Road food and the eighties

Here we are again, on the road headed for another fabulous weekend vacation! I'm once more on my tiny new computer, learning how to type anew. It's one thing to have to adjust to the miniature keys. It's quite another to try and compensate for the bumps in the road as we drive along.

I woke up earlier than usual this morning and headed to the gym. I've been keeping up so good that I don't want to lose momentum, and decided a little gym time would be beneficial in counteracting the travel food diet I so dearly love. And my wonderful husband hasn't failed me! We just made our first McDonald's stop, and I'm so full of French fries I could burst! There's no other feeling in the world compared to being overstuffed, grease flowing through your veins.

Jerry, of course, is complaining about traffic again. I often wonder if he is a closet road rage-aholic, because my normally very calm and chipper husband will out of the blue swear at a car a quarter of a mile ahead of us when it swerves out of its lane. After being a commuter for years and then doing the heavy DC driving I've had to do, I'm immune to these idiots. In fact, I think I'm one of them. Jerry may cuss and fret, but I am a mean driver. I cut people off and lay on my horn, making u-turns wherever I see fit. In DC, it's safer to be mean.

We've already argued about his bathroom habits and his music. And about not disturbing me while I'm working on logic problems, but that was minor. The former two turn our vacations hostile at some points. Jerry likes to drink as much liquid as a person can possibly hold when we're in the car. Don't get me wrong, he does it at home, too, but it's not nearly as annoying there. He comes from bachelorhood, where road trip means you get in the car, drive for hours, and do your duty into what he lovingly calls a "pee bottle" when you have to go. As a classy woman, I just cannot accept this. Nor can I accept the dorky hand and arm movements he calls dancing.

We have moved from old timer's country to eighties hits and are presently listening to funk. He's in the driver's seat, snapping his fingers, and hollering, "I'm Rick James!" My husband. The 44 year old quintessential white male who thinks it's his duty to prove to the world that white men really can dance. He looks like he's directing traffic. I should just be grateful he's not subjecting me to a Blondie marathon, complete with harmonies. His sister was sweet enough to warn me to make sure his entire collection ended up in storage.

Our plans are to stop at the same hotel we stayed in our last trip south for a cheap overnight with high speed internet. Only about 4 hours until we get out of the car, at which point I can enjoy silence and finally stop hiding anything that resembles a urine receptacle. Because if I turn my back for one minute he'll have that zipper down, and there's no stopping him!

Today's lesson: It takes time and training to turn a bachelor into a husband. Until then, it is your duty as a wife to grudgingly tolerate all those little quirks that they've always thought impressed the ladies. Because singing in falsetto along with Blondie always gets us going, doncha know?

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