Lets Play A Game

*** continued from previous post ***


While Mom enjoyed a good scrubbing, I busied myself the way I do most mornings and promptly fell back asleep.

This time not the sleep of the dead, but more like 'Hey it's really cold because it's December and the electricity is out so let's bring that big honkin' BBQ into the house, fill 'er to the the brim with briquettes, and fire that baby up! That'll warm us all toasty and put a healthy glow into the kid's cheeks' kind of sleep.

Wait a sec. . . . ummm . . . I guess that's the sleep of the dead as well.

I don't know if you're aware, but another of Mom's and my favorite games is: If-David-Falls-Back-Asleep-Don't-Wake-Him-Until-It's-Five-Minutes-Before-The-Time-We-Have-To-Leave.

It's not my favorite game, as waking up in a modified panic does funny things to my heart and can cast a pall over my morning, but your mother has grown quite fond of it over the years. I don't share her enthusiasm, but she puts up with quite a bit from me so I allow her these simple pleasures.

I've asked her many, many, many times why she does this to me, to which she replies, "I woke you once. Be an adult and get your keister out of bed."

Silly, silly Mom. I've tried to explain to her that obviously, after all these years she KNOWS I'm going to fall back asleep, so why play this silly charade? Why not just wake me again?

To which she replies that I KNOW she won't wake me again, and I KNOW that I have to get up, so why do I insist on playing this silly charade and just get the hell out of bed?

Oh . . . now I get it! Gah! Well played good woman. I’ve done been bamboozled with me own logic.

*** the journey continues ***

This Is What Marriage Is All About

*** continued from previous post ***


"I have a question for you," Mom said and I wanted to bang my head against the wall because have you ever noticed that when someone says "I have a question" they say that for one of two reasons: One, they are preparing you for some kind of bombshell, as in "I have a question for you. Has the baby always been on fire?" Or two, they are not really asking you a question. What they are doing is establishing a logic framework in order to make an accusation, as in "I have a question for you. Where were you on the night of February 4th between the hours of 7 PM and 9 PM, and were you aware that not only were you being tracked by LoJack, but we have sequential security camera footage of you on your little adventure with the Camel and the Nuns and the AK-47 badly disguised as a doll?

Guess which line of questioning your Mother was pursuing.

"Oh good. Had a bit of time to ponder the day whilst I was showering, have we?"

She ignored my question, but narrowed her eyes all snake-like. If she were John Wayne I would have been staring down the barrel of a peace-maker and the lead would have been about to fly. She smiled, ever so slightly. There was not a hint of love nor kindness nor femininity in that smile.

"Did you pick up on the fact that this is more of a 'Bed and Breakfast' type place rather than a 'What would you like from the menu?' type place?" And of course she knew the answer to that, but as I said, that's not what this particular conversation was about.

My blood ran cold. For some reason, I had hoped that the powers-that-be would have taken pity on me after the gauntlet of our day and let this one rest. Just for tonight. Silly me and my silly expectations.

As you know, your Mother has many, many, many, many, (is she still reading over my shoulder?), many, MANY wonderful qualities and attributes. Being thrust into social situations with large groups of strangers is not among that pantheon. I can clearly recall having a discussion on this exact subject some . . . oh, I don't know . . . 7 or 8 thousand times in our life.

Phrases like 'I never want to stay in a Bed and Breakfast.", and "I can think of nothing more unpleasant than trying to make idle conversation with strangers first thing in the morning." and "If you ever book us in something like that there will be Hell to pay." sprang to mind.

I have one hope. I will play dumb.

"Really?" I say, and open my eyes all puppy like. "I didn't know that. Hmmmmm . . . Well, I guess we will just have to make the best of it."

I prepared myself for a lecture. I would have welcomed a harsh word, possibly some cursing. Slight physical punishment was not out of the question. But it was worse. Mom just shook her head and sighed.

"Let's get this over with," she said, and slipped damp tennis shoes on her pruney little feet. "If this is like the rest of our day they'll probably douse us with acid before dessert."

Great. Not only have I almost killed my love countless times on this trip, now I have disappointed her as well. This day just keeps getting better and better and better. Well played, Good Sir. Well played. I had been successful in inflicting the maximum emotional damage possible in the shortest amount of time while expending the least amount of energy. That, my young daughter, is what marriage is all about.

I slipped on my boots over my sore feet - my other shoes were very, very wet - and we made the short journey out the door, through the dark, and into the Lodge.

*** the journey continues ***

It's A Little Game Married People Play

*** continued from previous post ***


"Whoopsie!", I say, with a melodic lilt that manages to annoy even myself.

"Well great," Mom sighs.

It is now that my masculinity kicks into high gear. I need to take control. I will not stand idly by and let this cursed day get the best of me. I will solve this problem, like so many men before me have solved problems of their own creation.

I will lie.

"Look, standing here is doing us no good. Get on the back of the bike and we will push on. I know how to get to the Nordic Centre." (Lie #1)

"I'm sure Sweet Alice can get us that far, and probably a bit beyond." (Lie #2)

Really, it can't be that bad. (Lie #3)

“I told them in the note when I booked the place that we were coming in on motorcycle. (This is true.) If they thought we couldn't make it, they would have told me." (I believed this to be true.) It's going to be fine. (Lie #4)

Your mother - my wife, my companion, my friend, co-conspirator, cheer-leader and all around pal these last 30 years - knew right away I was spewing total bullshit.

"Fine," she said and without another word climbed on the back of the bike. Though silent, I could read her body language under the layers of clothing. She had not so much capitulated as she had decided, as if she were on a dare, to see how this would play out. And of course, then hold me accountable. It's a little game married people play.

I took a deep breath, fired the engine, and without further ado set off to find this Canadian / Scandinavian Cloning Facility masquerading as some sort of ski operation. I had turned the volume down on the GPS, but I could see our rough path laid out on the map to where Sweet Alice thought the PO Box might be. It was just a big arrow pointing towards the mountains on the other side of town. It did nothing to calm my nerves when the screen started flashing red and the word DANGER in all caps popped on and off the screen like a demonic jack-in-the-box. F' you Sweet Alice! I've had enough of your silliness for one day! I clicked into first and hit the gas. Right or wrong, I was at least moving and that felt good.

We wandered through the streets of Carnack for what seemed an eternity. Missing turns, pulling u-turns in parking lots, changing lanes abruptly - you know, all the stuff that makes taking a HUGE FLIPPIN' MOTORCYCLE THROUGH UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY DURING RUSH HOUR IN A MONSOON so exciting. But my perseverance paid off. At last, I spotted a sign for the Nordic Centre.

I patted your Mom's leg in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, and we took the turn into the mountains. It was probably gorgeous and breathtaking. I have no idea.


*** stay tuned - the journey continues ***

Lunch or Dinner? Both!

*** continued from previous post ***


Turns out the gentleman was very nice, and our room which we previewed - while small - is spotless.

As we conduct our business, we inquire as to the local cuisine. "Dave", (yes, that's his real name although he shall always be 'shirtless old dude' to me), ponders for a bit, scratching his chin. "Well, there is a pub down the road. You MIGHT give that a try. Or there is this Greek place." He continues to rattle off a few more happennin' spots around town. None of them were what I would call strong recommendations.

"It's kind of hard on a weekday. The places stay open later on the weekend. I think most of them close pretty early." He gave us a slight shrug of his shoulders as if to say in a semi-apologetic way, "What ya gonna do, eh?"

Close early? It's 6 flippin' o'clock! In the middle of summer! How early do they eat around here? I mean, we aren't on "Moore Time", you know? What's "Moore Time" you ask? You're Mom, in what I assume is rehearsal for old-age, prefers dinner at 4:00 to 4:30 in the afternoon. For me, that's lunch. Over the years, like so many tiny conflicts in our marriage we've managed to find a compromise, a middle-ground if you prefer that is mutually acceptable to us both. When possible we usually eat dinner at 4:00 to 4:30 in the afternoon.

Stop laughing. You know it's true.

We fill out the proper paperwork, get our key, and thankfully the next few minutes are uneventful as we unload the bike and settle into the room. The bed is very comfortable, and to my surprise we have a wireless internet connection. We have an air-conditioner. A toilet that doesn't smell of port-o-potty chemicals. Plus, the room isn't moving and weaving. After the day we've had this is the Ritz.

Life is good.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Goodbye USA - Hello Canada!

*** continued from previous post ***

Yes I was guilty. Guilty of being an American.

The Canadian official, our guide to the splendor that is Canada, our ambassador to all things northy, motioned for me to turn off the bike. I gave him a quick glance to see what we were dealing with. He might have been 20, but I doubt it. His beard, if you could call it that, would inspire comments such as, "Aw, look! He's trying to grow a beard. Isn't that cute?". Or, "You know, shaving is 'in' right now." Or, "Dear god! Get a stick quick! That poor boy is being attacked by some varmint with mange! It might be a wolverine! Or a cat! Either way, that thing needs a good smackin'."

I guess I could have just described his beard as 'patchy', but that word does not do Capt. face-fur justice.

He was dressed in a crisp, khaki and forest green uniform and wore, what we in the USA call a 'Smokey The Bear' hat. He looked like the cutest boy scout ever. I thought it prudent not to mention this to him. It might spoil the moment.

After our initial greetings, and the typical, 'whereyoufrom-whereyougoing-howlongyoustaying?', the following conversation took place which, although you might not believe me, is reproduced verbatim:

Him: "Do you have any guns?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Do you have any knives?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Any weapons of any kind?"

Me: "Nope."

Him: "How about Mace or other aerosol devices like Pepper Spray?"

Me: "Umm . . . no. We don't have anything."

Him: "You don't have any weapons of any kind on your person or on your motorcycle?"

Me: "No." (Although, at this point, I'm beginning to get a little nervous)

Him: "Not even anything to protect yourself against animals?"

Me: (Animals? WTF????) "No. Should I?"

Him: "Go on ahead and enjoy your stay in Canada," he said with a smirk and waved us through.

Mom immediately wants to pull over and buy guns. And knives. And brass-knuckles. Oh, and Mace. Possibly a Howitzer if we can find one. Poor dear, it's been a long day. It takes some talking, but I convince her that all she really needs is a rock that I picked up in the parking lot of a convenience store where we stopped to grab our umpteenth bottle of water. The fullness, the heft, the sharp edges all seemed to soothe her. Her eyes lost that wild saucer-shape that gives me the willies.

She loved that rock. In the days to come, I believe she loved that rock more than me. I can't blame her. The rock never convinced her to go on a motorcycle trip to Banff.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

The Things We Do For Love

*** continued from previous post ***

After horking a delicious road burger we noticed something odd - the temperature, which if you'll remember started out in the low 50s, and had dropped to the low 30s at the top of the pass, had firmly planted itself around 100 degrees.  I had warmed up long ago, and was feeling fine and fresh in my mesh.  Your Mom, bless her little heart, was not fairing so well.  She had taken her lining out of the jacket, shed layer after layer like a snake in spring until she was down to a T-Shirt.  She'd traded her heavy gloves for a lighter pair, and was still sweating.  Quite profusely I might add.

"Go ahead.  Say it," she said as she crammed her shed clothes into a zippered pocket on the nylon bag.

"Wouldn't think of it dear," I said and patted her on the arm.

Relief filled her eyes and I could see a little tension ease from her shoulders, "Thank you."

"Think nothing or it.  These are the things we do for love."

That brought a smile to her face.  "So, just for giggles, if you weren't so nice, what would you have said?"   

"For giggles?  Okay.  I may," I said, and busied myself with putting my gloves back on, "although it would be quite rude and unnecessary, pointed out the fact that, except for a brief time on the pass, you made the wrong choice of gear, and will now boil like a lobster for the remainder of the vacation, until you dehydrate into nothing more than a dried husk of your former self.  And I certainly wouldn't point out the fact that I had told you so.  Or, that if we had the UberBitchin' Tote 9000, I could have whipped you up an iced espresso at any given moment thereby saving you from death by thirst and at the same time searched on the Netz for how to remove sweat stains from chrome.  But I, m'lady, am a gentleman above all else, so I shan't say a thing."

She shook her head and chuckled softly.  "It's a good thing I love you so much."

For that she got a nice long hug.  I would have held her longer but she was beginning to smell a bit.  Plus she was a slightly slippery to the touch.  One sweaty, sweaty little lady.  Eww.

*** the journey continues tomorrow *** 

To Mesh or Not to Mesh . . . that is the question.

*** continued from previous post  ***


"Dang", I said, rubbing my hands together, "little chilly out here."

"That's an understatement. It's freezing!", Mom exclaimed, wrapping her arms about herself.

"Well, I guess so much for the mesh jacket. I'm going to wear my heavier coat."

I don't think we had the mesh jackets the last time you were home, so you need to know that what I'm talking about is a full sized coat, with Kevlar armor in the elbows, shoulders, kidney area, and back that sports perforated holes on the sleeves and body. That way, when on the bike, the air flows through the holes keeping you cool. It's as comfortable as riding with a T-shirt, but wayyyyyyy safer. Well, relatively safer. If you like your skin it's definitely the way to go.

"I think you'll be sorry babe. Just layer up until we get over the mountains. It's supposed to be hot in Eastern Washington. Upper 90's in some places."

I have no idea why your Mother had her doubts about my weather prognosticating abilities, but she gave me a look like our old dog Barkley used to give me when I was trying to hide a pill in his food. "No, I'm going to stick with the heavier leather jacket."

"Tiger, I know it's cold, but this is a fluke. A local cold pocket. Let's at least try and bungee cord your mesh gear to the nylon bag. If you wear your leather I think you're going to be sorry."

"Well, I think you're going to be sorry for wearing your mesh."

I knew what this was. You're Mom had caved one too many times in the last few days to my demands. She was drawing a line in the sand. She was holding her ground. This was her Masada. She was the Romans. I, logically, must be the hold-outs at the top of the mountain. And we all know how well that turned out for our Jewish friends.

I decided to try one more time, "Sweetie, with the heated seats you'll be fine. Please, let's at least try and take your mesh."

"I'll be fine," she said, quietly and evenly. "If I get too hot, I'll unzip the liner and take it out."

I could see that arguing would be pointless. Fun no doubt, but pointless. Possibly, given her mood, dangerous. No, we would find a way to deal with whatever came our way. If worse came to worse, I would buy her another damn mesh jacket, and mail her heavy coat home.

"Okay. Well, let's get this show on the road, shall we?"


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Colder than . . . something.

*** continued from previous post  ***



It was then that I noticed that the nylon bag I had strapped down so well had slipped sideways and was now, to put it delicately, dribbling off the side of the trunk. It was a pathetic sight.

As you know, I am nothing if not tenacious, so after a couple of hours, some blood, some cursing, and a promise to the Elder Gods to finally complete my application to Miskatonic University, (Cthulhu makes a bitchin' mascot! Take that Jersey Devils!), I had managed to put everything in order. Mostly. Which was good, because I was exhausted and our departure tomorrow would dawn bright and early. It was time to get some rest.

In our attention to detail I thought we were prepared for any contingency. HA! The Fates, God, The Universe . . . whomever is pulling the strings on this sideshow we call life just loves that kind of crap. Gives them a target. Bastards. But I'm not bitter. Well . . . yes I am, but it has nothing to do with this trip.

Mostly.



* * *



After a good night's sleep and a hearty pot of coffee, Mom and I, chipper as a cheer-leading squad on ecstasy, stepped out to greet the day and embark on our grand adventure. Oh the excitement! Is there anything more wonderful than starting out on a journey that you've been planning for months and months and months? There probably is, but I'm not going to ruin the moment by speculation. We were giddy, let's leave it at that.

Now as we stepped out the door the first thing we noticed was that it was cold. I mean really cold. Not just 'cold in relation to August', but cold as in . . . well, just cold. It was 51 degrees. Cloudy. Misting. Bone-chilling. Welcome to summer in the Pacific Northwest! As any true native Puget Sounder can tell you, summer begins on July 5th and ends the 8th of August. Then boom! Back again after Labor Day for 2 weeks. I think that those two weeks are strictly to mess with the minds of the kids who've had to go back to school. I remember, as a child, going to class on the first day of the fall semester, wearing my new coat and winter clothes because, "school starts in the fall', and immediately dieing because it was 80 flippin' degrees. Each year I vowed that next year I would do it differently. But, that first day of school would find me once again sporting a parka with sweat stains in the pits and suffering from heat exhaustion. Who needs kidneys anyway? Internal organs, in my opinion, are completely over-rated. Ah, good times . . . good times.


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Waffles: the crux of evil

*** continued from previous post  ***


Okay, now we were making progress. "What about the waffle maker? Do you really think we're going to use that?"

"What if we want waffles?"

In your Mother's world, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable question. I was miles ahead of her though, and had already crafted an appropriate response. "What," I said cocking my head and smiling as if I'm pointing out a completely foreign thought, and a rather clever one, "if we don't want waffles?"

That is some fine thinking right there. I was very proud of myself.

She started to rub her temples in slow, circular motions. "Have it your way. The waffle maker stays. Is that it?"

"Well, what about all that food? I mean, we aren't going camping. Can't we just take a couple of things to snack on?"

She looked at me like I had lost what little of my mind I had left. "We need that stuff! You don't know what we're going to run into. What if we are stuck in the middle of nowhere, and it's dark and we get hungry?"

I'm beginning to notice a pattern here. Evidently most of your Mother's reasoning centered around the idea that we were going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere for an extended period of time. At night. This, I'm sorry to say, was part of her delusional state. Poor, poor Mom.

Now before you think that I'm being too hard on her, I'm willing to admit that over the years, there may have been a couple of times when we found ourselves in just such a predicament. You know, you were there for some of them. We've run out of gas a couple of times. Well, maybe more than a couple. Certainly not more than twenty - twenty-five tops. Then there was the time we popped a fan belt, and sat on the side of the road for about 7 hours because I said "We don't need to carry tools. It's a new car." There was the fact that we had been in the ditch a few times, usually in a place that we had no business trying to drive a car. I, on rare occasions, have been known to lock the keys in the vehicle at the most inopportune moments. There were a few incidents with a pesky carburetor on a 1975 Ford Courier. In case you don't know the Ford Courier was the smallest truck ever made that didn't have "Hot Wheels" stamped on the side. It's true we'd been lost - a bunch. We've had to sleep in the car from time to time. And of course there had been the flat tires, the blown engines, the occasional small fires. Pretty typical stuff. You know, no different than anyone else and certainly nothing which I had the slightest bit of control.

"Babe," I said, "trust me. We're not going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. We'll take a couple of snacks and call it good. Why, I bet we won't even use those! You'll see, everything will be fine."

I saw an opportunity here, and I went for it.

"You know - and I'm just sayin' - that if we had the UberBitchin' Tote 9000 we could take everything. Ev - Re - Thing." I drug the word out long and slow then inserted a moment of silence for effect. "Just think about that. If we had the UberBitchin' Tote we could take all you desire . . . all you desire and more!
"
This caused her to pause. I saw the conflicting emotions roll over her face like a cold spring wind in a field of wheat. "You are horrible. Absolutely, positively horrible. Do you know that?"

"Sweetie, I'm just looking out for you."

"I seriously doubt that. Listen and listen close. This is the last time I'm going to say this - we, under no circumstances, are buying that Uber thing."



*** the journey continues tomorrow

If I had a hammer . . .

*** continued from previous post  ***


The poor thing walked out of the house with a wild look in her eye. I say 'eye', not 'eyes' because for some reason one eye was open quite wide, and the other was clenched shut. 'Scrinched' is the proper descriptor. I would have asked why, but it didn't seem appropriate. I knew this was the most stressful time for her.

"What do you want?", she asked, "I'm kind of busy in here."

"Ummm. . .", I stammered, "I took everything out of the bike so we could pack. I think," I said, as calmly as I could, "that we need to be a little more spartan in what we take."

I pointed to the stuff laying on the ground. I've seen yard sales with less inventory.
Mom looked over the driveway filled with debris. She turned to me - or on me - I couldn't tell, and said, "What about it?"

I didn't much care for her challenging tone, but I would let it pass because I'm a coward. "Well, I just think that we need to conserve as much space as possible. Surely we can leave some of this stuff at home?"

To your Mom, them there is fightin' words.

"We need that stuff.", she said as if she were explaining to a small child.

"All of it?"

I swear to God she rolled up her sleeves, clenching and unclenching her fists. Well, maybe not. I might have imagined that part. "You have stuff in there too, it's not just me so don't act like I'm being unreasonable."

I shook my head in the positive, agreeing. "I would never suggest that you were being unreasonable. However, lets look at what you have, and lets see what I have, shall we? You," I said, and swept my arm towards the contents spread on the ground, "have all of this. While I," I said and reached down and picked up a small bag with Allen wrenches, a Phillip's-head screwdriver, a standard screwdriver, needle-nose pliers, 10 zip ties, 3 short bungee cords, a tire gauge, and a roll of duct tape, "have this."

Except for the duct tape it fit quite well in a small bagie.

She looked from me to the disgorged contents of the bike, to the bag I held in my hand, then back to me. "And your point is what?"

"My point is that there is no way we can take all of this AND our clothes AND the extra stuff we're going to need."

"Oh," she said, "you mean like the laptop you want to bring along?"

Gah. She had me there. You know how I get to Jonesin' if I don't have my Interwebs. I had to think quickly. "Well, I'll admit that may seem like a luxury, but we need it to plan routes and look up . . . things."

"And for you to check email, the forums for the bike, Woot, and LOL Cats?"

Damn you LOL Cats! There you are again! You will be my downfall yet!

"Among other things," I answered. "But look, we're getting off the point here. Really, can't we do without some of it? I mean, do we need a hammer?"

She looked like maybe she would like to use the hammer now. Upside my noggin. "Fine. Yes, that we can do without. We can leave the hammer."




*** the journey continues tomorrow

Packing for the trip or Hannibal crossing the Alps - Whatever.

*** continued from previous post  ***

As for packing I wanted to start with a clean slate. I took all of the junk - wait . . . I didn't say junk. I meant to say 'necessities' - out of the saddlebags, out of the trunk, out of the various nooks and crannies and arranged them on the ground next to the bike. When I was done, I stepped back and looked at the array.

Astonishing. It appeared that the bike had suddenly become ill, and regurgitated an eclectic collection of items that had been clogging its gullet. Think of those cartoon images of the inside of a whale after they've swallowed the hapless hero. Much like that minus the rowboat. The sheer volume and range of crap amazed me. I rarely pay attention to what your Mom has in the bags, and most of the time I don't really care. That's her domain. Usually. But we were going to be gone for seven days, it was time to pare back on the 'essentials'. The time had come to show your Mother how a man would pack. (She's not looking over my shoulder, is she? Good.).

So here is a brief run-down of what I found:

A pair of binoculars, a huge bag of rags and various cleaning products, a waffle maker, a first Aid Kit, 7 individual gloves, 2 sweaters, 2 sets balaclava and silkies, a crushed pop can, and 3 maps all full of mildew and in various states of disintegration. 1 gallon bag of over the counter meds, a thermos of congealed something, a panini press/hair dryer (there it is!), 2 broken flashlights, various magazines from 2001, a feather duster, an inflatable pillow, 1 bag with two rolls of flattened toilet paper, a set of helmet-to-helmet intercom systems that we had used once, and 4 pair of sunglasses - two with missing lens. Also, a deck of cards that had 'drawn moister', a cribbage board, a notebook, 35 ink pens - only 2 with caps, a nerf football (although that might have been on the ground before I unpacked), a calculator, a stapler sans staples, a bag of 'feminine products', 2 hair brushes, 2 umbrellas, 12,000 paper napkins stolen from every fast-food joint we had ever visited, a house plant, durable power of attorney, road flares, a hammer, and a flute.

Then there was the bags of food. Bags and bags and bags of nuts and cheeses and jerky and cookies and candy and power-bars and . . . and God knows what else. We could have opened up a convenience mart at any rest stop we visited.

I stood back to examine the cargo. I was mightily impressed. I mean honestly, how could you not be? I had not the slightest clue your mother even played the Flute.

I called to your Mom who was inside the house adding to her 'absolute necessities'. "Hey babe, wanna come out here for a minute?"

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Fuzzy Metrics

*** continued from previous post  ***


Mom walked up with a badminton set in her arms. She looked over my shoulder, studying the screen and the blue, highlighted path I had plotted. Our course blazed straight and true east-west across the map of Washington State before breaking into a squiggle as it snaked north across the border into the dark, dark heart of Canada.

Oh cool! So, that's the route we're taking?"

"Yes," I replied, full of pride regarding my excellent navigational skills, "I think that this will be the prettiest route we can take that will still give us a taste of the region, and afford us ample time to reach the Lodge on schedule." I smiled, convinced that she would admire the brilliance of my planning and relish the fact that she bore my children.
She leaned close to the screen and studied the way-points and miles, (Whoops! Kilometers!), and estimated arrival times. "Day number two looks like a long one."

"Yeah, but you have to remember that the numbers are in kilometers. Not miles."

"Hmmmm. . . still, that's a long day. 628 Kilometers. Do you think we can do that? Isn't that pushing it a bit?"

I gave her my best reassuring smile, and hoped it didn't look too patronizing. "Honey, please. Do I tell you how to pack? Trust me, I've got this covered."

Standing she said, "Actually, you tell me how to pack all the time."

This is true. "Well, maybe. But you have to admit you do have a tendency to go a bit over-board on the 'necessities'." Here, I actually put in air quotes with my fingers. I immediately wished I could have taken it back, but the horse was out of the barn. The plane was down the runway. The fuse, so to speak, was definitely and irrevocably lit.

"Did you just air quote me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

I froze. Luckily, I was on top of my game that day, and an answer, one that I hoped would avoid disaster, sprang from my mouth like a bus load of little leaguers at free beer and pizza night. "No. I wouldn't do that. Not air quotes." I jerked my hands around willy-nilly in the air. "Minor seizure. Nothing with which to concern yourself."

She stared at me for a moment, sighed, and with a shake of her head went back to looking for that combination panini-press and hair dryer for which she'd been searching these last two hours. After all, you never know when a nice hot sandwich is going to save your life. And as any sane person would readily admit, if that occasion should arise you want your hair to look its best.

*** the journey continues tomorrow