bad metaphor

In less than a week, I will hit the open road with my lovably crazy mother, swerving around semis and sailing through speed-traps, in an attempt to disembark in Harrisburg, PA as fast as my mom’s little Toyota can go. The fact is, I get on better with my mom than, say, Tori Spelling does with hers, but she has enough quirks and insane, irrational beliefs that are directly at odds with my fundamental principles of cross-country driving:

1) Rest stops are, in her mind, breeding grounds for thieves and ruffians who will jack your car and leave you murdered, dead, and on a Fox News report somewhere. Once, when we drove up from Wichita to Lawrence together, the rest of us in the car (my sister, her husband, and I) clamored for a rest stop, so we pulled over at the Emporia rest stop. Typical turnpike drivers will recognize this spot as relatively clean, safe, and overall nicer than Emporia proper. We went to the McDonalds (dirty kitchens, clean restrooms) to use the facilities, and the entire time, my mother stood by the window, attempting to casually keep an eye on the car, but instead, looking like a shifty-eyed, escaped mental patient. When queried on why she was hanging out by the window, instead of sitting at the table with the rest of us eating lunch, she said she had to make sure nobody slashed her tires. Keep in mind, this was in the afternoon, in broad daylight, and no, my mother doesn’t have (to our knowledge) some crazy stalker guy.

2) She thinks reasonable levels of air-conditioning will explode the car.

3) She also thinks driving for long periods of time will put wear on the car. I guess technically that is true, but in conjunction with her terror of rest stops, I really don’t know what she thinks one is supposed to do. Hence, she is of the opinion that one can only drive about six hours a day before stopping, wherever we end up, for the night. Roughly calculated, if we go by her specifications, we will arrive in Harrisburg, PA on February 7th, 2075 A.D.

4) Motion sickness. As in mine, not hers. Her principle of braking and accelerating is of the “stomp on that motherfucker like it was a black widow spider” variety, and unfortunately I can’t just inhale a bunch of Dramamine and forget about it, as I probably need to be conscious during my driving shifts. Maybe.

I’ll probably think of more things to add later, when I go home this weekend and plot out travel plans. I am trying to look on the bright side of things: St. Louis, which we will be stopping through, is pretty cool; also, I like road trips. Usually. With sane people. And I love my mom, hapless nut that she is. Of course, then again, it’s been a long time since I’ve been stuck in the width of a car’s space with her for much longer than a few hours at a time.

Yeah. This whole optimism thing, not working so much.

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