It started like any other. We all piled into the Pilot with our overnight bags, plugged the kids into the DVD player, stopped by our local bakery (of course it’s the one that makes fat-free, sugar-free & calorie-free chocolate éclairs & cream horns) & hit the highway – GPS set for Ramstein.
Another Rockin'Bauer Road Trip.
This is where our sitcom scene begins - with the family riding down the highway. Man is driving & the cameras are mounted on the hood. Kids are in the backseat totally lost somewhere in FireHouse Dog.
Me: Hey, what do you need to add to my immaculately organized & alphabetized shopping list?
Man: Maybe we could look for a nose hair trimmer.
Me: About damn time. Really? That’s fantastic!
While I’m lost in thoughts & basking in marital bliss because of a battery operated vibrating wand the nose hair trimmer, we get incoming comments from the backseat.
MiniMe: I’m cold. (insert: whine, pseudo-cry and leg kicking, obviously to raise her hypothermic core temperature.)
Me: Wrap up in your blanket.
A few more klicks down the highway, and
Man: So, how do you feel about moving back to San Antonio?
Me: In two years, right?
Man: Maybe sooner. You still don’t understand, it all depends on the job.
Me: Oh, I understand you’re the one who doesn’t understand. (insert: rattling & digging in purse to find the marriage counselor’s number . . . )
From the backseat: Ewwww. Yuck! What’s that fart smell?
Wasn’t me. Didn’t do it. Don’t look at me. I. did. not. fart. Not I. Not mine. Mom, Sissy said I farted & I didn't.
Man to the rescue: It’s just country fresh air. Y’all are wimps.
MiniMe: The fart smell is making me sick.
Instantaneously, there’s a lot of shuffling around & excitement. Let’s face it, there are certain times we take MiniMe very seriously. Laze-E is practically sitting on her door handle, the blue motion sickness bags come flying out of the glove compartment, full-blast AC gets directed right toward MiniMe's face. No use rolling down the window for fresh air since this air is contaminated with cow farts.
False Alarm.
Emergency averted. We settled back down. Kids watching the movie. Man driving. Me thinking about how to blog all this.
MiniMe: I’m getting sick.
Me: Get your blue bag.
MiniMe: I don’t know where it is.
Lots more shuffling around both looking for first bag and getting a second bag ready. This time the window does go down and amazingly, once again, crisis averted.
5 minutes later,
MiniMe: I have to pee. Right. Now.
Man: Ok, let’s pull over at this rest area. I have to go too.
Me: No, I have to go too & I refuse to use the roadside toilets. They’re nasty. Look for a real rest stop.
You'd better shape up. Oooh, oooh, oooh. Cause I need a man. One to keep me satisfied . . .
Grease soundtrack is next up on the player & we get pleasantly distracted. Man & I debated the accuracy of the lyrics to Grease Lightning. I took the stand that’s it men who get hard-ons for souped-up hot-rods, not women. Before I could drive that point home . . .
We found a rest stop! A bonafide Autobahn rest stop that charges $0.75 to pee on perfectly clean & fresh smelling toilet seats! HausFrau's dream.
Man expertly pulls into a parking place and we all begin unbuckling & getting out of the SUV.
This is gist of what was said:
MiniMe: I’m gonna throw up.
Man: Oh, quit faking it.
Me: %$@*$!&$
This is what the universe heard:
MiniMe: Breakfast is not sitting well & I’m really car sick.
Man: Nanny-Nanny-Boo-Boo, she-won’t-puke!
Me: #$%%!*@%
This is actually what was said in real time:
MiniMe: I’m gonna throw up.
Man, as he’s getting out of the driver’s seat: Oh, quit fa-
MiniMe: bluuuuuuughck.
Man: -king it.
Me: Damn it, Man.
MiniMe: bluuuuuuuuuuughck.
Me: It’s okay sweetie.
MiniMe: bluuuuuuughck.
Man: Oh, she puked? Here are the keys, I have to go pee.
Me thinking: !#$%&*$!
I’ll gloss over the part where I’m elbow deep in regurgitated strawberry smoothie and a cream horn while man’s off enviously relieving his bladder & Laze-E has her eyes shut and hand over her nose. I’ll quickly get to the part where everything is sparkling clean & back to
Laze-E: I couldn’t do it.
Me: Do what?
Laze-E: Clean up vomit. When I have kids, I’m not going to do it.
Me: So, what’s your brilliant plan?
Me thinking: She’s just going to throw her kids a packet of ArmorAll Leather Wipes Huggies Wipes and tell them to get busy. You mess it up; you clean it up.
Laze-E: I’m going to make my husband do it.
Me: BaaaahHaaaaaaHaaaaaaaHaaaaaaa!
Laze-E is not only looking to marry (as she puts it) an “Air Force Hottie”, but also one who does barf-duty. Hey, if she can work that out in a pre-nup, more power to her.
How does the AF put it? Aim High.
How does the Army put it? 2 out 3 ain't bad.
I can just imagine a future conservation in a bar Sunday School.
Laze-E: Hey, I noticed your hair cut. Are you military?
Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs. Yes.
Laze-E: Air Force?
Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs. Yes.
Laze-E: So, how do you feel about vomit?
Future-Man-In-Law: I noticed your boobs.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Road Trip to Deutschland
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2 savvy comments:
That sounds familiar:) Only Chris and you cleaned it while I stood faaarrrr away. I found a man that will clean it so tell Elisabeth there is hope.
Yeah, it didn't work for me. I'm the cleaner upper. I think I'd have to clean up Doug's too if he had to clean the girls'. Too much work. Easier to do it my darn self. We even nicknamed throwing up. Because let's face it...give it a name and it is less icky? We call it "blipping". No even typing it...it is still icky no matter what you call it. Only you, Michelle, could make a "blipping" car trip funny! Hugs, Heather
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