Myrtle Beach 2006, Day 1

Here is a frightening picture: Driving through the mountains at 70 MPH in a maroon Ford 500 rented in my name with my mother at the wheel. Holy White Knuckles, Batman!

Let me just say here and now that I will never go on vacation with my parents again, unless my husband or some other familiar person under the age of 50 goes with us. Why do I never learn? Vacationing with the 'Rents is like pregnancy...long after the fact, the memory fades and I forget how bad it really was.

Okay, it's only day one but the 12 hours we spent on the road today were brutal. My stepfather John (J.J.) is recovering from a broken hip, so even though he got behind the wheel of his own car within two weeks of his surgery, I still don’t feel comfortable letting him drive the rental (look, if we even get a SCRATCH, I have to pay the damn deductible). Plus, he’s been in so much pain lately that he’s been mumbling “oxycotin” in his sleep. J.J. is a great guy, but he’s been through a lot and needs his rest. At least, that’s my story if anyone asks.

My mom is a different story altogether. Vibrant and healthy and a wonderful woman altogether, her driving skills have been highly suspect ever since she rolled the ’72 Vega back in 1976 with three of her children inside. Miraculously, we all walked away from that one alive (well, really we climbed UP a steep embankment after crawling out of the tiniest car ever known to humans…I have known toddlers with plastic Playschool Crazy Coupes bigger than a ’72 Vega). Mom has been in more accidents than I can count. Fortunately, I was only involved in the one, but my siblings have not been so lucky, although amazingly no one has ever been badly hurt.

What is even MORE amazing is that she hasn’t gotten into more accidents when you consider how badly she drives. My mom can’t keep the car in one lane to save her life, (she actually got pulled over by a cop once for driving in two lanes). And in spite of being a woman, she is unable to multitask at the most basic level. Case and point, her trying to find the headlight knob as we careen down the freeway at astronomical speeds in a morning mountain fog. “Left…now down…careful...CAR...no, the OTHER left…almost….up…WATCH OUT!...up…THERE!”

I would just as soon they let me do all the driving, as tiring as it is. Both of them need regular afternoon naps anyway, so they aren’t much good after 2:00 PM. It must be all that bickering that tires them out. I knew we were in for a long, LONG haul when they got into their first tiff in Adrian. ADRIAN. For those of you who may not be familiar, Adrian is about a half hour from where my parents live. Thirty minutes into the drive. J.J. was telling me about his stocks (J.J. spends half of every day in the library doing financial research…what do you expect him to talk about…the weather???). He told me he made some changes after he retired so he and the sMother would earn more income rather than increase their capital. He was in a pretty jovial mood and remarked that now my mom could have enough money in her account to “buy more trinkets for Katrina. Heh!”

Let's pause here for a moment to reflect. "...trinkets for Katrina." It's an expression, one of many "J.J.-isms" we have come to know and love. As far as I know, my mom doesn't even know anyone named Katrina.

Back to Adrian: OH, GOD NO! DON’T MAKE A COMMENT ABOUT MY MOTHER AND SHOPPING (theoretical or otherwise). My mother had apparently taken her defensive pills earlier in the morning because she shot back, “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT???? I HAVEN’T BOUGHT ANY ‘TRINKETS’ IN MONTHS!”

Oh…my…god.

The man was just making small talk. Folks…this was just the beginning. Imagine if Hitler and Steven Spielberg had been forced to take a trip across the country together, trapped in the same car for 12 hours. Spielberg would likely have responded in the same way to everything Hitler said. The underlying loathing would be apparent. Same thing.

Driving with the ‘Rents is a wondrous experience and a lesson in patience. God forbid we just make a decision. On anything. Routes. Speed. Temperature. Restaurants. Christ, the restaurants. Look, it’s FOOD. When my husband and I are on the road, we basically subsist on Little Debbie’s and diet Coke from the nearest gas station. When we do settle down to a proper meal, it’s not a difficult decision. “There’s a Wendy’s up ahead.” “Sounds good to me.” And we are there.

Deciding on a place to dine with the ‘Rents goes something like this:

“There’s a Hardee’s up ahead.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Or we could wait and find a Shoney’s, those are pretty good.”

“Works for me, anything will do.”

“Or would you rather eat someplace nicer? We have time.”

“It really doesn’t matter. Look, there’s a McDonalds next exit.”

(monotone) “McDonalds. Sure. We can do McDonalds. If that’s what you really want.”

“Whatever you want, it really doesn’t matter. I’m just hungry.”

“Well, what do you want to do? Do you want me to do McDonalds? There’s a Shoney’s at Exit 41.”

“Fine, let’s go to Shoney’s. I really have to pee.”

“No, let’s just go to McDonalds. That’s what you both want.”

“My god, I really don’t care. Just pick a place!”

“Well, what do you want? McDonald’s? Or Shoney’s? Or we could wait for a Wendy’s?”

“Jesus, it doesn’t matter!”

“Oh, great, we just missed the McDonald’s Exit!”

We ended up doing Shoney’s, which I really don’t recommend, unless you like rubbery bacon, soggy pancakes, and stale French toast. And waitresses that like to tell perfect strangers their life story. I hope Joannie's son had a good time at the concert tonight.

It was indeed a long ride but finally we decided to stop for the night in Wytheville, VA. My parents don’t believe in making reservations, so we took our chances at the Comfort Inn. Oh, GREAT. There is a convention in town so the only room they had available was a king-sized smoker's. Uh, I think not. Even my MOM doesn't sleep in the same room as J.J. at home because he snores louder than a bulldozer with a bum muffler. My grandma used to snore that loudly and it would wake me up in the middle of the night and scare me really badly. While John definitely smells better than Grandma did, I just can't relive that.

So we left the Comfort Inn and headed to Motel 8 next door. At the front desk we found a wayward trucker who had broken down a half mile or so down the road. He offered us the use of his AAA card for a discount if we gave him a ride to his rig. As I was thinking TWO WOMEN FOUND MURDERED IN FORD 500, my wonderful, kind-hearted mother told him yes. But then the stupid hick hotel clerk refused to let us use his discount. The trucker insisted that my mom was his Aunt Mabel, but she didn’t believe him. But hey, no problem! We had about sixty travel coupon books from the Virginia Welcome Center. My mom thrust a coupon into the Motel 8 clerk’s face and told her we wanted the $44.95 special. The clerk told her quietly that the coupon was for a Motel 8 in Tennessee, not Virginia. So we ended up paying full price anyway, but that was okay because I was really, really tired and kind of hungry (stale French Toast doesn’t fill you up for long).

My mom settled into our room while J.J. and I walked across the parking lot to a restaurant called “Sagebrush.” Don’t go there. The floor was greasy, the service horrible, and the food was worse than the cafeteria at my work. Hey, I like onion rings. But I prefer that the cooks actually slice the onion and don’t try to fry half of one into one ring. It was like chewing on a tapeworm. I don’t think we will go back there, and I don’t recommend you do either.

And so I survived until the end of day 1. Barely.