Just Don't Ask Me, OK?

I'm getting grouchy again.

I try not to be grouchy, really. I like to be a happy person, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, but sometimes this is a harder task to accomplish than I'm willing to put the work into. The song in my heart generally remains there, but occasionally it turns from "Zip A Dee Doo Dah" into "Fuck Off And Leave Me Be," if in fact that is a song. If not, maybe I'll write it.

I walked into the office today on my return from lunch with this statement to the office girls: "I know I'm going to be old one day, but if getting old makes me as grouchy as my parents have gotten, I swear I hope someone takes a cast iron skillet and beats the hell out of me."

See, I have this thing. Well, actually, I have several things and that is why I'm generally considered a pod and a hinky one at that, but there is just this one thing that drives me batshit crazy. And that thing is, when someone comes to me and asks me something, and I answer that something - and then they tell me I'm wrong!

God Jesus, that just gets all over me, like tar and feathers, and I'll stew all day over it.

I have several people in my life who do this to me, and if you're reading this blog you can be assured that you're not one of them, so don't worry, I'm not talking about you here. Anyway, the main two are my father and, in the grand tradition of "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," my sister.

And it was the father that prompted today's office rant-rave about being beaten with a cast iron skillet.

My father is a man who doesn't drive anymore, seeing as how he can't see to drive anymore, and yes, I'm sure if I couldn't see to drive anymore (and I'm well aware this will probably happen to me in the not-so-distant future) I'd be grouchy too, with the addition of being a whiny-ass baby about it as well, which at least my father is not and so let's commend him there. Let's also commend me on writing the longest sentence in history. So anyway, when my folks want to take a trip, my mom drives. Look back at that sentence, and imagine the fear it causes me on a daily basis. My mother got her driver's license - the same year I did. And since then, at least until the sight going for my dad, her biggest drive had been from her driveway to the grocery store or beauty shop, or if she was feeling very adventurous indeed, the mall. My mom drives about 40 miles an hour everywhere - in her driveway, on a small two-lane road, and on the interstate. Unless she's going in reverse, when she drives somewhere around 70. My mom also smokes, while she drives and does everything else, and when she's driving she's either holding a cigarette tightly between her lips not unlike cartoon characters hold lit dynamite sticks, or she perches it between her fingers and looks back and forth between the road and the ashtray, which, frankly, scares the shit out of me.

And so my mom who once toodled around town is now driving all over the free fucking world. At 40 miles an hour. My mom also gets very nervous while driving, and doesn't really understand that if you miss an exit, you can sit tight and take the next one and generally find your way where you're going. One wrong move, and it's disaster time for her. God love her. And so my dad, who is a backseat driver of the highest caliber, becomes her navigator, and he can't see, God love him, and, well, I don't know how they get anywhere without killing themselves and everyone who owns a car, whether they're on the road or not, but they seem to have done all right so far.

My mom wants to take a trip up to see her sister, who lives in Maryland, not far out of Washington, DC. She's not taken this trip since she became the driver, but she's up to the task behind the wheel with my sightless dad (God love him) as the navigator. In the many previous trips Up North, they've taken the same route - east to Richmond, and north to Maryland. It keeps them off the DC Beltway, and everyone's happy.

So anyway, today my mom and dad came into the office to stare at me a while, and my dad sat down at my desk to ask me if I'd do him a favor. Would I please look up the directions to the aunt's house on the internet for him. And I told him I was happy to oblige, but that I wanted to officially issue a disclaimer that internet directions were what had me going up 8 mountains (2 of them snow-covered) on my six-hour foray to Thomas, WV to see the Hackensaw Boys, when it was really only a four-hour trip (with no snow and the added feature of bathrooms) when I used an atlas and mapped out my own way back home.

He said he understood.

So I went online and punched in home and destination addresses, and in what certainly was no surprise at all, the directions that appeared had them going through DC on the Beltway. "Sorry about that," I said, though it wasn't my fault, and my dad replied that he knew everything about how to get to Maryland via Richmond except for one small detail. "The road that you get off on to get to the town, I just can't remember its number. It's Route 8 or something, but I just can't be sure."

So I read a little through the directions, and saw that after going through Washington, DC and giving George Bush the finger (well, my dad wouldn't do that but I would), and heading south, the road that would take them into their town was Route 5 South.

"Oh, it's Route 5," I said with accomplishment.

"No it's not," my dad replied.

"Yes, it is. It says right here, Route 5 South. All you have to do is take Route 5 North, since you're coming in from the opposite direction."

"No, that's not right."

I went on to draw, actually draw on a piece of paper with grand gestures, how there's a town with a Route 5 running right through it, and if these directions have you getting there by going up and then heading into town on the southern portion, that going east, you take the northern portion of the same road.

"No, that's not it. I'll call AAA," he said, actually pissed off that I was defending my position on this.

Well, fine. I hope they call AAA and are very happy. Or I hope they hitch-hike to Maryland and are not picked up by a man with a bloody hook. Or I hope they walk, and they'd better start now before winter comes. Just don't ask me again, because I'm not answering anymore.

And the next time someone asks me a question and then tells me the answer was wrong, I'm going straight home and getting out my cast iron skillet. God knows it'll be put to better use over someone's head than it will in my kitchen.

My parents. God love 'em. I sure hope He does, anyway, because He can take a lot better care of them on the roads than I can.

Maybe they should ask Him what route it is. (It's Route 5 N, Your Godness.)

Betland's Olympic Update:
* I spent this evening putting my meager drawing skills to use for Taytie's marching band, making props. I drew an 8 by 12 foot flugelhorn!
* And yes, there's a brand new Hucklebug for your enjoyment. Download on iTunes, or go here and listen.