Listen, I know you’ve heard this whole soliloquy before. But I must re-hash, as it unfolds. Why? Because you, my friends, are cheaper than therapy.
I’m presently traveling in a car with Nancy, heading to Philadelphia. We are literally 4 minutes into this trip, and he needs to immediately stop at Turkey Hill. For what, you ask? For boxes of any chewy, fluorescent colored candy that is not recommended for children over the age of 10.
Annnd here we go.
I cannot stomach loud chewing of any sort. Not even with the dogs. But Nancy chews with monsterous dramatic fervor and I am instantaneously apoplectic. My jaw is clenched so tightly, I am totally going to lose that fake tooth that fell out two years ago. I will kill him with my bare hands.
I HATE driving with him. So. Very. Much. He’s a terrible navigator and I spend the next 2.5 hours clasping the door handle with such heartfelt terror that I offer my condolences in advance to Matt Burne Honda. You apparently cannot manhandle a leased car. Who knew.
After the next rest stop … you know, because Maria has every bathroom issue on the spectrum, I decided I cannot sit in the front seat for one more hour with this clown. I flung my anxiety ridden, angst-filled body into the back seat. It is the only way to survive. For Nancy.
He said, “You aren’t really sitting back there, are you?” I answered: “Pretend you’re driving Miss Daisy. Go.” He mumbled: “You look like Miss Daisy, I’ll tell you that. Chomp-chomp-chomp.”
Next, we arrive at the very best part of a car trip with the man that thinks he’s Neil Sedaka. I call it: “Name That Tune … of a song that never contained these words in the first place.” He’s singing the incorrect lyrics to every, single song that’s playing. EVERY SONG. John Lennon, Jim Morrison and Michael Jackson are all rotating in their graves with disgust. I mean the song is THRILLER! Why is he singing about dentures in the sky and Phyllis Diller!? Someone save me.
And, I thought folding myself into the corner of the back seat would muffle the sounds of both the faux-singing and decibel-shattering snacking. No. He is now giving me a dedicated dissertation on the proper way to eat candy corn. Candy. Corn. The ultimate autumnal health food. I beg him to stop. He continues: “Ok. Everyone knows you have to snap the tip off first. Then you see this middle part? It’s orange. You can eat that next. And! Look! It’s the yellow! That’s the best part!” I thought: “No matter how you eat this, you boob, you are essentially ingesting a pyramid of food color and wax. But, hey, you enjoy it, little boy.”
How can one man make so many facial expressions and audible noises eating food? And why does it reach a crescendo when I’m ensconced within a 3,000-pound cage from which there is no escape? Skyrocketing down 476, I’m mentally calculating how, at the end of it, I can open the door, and tuck and roll into highway foliage. Don’t think I won’t do it.
And the man wouldn’t notice. He would be elbow-deep into a bag of Lemonheads and belting out “Hold me closer, Tony Danza.”
Why does the universe hate me?
