The family and I just got back from a road trip yesterday. That's why I posted three recipes in a row last week. I scheduled them. Love that.
Anyway, I have plans for a couple posts this week, but right now I have Mount Dirty Laundry to face, among other things. I do want to take a minute though, to share some of my mental trauma with you. Because I'm sick like that.
Our little mini vacay was a camping trip to Bear Lake on the Idaho/Utah border. Yes, you heard that right, camping. You know I'm not a fan of camping because of the dirt, and the lack of indoor plumbing, but the rest of the family is, so I took one for the team. After all, it's not always about me. Mostly it is, but not always.
Just kidding. I did have fun, but I really, really, really miss my indoor plumbing. I'm a big time germaphobe so I find public bathroom excursions to be a bit like mental boot camp. Zoe Bug and Stinkerbell are right there with me too. At one point we entered a Porta Potty, and Zoe came unglued and started hyperventilating. Call me a bad Mama, but I was a little bit proud of her for being repelled and freaked out, but then I had to talk her down and that felt just a little too ironic.
Like the blind leading the blind.
All that aside, we survived and we had a great time. Besides the plumbing deprivation, the worst part was driving there and back with Compass Man. Is it me, or are men just nuts behind the wheel? It's like driving with the Incredible Hulk sometimes, we're driving along, enjoying the beautiful scenery and then BLAM!!!! Compass Man is threatening the RV in front of us with an imaginary rocket launcher.
"If I had a rocket launcher mounted on my car, you would be DEAD! DEAD!"
It's crazy. Then I have the audacity to ask Mr. Grouchy Pants to pull over so I could use the restroom. He did not like that one little bit. Me and my itty bitty bladder.
Of course when I come back from the restroom, I'm driving. It's my punishment. You might think it would be a little more relaxing this way, but it's not. I get a continuous commentary each time we pass a vehicle we've seen before "Oh great, it took me ten minutes to pass that guy."
Geez. Why do men have to be in front of EVERYONE. ELSE. ON THE ROAD? Are they physically incapable of following another vehicle without having an embolism?
Get this though, we're coming home and I'm driving. Peanut Head turns to me and says "Um, you know you're going 80, right?"
I respond, "Hey! But nobody's passing me!" I'm so defensive.
"Oh yeah," he sheepishly responds.
Seriously, is it the testosterone that makes them crazy? Is there some kind of anti-venom we could give them before embarking on family road trips? Someone needs to get right on that.