Backseat Drivers

Whenever I drive my husband somewhere, he becomes the backseat driver. “You’re following too close.”  “Didn’t you see that car?”  “The light is going to change, slow down.”  “The street where you want to turn is coming up.”  In order to keep my cool and not slam on the breaks, propelling him through the windshield, I have made the decision to never operate the driver’s side of the car when husband is the passenger.  When he drives, I’ve mentioned a few times that I thought he was going the wrong way, and the retort is always, “Do you want to drive?”  That shuts me up. (However, we did start out for Sam’s Club one day and ended up at Costco.)

Husband has been replaced by Gladys Garmin, who sits on my dashboard instead of the seat next to me.  Gladys is guided by the stars so she displays her god-like superiority with every turn of the vehicle.  I recently went to a workshop about 20 miles from my home, so I decided to give Gladys a whirl to test her abilities.  I was a little unsure about the route she had in mind, because she was giving me the silent treatment, so I turned down I street I knew would get me to my destination.  Her grating little British voice screeched, “Recalculating!”  I’m surprised she didn’t yell, “You bitch, I didn’t tell you to turn yet!”

There are other occasions when Gladys has reprimanded my driving decisions.  Once I missed turning right in .4 miles, and she parroted in her computer voice like she was reciting her ABC’s, “MAKE A U TURN! MAKE A U TURN! MAKE A U TURN!”  Another time, in a strange town, I was trying to find a Wal-Mart.  Gladys and I both saw the Super Wal-Mart on the left, yet she had the gall to tell me to turn right.  Just so she wouldn’t yell at me, I turned right and went down a residential street where I made sure all the doors were securely locked.

Then there’s her “A better route is available” line.  Her “better route” is usually driving through brick walls that she can’t see from her satellite perch or along the south side of the railroad tracks, at night, in Cincinnati.  No thanks; I think I’ll stick to the Interstate.

I have finally made a decision that will lower my blood pressure and still get me to my destination - a hula doll on my dashboard and my dog in the passenger’s seat.  They aren’t going to tell me how to drive.

REMOTELY CHALLENGED

I used to have control over my life – and the TV in the living room.  All I had to do was push a button and instantly had 3 or 4 channels.  I could choose from nightly news, a family sitcom, or a Hallmark movie.

Next came cable – and a remote to go with it.  I was still able to push an on/off button and discovered the Animal Planet, Sesame Street for the kids, and a plethora of sports for the husband.

Then the husband wanted a satellite dish because he said we could watch movies at night – oh goodie, the same movie every night for a month, sometimes back to back.  Satellite gave us choices – out of 998 channels, 901 of them were infomercials – do I want to grill a chicken in 15 minutes or wash my face with grapefruit.  With satellite came another remote.  If the wrong button was pushed, I would end up with a little box that said “no signal” floating around the TV screen.  I never could get the two remotes straight, let alone push the right buttons. 

Several years ago the daughter gave us a DVD player – said she was bringing us into the 21^st Century.  Along with that came yet ANOTHER REMOTE.  That made 3 that we had to try to keep away from the dog.

For Christmas, the brother gave us a DVD movie to watch.  I was all ready to watch the movie, but forgot which buttons to push.  Armed with 2 remotes, my glasses, a magnifying glass, and a flashlight, for the life of me, I couldn’t get the movie on the TV screen.  I called tech support (the son) and he told me to press the input button several times – that did not work.  He even offered to help me if I would download FaceTime on my Mac so we could video chat.  Yeah, right!  I can’t figure out how to work a little 2 by 8 device – and he wants me to video chat. 

In walks the husband.  Men are born with a remote in each hand, and their superior attitude makes you believe they understand how all remotes work.  In reality, all they do is push buttons randomly until something appears on the screen, then smugly sit down, remotes armed and ready to channel surf.  What he really got was a TV screen covered with lists of acronyms, numbers, arrows, and snow.  After a few words with each other, he handed me the remotes and told me to figure it out as he walked out of the room.  I turned the TV off and read a book – at least I had control over turning the pages.

Shopping for Jeans

I recently went shopping with my daughter, a 30-something year old.  In keeping with the sister-hood oath of womanhood, I will not reveal her true age.  When she shops, she likes to shop the junior stores because she is a size 0, and there aren’t many stores that stock a size 0.  That is not a typo – you read it correctly – a 0.  I told her not to say that out loud because she would surely be attacked by all the Blimpo Barbies within hearing distance.  Sizes are supposed to be a numerical value, like 10 or 12 – 0 has no numeric value whatsoever.

Anyway, I accompanied my daughter to some junior stores at the mall, because I’m the Mom, and I buy clothes for my kid - even though I feel like a beached whale in the midst of young mermaids.  But, to pass the time, I find a few items to try on too.  Express is having a sale on jeans – buy one and get one for half price.  Such a deal, even though the price of one pair of jeans is the weekly food budget for my husband and me.  But, not wanting to pass up a special sale on jeans, I find the largest size they have and the sweet young clothing associate finds a dressing room for me – I think I heard her chuckle a little as she locked me in the 4 x 4 closet.  While in the little dressing room, I attempted to squeeze one of my thunder thighs into one leg of the jeans – then the next thigh.  The tricky part is snapping and zipping the low rise over my 2 pregnancies-bloated-stretch-marked belly.  The little dressing room is not wide enough for me to lie down, so I do a jumping up and down dance.  Finally, the jeans are painted on my body, the waist sitting about 4 inches below my belly button, but not low enough to tuck under my gut.  My devoting daughter says, “They look great on you, Mom!”  So, if I buy them I will have to make sure I don’t go anywhere where I will have to sit down, or bend over, or walk up stairs.  I’ll just stand there and think, “Look at me everyone, I’ve squeezed my granny-aged body into a pair of teeny-bopper jeans.”  But, hey, a sale is a sale, and we got her size 0 jeans for half price!!

TUESDAY

Tuesday is a nondescript day. It’s not dreaded Monday, the very beginning of the work week. It doesn’t have a name like “hump” day, and it doesn’t have the distinction of having happy hour associated with it. Maybe that’s why retail stores have sales on Tuesday to bring in customers.

Tuesdays at the lake is men’s day at the golf course 30 miles away where my husband spends the day with his golfing buddies. When I say spend the day, I mean 12 hours of golfing, gambling, eating, and drinking. He leaves at 9:30 am and doesn’t get home until 9:30 at night. As the golfing widow, I can either go “Oh Woe is Me” and feel stranded by a one-vehicle family and stare at the 4 walls all day; or I can go “Woo Hoo” because I get to drink coffee and read my book until noon and watch whatever I want on TV instead of the Fishing Channel or Military Channel.

I made a great discovery a few weeks ago. This small lake town has public transportation in the form of vans that come directly to your door to pick you up and take you wherever you want to go; then deliver you back to your doorstep when you are ready to go home. All this for a mere $1.50 each time you step on the van. This particular Tuesday I made a nail appointment and hair appointment at the town mall – which is a group of stores on Main Street that are enclosed for a block. The van picked me up right on time and since I was the only one in the van I had a lovely conversation with the driver: “How many vans do you have?” “Do you run in the winter?” “Are you handicapped accessible?” What I failed to ask were the hours of operation.

The day at “the mall” was delightful because I pampered myself with a manicure, a new hairdo, and shopping. “Downtown” was even having its “Crazy Days” sales where Main Street was blocked off so the merchants could have a gigantic street sale. I tried on clothes, had a nice conversation with the florist, and even treated myself to a latte. After all, I didn’t have to hurry home to cook dinner for the hubby.

When I was done I called the number for the van to pick me up. No answer. I tried again – same result. I went into the drug store and asked what time the public van stopped running – no one knew. They tried calling for me – no answer. “Would you like me to call a taxi for you?” Sure – there goes my $1.50 bargain. The Taxi number resulted in a similar response – leave a message. In a small town of 8,000, I’m sure there is only one taxi driver, and he probably went home for dinner. Nevertheless, I left my number for a call back saying I was stranded at the Washington Mall.

I thought of my options. Walk home – 6 miles around the lake in flip flops. Hitchhike. Call a neighbor – however, I didn’t have any of their numbers in my phone. So I went back to the florist to see when she was closing for the day – maybe she wouldn’t mind running me home – after all, we sort of bonded talking about greenery and bird cages. She was staying open for another hour or so.

The only option left was to walk, so I started my trek towards the beach a half-mile away. I remember seeing a beach bicycle cart decorated like Margaretaville, so I thought I could rent that for a mile, cutting my hike down to 5 miles. As I approached the water, I thought, if I could only go across the lake - it couldn’t be more than 3 miles as the loon flies. But I ain’t Jesus, and I didn’t think I could swim with my bagged purchases.

Then I noticed a dock with boats and pontoons for rent. Aha, it’s worth a try. I went into the little building and explained the pickle I had gotten myself into and wondered if they ever took people across the lake to the other side in a boat. I pointed out on a map where I lived and where they could drop me off – the Public Access dock - which is only about a half-mile from my house. The nice young man was a little hesitant, but it was a slow day so he called another young man in and asked him to motor me across. As I walked out the door, the young man said, “Let’s not mention this to anyone, ok?” Thumbs up. “Gotcha!” Thumbs up.

So this teenager complete with a nose ring and unusual-looking hair boarded me on a pontoon, and we headed for the south shore of the lake. I felt like Kate Winslet and a blue-haired Leonardo DiCaprio on the bow of the Titanic speeding across the waves, wind blowing through our hair. Twenty minutes later I jumped off the pontoon and tipped junior 20 bucks for the journey.

Tuesdays aren’t so boring anymore. All I have to do is plan an excursion to town.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A SMALL TOWN AND A BIG CITY

1. When you leave the garage door open it means...

a. Small Town...the neighbors come over and visit; you have a beer and catch up on all the neighborhood gossip.

b. Big City...the golf clubs, broken stereo, discarded satellite receiver, and car all disappear.

2. When you make an appointment at the eye doctor, the receptionist says...

a. Small Town..."What time today would you like to come in? 11:00 or 11:30? OK, I'll put you down for 11-ish."

b. Big City..."We don't have an opening until October 27, 2012 at 7:30 am. Be sure to come in 45 minutes before your scheduled time to fill out the paperwork."

3. When postage is due on mail...

a. Small Town...they leave a little envelope in your mailbox for the 15 cents.

b. Big City...they leave a large yellow bill stating they are holding your mail hostage until you drive 8 miles to the nearest post office between the hours of 9:00 am and 4:00 pm to give them the 15 cents.

4. When you ask for directions, you get something like this...

a. Small Town..."It's just down the hill across from the fire station."

b. Big City..."Go east on the 101 for 10 miles, it will turn into the Pima Freeway; drive another 15 miles, and take the 202 to Exit 568 to Rural Road, which is Scottsdale Road going north; turn left on Rio Salado, go to the second light, turn right..."

5. When buying bottled beverages...

a. Small Town...you can only buy liquor at the one state-run store in town, and it is closed on Sundays.

b. Big City...there are drive-through liquor stores open 24/7.

6. Stores...

a. Small Town...ducks and chickens are sold in the general store and there are only 2 stores where you can buy groceries, Wal Mart and the local grocer. A gallon of milk costs $4.50.

b. Big City...you have to drive 45 miles before you even see a duck or chicken. There is a grocery store on every corner, a Wal Mart every 5 miles, and a gallon of milk costs $1.50.

7. Traffic Lights...

a. Small Town...there are one, maybe two, traffic lights in the entire town.

b. Big City...there are hundreds of traffic lights, all set differently, complete with radar, cameras, left-turn arrows, right-turn arrows, and chirping sounds for the visually impaired.

8. Starbucks

a. Small Town...NONE

b. Big City...drive-throughs on every corner, in Target, in grocery stores, and shopping malls.

REASONS TO COME BACK AS A DUCK

TOP TEN REASONS WHY I WANT TO COME BACK AS A DUCK

10. I can float all day on the lake and not get sunburned

9. I don’t have to worry about my hair in the rain

8. I don’t need to buy a fishing license

7. I can avoid going through security when I fly south for the winter

6. I can visit New York, North Carolina, and Georgia on my way to Florida

5. It doesn’t take 9 months to pop out an egg

4. My children follow me wherever I go – and they like me

3. Daddy duck doesn’t tell me how to raise the kids

2. The children can find their own apartment when they are 6 months old

And the number 1 reason I want to come back as a duck – I don’t have to find a toilet to take a dump