My Sweet Ride

Sometimes, when we transport more than four passengers, we use my car or “Vincent-VAN-Go. Just once, I would like to be driven in my “ride”, without the comments, my husband feels he must make. Before we even back out of the garage, he will have something to say about the smell in my car. "Did someone step on something, and track it in here?" He queries, with nose wrinkled. "Well excuse me! I usually drive more than two boys all over creation, and as every mom of sons will attest, they don’t smell like roses.  In fact they smell more like grand champions from a bean burrito eating contest. Add to that potpourri stinky sneaks, sweaty cleats, and dirty socks, (which are discarded during quick outfit changes on the road) toss in a tank-full of chlorine from swim practice, and there is no surprise why my dashboard is festooned with 20 or 30 air-freshener trees! He thinks he is so funny when he opens the car windows, and a show of theatrical breathing through his mouth ensues. He oughta experience the aroma during the summer, when that van has been sealed up and baked in the sun for a few hours.

Next category we broach is the cleanliness, or lack thereof in my car. “Are these burger wrappers and fry cups balled up in the side compartment?” “Why are there empty soda cans, coffee cups, stirrers?”  “Does that plastic bag have new toothbrushes in it?”  “This car is an absolute disgrace!”  “Listen”, I reply “I am only the pilot of this transport unit.”  “You will need to take it up with the flight crew, whom happen to be sitting right behind you.” “Unfortunately for you, I believe they are on a break, union rules you know.”

The tangles of wires emanating from every possible jack, or cigarette lighter are next on deck.  “What all in God’s name do you have plugged in here?”  “Just the usual, phone charger, GPS, I-Pod, and game boy chargers.”  You haven’t really felt despair, until you get lost, the phone is out of juice, all your getting on the radio is sports channel, and the boys are bored.  I consider these on board necessities, and as the regular captain of this rig, I rule. The wires stay.

My spouse then flips on the seat warmers, and asks how I like them.  He is a huge fan of warm seats; I prefer my rump roast out of the pot with onion gravy, thank you very much. Now if they come out with seat chillers, well then you have my undivided attention.

There is the usual interrogation about when did you last have the oil changed, why do you only have a quarter tank of gas, where are you buying gas, I hope when you gas up, you are paying cash, not the jacked up price for credit card purchases, blah, blah, blah

So we are now about two tenths of a mile into our journey, when he broaches the pothole subject. If you had the winter, like we had here in Jersey, you know what I am talking about. There are more craters on our roads then on the surface of the moon. He utters some kind of strangled sound and asks me if I try and avoid the potholes. “Oh no” I reply, “I aim right for them, just like I do for animals, children and old ladies.” He is not amused by my wry sense of humor. “Look!” He demonstrates. “If you take your hands off the wheel, the car pulls to the right!” Well this is where we differ; I always have one if not two hands on the wheel when I drive.  I learned when I was eight years old, that going hands free on anything that moves was not the prudent choice. I have the scars on my knees to prove it!”See how I avoid all the potholes?” He says, driving down the wrong side of the road.  Once again, I agree to disagree, I prefer driving down the right side of the street.  To each his own. 

He shakes his head in resignation, as we motor onto the highway.  All is silent, until BANG!  From the flight crew in the back we hear “Dad, did you just hit a pothole?”  I just glance out my window, and smile.