The 'Bag-O-Divorce' or Trailer Lust - take your pick.

*** continued from previous post  ***

"What about this one," I said, holding out a camouflaged-colored tight mesh bag. If the pictures on the tag could be believed this bag was for your trophy fish. A bag in which to stuff your fish. Oh this modern world, what will they think of next?

"What about what?"

"What about this?" I asked, shaking the bag in front of her.

"What are you talking about?"

"This!" I said, and placed the bag in your Mom's hand.

"What are you talking about?"

As you know, your Mother's sense of humor can pop up at the oddest times. My radar went on full alert. I was being toyed with. "If this is that same old joke about you not being able to see the bag because it's camouflaged, there's going to be trouble." I wrinkled my nose. "Big trouble."

"Okay," Mom says, "just trying to lighten the mood here." She studied the bag. "That's not going to work for several reasons."

"Oh," I said, "and why not?"

She sighed, just a little and said, "For one, it's a fishing bag. Do you hear me? A fishing bag. It's way to small. The only way to put it on the bike would be to glue it to a saddlebag or hang it from the handlebar, but mostly," she took a mighty sniff of the air, "it's a return. You don't want a return."

"What's wrong with a 'return'?" I asked. As you know, I'm a huge fan of Refurbs, (or RoXoRs, as the cool kids say). You and your sister were Refurbs. Look how well you turned out.

"Usually nothing. But this one stinks of dead fish. It must have been put back on the shelf by mistake. Once the August heat hits, that thing is going to reek."

Typical roadblocks and weak logic erected by the desperate. Obviously she was unconvinced and suspicious that I was causing a problem because I wanted a leather bag. While this was true, it hurt me that she would think such a thing. My mind raced looking for an excuse that made sense, and would get me one step closer to that $9000 touring bag with the buckles and chrome and built in computer screen/DVD recorder/espresso maker and axle and duel tires for which I had been lusting lo these many days. "I think that the smell of dead fish would be a good way to distract bears. We are going to the mountains you know, and if we run into trouble we could huck that baby a good ways away and the bears would run for it instead of making lunch of us. You don't want to be eaten by a bear, do you dear?" I purred.

This made her pause again, but only for a moment. "Do you really think we have to worry about bears? Really? I seriously doubt that bears attacking us on a motorcycle should be at the top of our worry list. You're just being difficult because you have something you want, and you think that you can wear me down."

See, this is the problem with a 30 year marriage. She knows me. I mean, really, really knows me. That's just . . . well, that's just unfair. I change tactics like a true warrior and appeal to her sense of thrift. "This bag. . . ", I flipped the tag over to show her the price, "it's only $10."

"That may be, but for crying out loud but it's a fishing bag! There are," and here she looked up and down the aisle, "about 30 other things that would work. And wouldn't stink. With a little effort on your part, I'm sure we'll find something. So quit dragging your feet like a three-year old and help me."

"Well," I sing-song, "I'm not sure we can find something. At least not here. Now, if we went down to the bike dealer. . ."

"Oh stop it. You're not getting whatever it is you have stuck in that head of yours. Now let's get serious. We have a ton of stuff to do before Tuesday. We need a bag. A simple bag to hold our clothes." She turned her back and muttered a string of words that were inaudible. I did pick out "fishing bag", and "wanker", then I stopped listening.

Fine. I walked half-way down the aisle and grabbed the first large storage device I came across. "What about this? It's big enough to hold everything we need." My voice was even, dead-flat and dangerous.

"You're kidding, right? It's a 50 gallon Styrofoam cooler. Not only is it obscenely large, it has a picture of a bikini-clad woman on the side. Why don't I just carry a garbage can on my lap? It would work better than that thing."

Point taken.

"Well," I said trying to keep the satisfaction out of my voice, "it's obvious we've run out of options. Let's go to the bike shop, bite the bullet, and get the 'UberBitchin' Tote 9000. It might be a little pricey, but as you've so often said, you get what you pay for." Ha! I have turned her own words and philosophy against her! Escape this intellectual trap mon petite dewdrop!

"We," Mom said, dropping her voice somewhere into the baritone range, "are definitely not buying that god-awful thing. It's not even a piece of luggage. It's a trailer. A trailer for your bike. Think about that for a moment."

Now we all know that for a biker, the line between 'wild and wicked King of the Road' and 'old-fartism', is a motorcycle trailer. Really, when you get to that point just buy a car. (Lest you think ill of your dear old Papa, let me take a moment to offer my apologies to all my bro's with trailers. But you're all old-farts and will never read this anyway.) However, appearance or not, I lusted for the 'UberBitchin' Tote 9000' like an Atkin's dieter lusts for a crusty, warm, sweet loaf of bread. And a potato. Ummmm . . . potatoes. . . .

"You know, you could take all the gear you wanted in the Uber Tote with room to spare." I knew that was hitting low, but fear I had tipped my hand too early so it was worth a shot. It was sneaky and manipulative to appeal to her minor obsession is such a manner, but . . . but . . . well I got nuthin', I just really, really wanted the damned Uber Tote. It was now in my blood. It was a mental itch that needed to be scratched.

Ignoring me completely, your Mom placed a hand to her brow and slowly massaged her temple, "You know, I don't even think they made it as a real product. I think they made it to see what kind of an idiot would buy something like that." Her eyes drew to slits, challanging me, demanding a response.

Oh, two can play at this game. "Must I remind you, dear lady, that I AM that kind of idiot?"

"I know exactly what kind of idiot you are, but I married you anyway. Give it up Chuckles. There is no espresso maker/DVD recorder for the bike in your future."

"Did I tell you it pops up into a fully contained sleeping compartment with a queen-sized bed?"

"No Uber anything. That's final."

You're mom had said that in a tone that left no room for discussion. I could see that this was one battle I was not going to win, so I let it go. For now. This would best be discussed some other day. All I needed to do was orchestrate some situation during the vacation where the concept of a tent/DVD recorder/espresso maker would be an undeniable boon to the trip. It shouldn't be that difficult. I began to scheme immediately. She forgot to mention the computer screen. This may just be the 'in' I was looking for. I filed that tidbit of knowledge away for future reference.

*** the journey continues tomorrow