They say 50% of all marriages end in divorce. The other 50% have probably never been on vacation together.
Today we're driving from Kansas City to Grand Rapids, MI. We're not even to the bottom of the driveway and the kids are already fighting. It's hard to threaten to 'turn this car around' when you're still facing the house. I'll bet there's a fortune to be made in road-side vasectomy clinics and drive-thru divorce courts.
My wife refuses to drive. She has climbed into the back seat to watch a movie with the kids. I'm in the front seat alone, like a chauffeur driving Ms. Lazy.
Sounds of The Twilight Saga ooze in from the back. "Why can't you be more like Edward Cullen," she asks? "Why can't you be more like Jenna Jameson," I think to myself? Touché.
We're less than an hour into the trip and they already have to stop. If god wanted us to use rest areas he wouldn't have invented Gatorade bottles.
Rest areas are so disgusting. I wish the sinks were outside of the restroom. The OCD hand-washer in me can't stop thinking of how many truckers went straight 'dick-to-door' and touched the door handle without washing first. And now by opening the door, I'm going to contaminate the entire box of Wheat Thins because I touched a trucker cock by proxy.
Is it wrong to wish laryngitis upon your own kids? My son has decided to read every sign between here and Michigan out loud.
"Dad, what's a 'work zone'?"
That's where you see all the construction workers and the plastic cones.
"Dad, what's 'Hooters'?"
That's where you see all the construction workers and the plastic 'cones'.
Kids do not understand the concept of 'comfortable silence'. I just want to hear the hum of my Good Year's against the pavement. But just when I get comfortable, another question smacks me in the back of the head. It's like driving with a van-full of smoke detectors with dying batteries.
Topping off the tank at a BP gas station. Accidentally spilled some gas when I pulled the pump out. Immediately mopped it up with a pelican.
She agreed to drive for a bit. I hate when she drives. She either drives too slow or too fast depending on what song is playing on the radio.
If Air Supply is playing, we're doing 59 mph in the left lane, oblivious to the train of cars stacked up behind us angrily flashing their lights. I feel like I'm riding in my own funeral procession.
If Metallica is playing, and we're weaving in and out of traffic in a top-heavy minivan, doing lane changes up on two wheels. I felt safer with my grandpa driving with a beer in one hand, the other hand covering his eye so he could see straight, while steering with his knee.
If only there were a band somewhere in the middle, with the perfect mix of electric guitar and queer. "Dear Casey: Can you please play, 'Creed'?"
Traffic jam. You can tell a lot about someone by the bumper stickers on their car. I'm behind a Prius with a gay pride rainbow sticker. Is the rainbow even necessary? On the hierarchy of gay transportation, the Prius comes in just after 'rollerblades' and just before 'Wiener Mobile'.
Not much car talk going on - or none I'm into. I can usually tell within the first few words of a sentence if whether or not I'm going to pay attention to the rest of the conversation. It's like a little game show I play with myself in my head. "I can tune out in three words."
Connor and I have to use the bathroom. I ask if she needs to stop. She doesn't. 'She doesn't' means 'we can't'. She's determined to get there first. Before whom, I have no idea. She talks me out if it by saying, "If we stop we're switching drivers." I'll take the guy in the Prius.