cc via flickr user max_katz
This was the recurring theme I heard from Jeanne when, out of the goodness of my heart, I drove her and Sassy to the Boston suburbs last weekend to see our relatives. Jeanne kept saying it was a nightmare because we hit horrible traffic once we got off the Mass Pike. What should have been 2o more minutes became an hour, with Jeanne repeating her above mantra while clearing her throat and questioning my navigation choices.
This really made me mad.
Especially since as the recent survivor of a nasty back injury, it wasn’t exactly the greatest thing to be driving for five hours while simultaneously looking for a deli that Jeanne wanted to go to but couldn’t remember the actual (or approximate) location. But she knew it was off one of 6 different highways we took. “I could go for a corned beef sandwich,” Jeanne piped up from the back seat. “Couldn’t you?”
That was before we hit the traffic. During that tense 60 minutes, I did a thorough and scathing self-inventory and decided that NEVER NEVER again will I agree to drive Jeanne to Boston 1. as the only driver (This means, Sassy, that you MUST get a license) and 2. on a Friday afternoon.
I’m just telling you, Mah, you weren’t the only one having a bad dream that day. Yeesh.
Okay, are you absolutely sure that you weren’t driving MY mother to Boston? Because when she’s not saying “It’s (or it was) a nightmare”, she’s saying “It’s (or it was) a disaster.” Which of course can mean anything from a lukewarm coffee to the war in Iraq.
i think we should introduce them so they can kvetch to each other.
Oh, Hot Pants, how I wish my carefree unemployed life were still around. I would have driven happily.
I always thought I got my “repeater’s syndrome” from Bob, but I guess Jeanne’s contributed as well.
What a nightmare! What a nightmare! What a nightmare!