicle (me) – no problem.  Stay in the left lane forever – no problem.  Unconsciously annoy Daughter – no problem.

You see, they’ve got it all covered.

But I was more worried about the deteriorating weather and becoming stranded, without access to foo-foo coffee and a semi-warm bed.  The sum total of the food stuffs on board was two bananas, an apple, some hotel mints, and half a loaf of gluten-free bread (essentially a bag of cardboard scraps).

After assessing the situation and the possibility would could potentially be somewhat hungry by nightfall (not thirsty – I figured we could melt snow to drink), we pulled off the interstate early (only six hours today) and watched Winter Storm Iago on the Weather Channel, instead of through the front windshield.

Was it the right decision?  I’ll know tomorrow if —  we finally reach our destination (at least a day late) in one piece, before darkness falls, and Daughter spends more time driving than sleeping.

Hope springs eternal.

–  Dad

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

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16

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part IV

Before I start this blog post, I want to have a moment of silence to show respect for those we lost during this road trip. They have been with me for many years, close friends I’d even call them. But they have been wounded and killed in this great battle fought on the interstates of America. Rest in peace, we will always remember you, dear cuticles. Seriously, though. My cuticles are dead and dying. This is the winter of their discontent… literally. They are terrible and bleedy. Lotion does not assuage them nor kind words. I have given up trying to heal them and instead, I try not to look at them. Or I sit on my hands.

Mmm, I love the smell of industry in the morning!

Mmm, I love the smell of industry in the morning!

We actually got back on the road today  and palled around with some semi truck drivers! If “palled around” means playing a game of tag with huge tons of metal and the semi is always “it”. STOP TRYING TO TAG US, TRUCK DRIVERS.  There was one semi in particular that really, really irritated me. So much so that I changed nationalities and transformed into an Italian. I did a lot of exasperated hand gesturing. I could be wrong, but I think this means I’m fluent in Italian.

I laugh at you, truckers in traffic. You deserve that misery.

I laugh at you, truckers in traffic. You deserve that misery.

After a successfully-completed quest to get coffee (bad things always happen when we try and find coffee, maybe we should consider switching to tea?), I hit a curb while turning because I can’t see out the right side of the truck and some coffee splashed out of my dad’s cup. No Big Deal, right? WRONG. Obviously, my dad has NEVER EVER so much as run over an errant piece of rubber on the road because he was so disgusted with me. How dare I accidentally run over a curb? HOW DARE I WASTE HIS TIME OFF-ROADING FOR MY OWN AMUSEMENT. He actually asked me: “Have you ever driven a car before?”  And then, later, a semi was drifting into my lane so I moved over and went on the rumble strip for three seconds. Not long, but long enough for my dad to yell at me, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” And I said, “THIS SEMI IS ON TOP OF ME, BRO.” Except I didn’t call him ‘bro’ because that’s weird. Good times. This is what father-daughter bonding is all about.

America.

America.

The most exciting thing that happened today is when we got lost in Tennessee. Despite having a GPS, an iPhone, Google Maps, and old-fashioned paper maps, we got lost because there was an unexpected detour. We apparently drove on a road that didn’t exist in our world, it existed in some other dimension. The same dimension where all your missing socks go  and where I have friends. It was like the Bermuda Triangle of roads. I’m pretty sure I saw a chupacabra out there. My poor iPhone was heating up from its attempt to locate us, but its efforts were in vain. We weren’t in this world, or if we were, we had ripped a hole in the fabric of spacetime because… physics.

We made it back to our dimension, all parts intact but I have a feeling of deju vu… nope, wait, it was just a burp.

– Daughter

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And on the fourth day, God created semi-tractor truck drivers.  But I digress.

Yesterday was an unscheduled rest day, which presupposes one actually rests when given the opportunity.  When I awoke and took stock of the thick blanket of snow outside, it wasn’t hard to quickly make the decision to hang tight for a day with our wonderful relatives in their immaculate mansion.  Please note that, in comparison to our house, most other homes seem like castles to us – but theirs really is.  It is wonderful.

One quick check on Daughter simply confirmed my decision – she was dead to the world.  Two days in cramped confinement with a parent sucks the life out of children, evidently.

So, Daughter made an unconscious, slumbering assessment to replicate what is known back in our household as a “Pajama Day.”

It goes like this.  In the spirit of calling “shotgun,” declaring “Pajama Day” is governed by approximately the same rules.  Yep, all you have to do is say, “Pajama Day,” and, thereby, you eliminate the requirement to become fully attired and fully humanly functional for however long you want.  Technically, Pajama Day could become “days” or even a week, in extreme circumstances.

Also, male members are not allowed to play, even though we completely and thoroughly understand the rules.  Though hurtful, I am all right with the exception.

I knew we were in trouble this morning, however, because Daughter did not sleep well and was more tired than she had been before our rest day.  Makes no sense, I know, but it’s nothing a foo-foo coffee usually can’t set right.

Unfortunately, Daughter’s fatigue manifested itself in many uncharacteristic ways.  During her first driving stint, she inexplicably had no idea how she turned on the windshield wipers, but also couldn’t figure how to turn them off, as well.  Not long after she ran over a curb exiting a gas station.

Her defense?

“I can’t see anything out of the right side of the truck, and stop yelling at me.”

Only one of us had her voice raised by the way, and it sure would have been nice to know you’ve been blind on the right side of the vehicle the past two days, Daughter.

And even though she deployed her now trademarked FaceTent early on, she had little to no patience for the truck drivers hogging the interstate highways.

Daughter using FaceTent (tm)

Daughter using FaceTent ™

I have to admit, a little warning sign went off in my own pea brain when the landscape northeast of Dallas became littered with hundreds of the following road signs:  “Left Lane is for Passing Only.

Let’s think about that, shall we?  If you have to post directions to the multitudes about staying out of the left lane, there clearly must be a problem somewhere.

There was.  And is.

We were blocked, hindered, slowed, and just plain annoyed by the numerous Left Lane Truck Bandits today.  I’m sure they are all really nice people, but, geez, folks, let’s get with the program.

As you might have suspected, Zen-me wrestled with the situation for a few miles, but I eventually made my peace and counted my blessings.

For Daughter, however, it was a continuing struggle, no doubt fueled by her lack of rest during our “Rest Day.”

If we consider the eleven stages of Driving Consciousness, she never made it by Number Four:  Annoyance.

Even if she had, we always have tomorrow.  And if we don’t have tomorrow, there’s still me.

– Dad

QV5RTCKXKQE2

11 years ago Short URL 4 Comments

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15

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part III

Instagram filters out the ugly.

Instagram filters out the ugly.

My dad and I didn’t get on the road today because of the weather gods’ sadistic ways so just pretend you’re at a fancy orchestra concert and it’s the intermission. This way, you can pretend you’re consuming more edifying material and also, it’s fun to imaaaagine. Reading Rainbow taught me that.

This morning, my alarm went off at some ungodly time and I immediately turned it off because, hey, if my dad wants me awake, he can wake me up himself. The next time I woke up, it was 10 am. I was confused and disoriented because I was expecting to wake up in the passenger seat of the truck and not still in a bed, swaddled like Baby Jesus. My aunt informed me that the weather conditions were too dangerous to drive. I looked outside and saw for myself, and, yes, an ivory blanket of snow had covered the land. White powder was everywhere. Must be what the inside of Charlie Sheen’s house looks like (ugh, that joke is so 2011, sorry). Anywho, snow = rest day. Cue me rolling around on the carpet in utter bliss because I could laze around the whole day like a human-cat hybrid. (And did I ever. At one point, I laid in a dark room because of the novelty of it not being a car.)

We were snowed in but luckily, we’re staying with family so we can abuse their hospitality by rummaging through their pantries and annoying their cat.

Mrow.

Mrow.

The cat, Bobbi, is adorable because he’s got a bit of the chub going on and a salt-and-pepper coat that’s very George Clooney. He also has a permanent head tilt from some health problems (sadface) so he walks around with a chronically quizzical expression. It’s very sad but sickeningly adorable and cute too. I essentially followed him around all day, mirroring his head-tilt and trying to pet him. He tolerated my presence but mostly walked away, playing hard-to-get.

All in all, today was a nice rest but tomorrow, we go on, ready to conquer not only the roads but also our fears and weaknesses. Maybe. As long as we have our Starbucks first.

– Daughter

11 years ago Short URL 5 Comments

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14

Jan

Road Trip Diaries: A Father-Daughter Epic, Part II

001

I did not want to be awake for this sunrise, but here I am.

Morale was low today.  I woke up to complete darkness and weather in the 20’s. The only positive take-away from the morning was  my hair – which is usually hay-like in texture – suddenly transformed into a blanket of velvet. Thanks, soft water!  This new softness was kind of a big deal and I sat for a while petting my hair (first sign of insanity?).

Knowing that I would have to have something other than the softness of my hair to sustain me, I made my way to the lobby where food was rumored to be kept.  The continental breakfast area was only an island and a counter but it seemed a great labyrinth to me. I finally understand how that one ancient Greek guy felt in the labyrinth with the Minotaur guy… I, too, know that fear of being lost and not knowing whether to expect a pancake or a half-bull, half-man creature around the corner. It might be because I’m an idiot but I’m pretty sure it was because I was still asleep and my eyes just happened to be open. I was conscious enough to know that food was in the vicinity but exact locations and things like “choosing what to eat” eluded me. After stumbling around for a while, we left with coffee from a small, environmentally-friendly, and independent coffee shop Starbucks in hand and got back on the road.

Once in the confines of the car, I wrapped my head in a to-go blanket burrito of sadness. Having no actual blankets in the car, I improvised with jackets and created a small tent-like structure around my head to block out the light so I could sleep. Unfortunately, we were driving toward the sunrise so my blanket burrito acted as a lamp shade instead of a blackout shade. My attempt to be the Benjamin Franklin of sleeping-pod inventions was valiant but futile. I’m sure SkyMall has a  portable, one-person FaceTent ™, and if not, I’m going to work on the patent right when I get to school (and then drop out of school because FaceTent ™ is a million dollar idea). Anyway, sleeping was a no-go beyond ten minutes of drifting off and then waking up when a limb fell asleep faster than my brain could. I settled for staring out the window and naming the cows we passed.

Into the void we go!

Into the void we go!

Yesterday, my dad and I were optimistic and bursting with enthusiasm for the Southwestern American landscape. Today, we are hardened road warriors. The scenery has been abysmal with pockets of that weird, dilapidated beauty, like Steve Buscemi’s face (?). We drove through a lot of oil fields and I really, really wanted to say to my dad, “Wow, this sure is no country for old men…” but 1 ) I don’t know if he’d get the reference, 2) he probably wouldn’t hear it until I repeated it 4 times and then it wouldn’t be funny, and 3) I haven’t even seen that movie so I don’t know if it’s part of the Fair Use Policy for jokes.

Yep, encompasses everything we saw today.

Yep, encompasses everything we saw today.

We did have our first tense driving moment on our quest to find coffee today. My dad is completely useless when it comes to doing anything on my iPhone so he forced me to search for directions on my phone while I was driving on the interstate. He became impatient when I couldn’t find the right address and I said, “It’s a little hard to get directions when I’m also driving, Dad.” And he just nodded in agreement… or he didn’t hear me. Or he was just pretending not to hear me, you never know with this guy.

My dad ignoring me.

My dad ignoring me.

Directions to coffee were successfully procured after several “hold the wheel”s, but I was still confused and attempted to get off on two incorrect exits  and corrected at the last moment. Then, Dad passive-aggressively grabbed the hand-hold insinuating that he needed the extra stability to not go flying around the cab because I’m behind the wheel. It didn’t help matters when I completely missed the right exit. Eventually, we ended the wild goose chase in the middle of Abilene, TX and got the stupid coffee. Twenty minutes of arguing and yelling at, “Make a right, no, A RI- YES, NOW,” I’m sipping a latte and treasuring it for all the trouble it took to get it. Mmmmm, the taste of frustration. My favorite. 

047

The police, putting on a nice light show!

Also, my dad did not learn how to text without blinding me. STILL. It took at least 50 times of asking him to stop reflecting the sun into my corneal region, AND THIS IS THE SECOND DAY. I wanted to take his phone and throw it out the window but I restrained myself and instead said, “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad. DAD. DAD. YOU’RE BLINDING ME AGAIN.”

– Daughter

 

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When Daughter isn’t mumbling to me about directions, the southwestern part of the United States speaks to me.  I have always loved driving through this part of the country, because it is so wide open and sparsely populated.  I imagine, even today, I could load up my horse and head ninety degrees off the highway in any direction, and never see another human for weeks.

 

But then I figure the satellite reception is pretty crappy in the foothills, so I never really act on this notion.  Probably the closest I will come will be a week at a dude ranch a decade from now, where I will pretend to drive cattle and will practice taking down bad guys with my Red Rider bb gun.

 

Yes.  I’m looking forward to that.

 

But back to reality and today’s drive segment.

 

The exoticars of Southern California gave way many miles ago to a multitude of Border Patrol Suburbans and Jeeps.  We were stopped at one checkpoint today and asked if we were American Citizens.

 

“Yes!” We chimed and drove merrilly away.  It was all the agent could do to stay warm behind his barrier, with a light snow falling and thte wind chill in the teens.  It’s a thankless job, made worse by those green uniforms they wear.  I think a little touch of Downton Abbey might make a difference and raise spirits.

 

Probably not.

 

Though Daughter made a game of it yesterday and pulled her share of the driving duties, she bailed a bit today and took the first sleeping shift out of El Paso — which turned into the second sleeping shift a couple hours later.

 

Then she started complaining about her butt hurting.  And then it went downhill further with the release of effluent gases.

 

For context, the girls in our family are incapable of doing anything untoward, including admitting to the existence of bodily functions that every other human has to deal with.  To make matters worse, their first course of defense regarding same is to deny they did anything at all.

 

When that fails, and it always does, they start to laugh and then blame the whole thing on me.

 

It’s a pattern that’s repeated over and over again, with anything that’s even marginally amiss in our household.

 

Basically, anything and everything that goes wrong, is slightly suspicious, or doesn’t smell right (literally or figuratively), is all my fault.

 

Zen-me accepts that.

 

Moving on, then, I did come up with two really great ideas on the trip today.

 

The first was borne out of annoying Daughter.  Apparently every time I texted someone, I inadvertantly aimmed the blackberry screen reflection in Daughter’s eyes (while she was driving — I didn’t have the problem while I was texting and driving).  I thought I had the problem licked (I simply tilted it at a different angle – duh!), and sometime in the afternoon I said something that I believed Daughter found witty and wanted to high-five me about.

 

As I was trying to reverse high-five (or high-five a thousand angels guiding our way), I heard:

 

“Dad.  You’re shining that thing in my eyes again.”

 

No wonder I was having a hard time hitting her hand.  She was blocking the sun again.

 

So, Idea Number One:  Non-reflective blackberry screen filter.  I’m thinking that one has already been done, but I can’t confirm and certainly don’t use it.

 

The second (and better) idea originated with the number of miles we’ve been driving.  I’ve always wondered how the travel times would compare in historical context.

 

Idea Number Two:  iPhone app that converts miles travelled into time necessary to traverse same in a selected epoch of interest.  For example, we drove seven hundred and fifty miles yesterday.  How long would that same trip have taken in 1850, or 1450?

 

I thought it was pretty cool, and had merit.  Daughter dismissed it out of hand.

 

Well, I know one thing.  I’ve got an awful lot of texting to do tomorrow, while I’m not driving.

 

– Dad

11 years ago Short URL 3 Comments

Family/Humor/Road Trip

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