My lovely wife and I went to visit my parents in scenic upstate New York. Rather than spend all the money on airlines, we decided we would go ahead and drive out from Chicago, as we did last year. Turns out this might not have been such a great idea.
We were up at the ass-crack of dawn on Wednesday morning and were actually on the road by 5:45 am. I-90 runs right past our house here in Chicago (well, not right past our house, as I think that would be rather bothersome – in point of fact, you have to go to the end of our street, take a right and then ahead one block to get on the highway), so we were up to speed right away, heading east into the rising sun.
Speaking of which, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the sun start to come up over Gary, Indiana, but it is truly a sight to behold. And then try to forget as soon as possible. Gary is the armpit of the Midwest, an industrial wasteland – sort of like Newark’s little cousin that ran off one night in search of good times but collapsed in a heap just short of Chicago. It’s belching smokestacks sure do make for a lovely foreground whilst trying to appreciate the beauty of a glorious morning through all the haze.
Anyway, the drive home was fairly uneventful, the road full of the usual a-holes who have no business being in the left lane, the highway rest stops full of the usual morons who can barely negotiate the tricky business of not urinating on themselves before stumbling back to their automobiles.
Let me now go on the record and state that Western Ohio sure looks a lot like Eastern Indiana.
After about 12 solid hours of highway cruising, we finally pulled into the driveway of my parents’ house. And then the nightmare began.
I love my family. Deep down inside, I really do. Way down, deep down, down there somewhere, way underneath it all, I love them.
My sister was already there, up from Baltimore. Despite myself, I found myself hoping that through some scheduling snafu, or some other miracle, her two children would not be in attendance for this holiday. Naturally, this was wishful thinking. After all, which young mother would not want to spend some vacation time with her charming 4 year old son and adorable 2 year old daughter? Answer: my sister. Oh, but she had little choice. The little ones had to come along. Strangely enough, her husband did not. In fact, he somehow manages to not attend any of the family functions, leaving my sister to drag the beasties along all by herself.
He is a smart man. He was probably down there in Maryland, kicking back with some beers and the remote control laughing his ass off. That bastard.
You could hear the screaming even before going inside. Unnatural, bestial wailing that brought to mind Spanish Inquisition torture chambers. Had you been unfamiliar with my sister’s children, you might have wanted to call in the authorities right away and just hide in the back seat of your car until they arrived.
Instead, we went inside.
Into the maelstrom.
Turns out that my sister, the somewhat weepy young lady who, at the age of 18 called up my mother from across the country and said, “Guess what I did today?” (The answer: got married.), who had two babies by 22, who was never the most emotionally stable sheep in the flock… well, turns out she’s not the world’s greatest mother. Seems to have a bit of a problem being authoritative with the youngsters. And so, when they want something, they let you know. Repeatedly. And loudly. Until they get it. And if you don’t want to give it to them, whatever it is (a cookie, a toy, your body to use as a personal gym), they cry. Loudly. Unceasingly. With every fiber of their being.
And it turns out they always want something. Whatever it is they don’t currently have, that is what they want. If they are screaming for, say, a cookie, and in the interest of your own sanity, you give them a cookie, they don’t want a cookie. They want some juice. Now! All right, give them some juice. Wrong. They want that toy that the other kid has. Right now! Well, naturally the other kid doesn’t want to give up the toy. Until he remembers that he wants to watch Toy Story 2. Right now!
Add my brother’s spawn to the mix, also four years old. Stir liberally. Plug ears.
This goes on all day. Every day. From 7 am to about 10 pm.
Screaming. Fighting. Yelling. Crying. Whining. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.
You would hope that there would be a brief respite when they go down for a much needed nap. Oops. No, turns out that Mommy doesn’t really make them take naps. If you suggest that maybe they would like to lay down for a little while, you get screaming.
When the children aren’t screaming, they’re up to something. Something bad. Something naughty. And that’s when the adults start yelling at the children.
“Don’t do that!”
“Get down from there!”
“Stop that right now!”
“Be quiet!”
“Don’t touch!”
“Don’t hit your sister!”
“No!”
“I said ‘No!’”
“Young lady, I said ‘No!’, and I meant it!”
All at the top of the lungs. You see, the children are apparently half-deaf now from all the screaming they do themselves, and so now cannot hear any instructions of any kind unless they are also bellowed at decimal levels generally reserved only for emergency sirens and such. My personal favorite is “Get your finger out of your nose!” This is a very, very important and very common instruction, which is generally tacked on to the end of some other primary instruction. Hence, you get a lot of things like:
“Stop chasing the cat, and get your finger out of your nose!”
Do I need to mention that when you tell these children to stop doing something they were currently doing, they like to scream about it?
The other thing they like to do is walk up to you, throw their hands into the air and yell, “Let’s play!” If you don’t speak the language, you’re probably envisioning something with Legos or action figures, or something. In fact, what they mean by “Let’s play!” is “Get down here on the ground and we will proceed to beat the living crap out of you.”
You are powerless against them. You cannot fight back. You must either try to wriggle free of their sticky, clutching hands and run, or be pummelled into total submission. Neither option is easy. And neither works for long.
At least you can go to your room and lock the door. Oh, wait. No you can’t.
You see, my parents house is a bit of a mess these days. Not dirty, really. Um… cluttered might be the word. They don’t live there a lot lately, since my stepfather has taken contract jobs out of state for 8 months at a time. They go out and live somewhere else for most of the year, say… Tucson, AZ. Where they go ahead and buy a whole bunch of new crap. Which they eventually bring back home, which is now sort of home base and depository of their collected stuff. So, of the five possible bedrooms… one is theirs. One is crammed full of baby crap and toys for the demon… er… grandchildren. One is packed with all sorts of stuff and doubles as a computer room. One has my sister in it. And one is really small, full of stuff, and has one uncomfortable single bed.
And so where does the visiting son and his lovely new wife, who are just as thrilled as can be that they actually get to sleep in the same room now in their parents’ houses since they are now legally married and no longer bound by ridiculously old-fashioned guidelines, get to sleep?
On an air mattress. In the middle of the floor. In the family room.
Screaming babies do not seem to respect the “invisible wall” theory. There is jumping on the air mattress. Occupied and otherwise. And it turns out that imaginary walls do not do an adequate job of blocking the sounds of screaming at seven in the morning.
They are wearing you down. You cannot sleep. You cannot rest. You cannot enjoy a moment of peace.
You are being punished for other people’s mistakes. You might just snap.
Thanksgiving dinner itself is rather uneventful. Oh, except for the screaming. But I think we were all used to it by then. I made the mashed potatoes.
Due to various social commitments, we had to wait until Sunday morning to leave. Somehow, we survived that long. 5 am. Up and out the door. Speeding away, as fast as possible. Mentally and physically exhausted from a relaxing week at home.
We pulled off the NY State Thruway at the Angola rest stop, just West of Buffalo. By “we”, I mean every single person in every single car headed west at that particular time. It was beginning. The trip from hell.
There we all were. The morons trying to figure out the blow-dryers in the restroom. The sulky janitor trying to figure out who to work the mop bucket. The screaming child that gave me immediate flashbacks to the day before.
There was a McDonalds at this rest stop. A nice Egg McFuggin’ or whatever sure would be nice, we thought. The line was long, but… Oh, what the hell. We were making good time. The young lady taking orders was taking money and printing receipts ever-so-efficiently, and the line was moving along nicely. As we approached, however, we noted a problem. Seems that, despite paying, nobody was actually receiving their food. Instead, they were all being forced into a second line to wait for their McSnausagey McBiscuitys. The world’s slowest teenage girl was in charge of filling the orders. Having ample time to observe her in inaction, I quickly sussed out her technique.
- Shuffle over to counter, look at receipt detailing the next order.
- Put down receipt, turn around, move toward piles of food.
- Pause.
- Turn around, come back to counter, look at receipt again.
- Look over shoulder, confusedly at person taking orders.
- Refer to receipt once again.
- Shuffle over to pile of McBags.
- Carefully select top McBag, shake it out.
- Carry empty bag back to counter, pick up wrong receipt.
- Become completely flustered.
- Spin in complete circle, holding empty McBag in hand.
- Look at long string of receipts building up on counter and groan.
- Return to food pile and select one sandwich. Place in McBag.
- Shuffle back and consult receipt, leaving McBag on counter.
- Go to drink fountain.
- Pause.
- Select cup and fill with ice.
- Shuffle back and consult receipt.
- Mindlessly paw at counter and stare wild-eyed at all the receipts, looking for the correct one.
- Sigh when realize that the correct receipt was in her left hand.
- Pause and push up eyeglasses on nose.
- Return to drink fountain and pour drink.
- Bring drink to counter, leave next to McBag, shuffle over to fry bin.
- Grab hash brown.
- Bring back to counter, then stare confusedly at McBag.
- Open McBag and stare at contents for several seconds.
- While holding open McBag under nose, consult receipt.
- Pause.
- Drop hash brown into bag.
- Consult receipt.
- Return to drink fountain, select another cup.
- Fill cup.
- Bring back to counter, set next to McBag.
- Shuffle back to drink fountain.
- Grab drink tray.
- Repeat steps 25 - 28.
- Place drink cups in tray.
- Shout out order number.
- Repeat all steps for next order.
I really don’t understand how she managed to get to work in the morning, unless she started the night before. After about twenty five minutes of waiting and watching, we got out McBacon McNuflings and ran back to the car.
We had some time to make up. I decided that a good place to make up some time is on Route 480 West, just outside of Cleveland.
Mr. Ohio State Police Officer disagreed.
I saw him pull into traffic way back there, so naturally I slowed down. There were dozens of cars on the road, all doing about the same speed. Surely, he was not coming after me. Then he pulled in behind me and followed me for a while. Doing the speed limit. Which seems awfully slow after you’ve been speeding for hundreds of mi…
Er… anyway, the lights came on, and I pulled over. He was very business like, which I thought was at odds with his ridiculous haircut. I kept that opinion to myself, wisely, I think. He asked me if I had forgotten to fasten my safety belt. I looked down and realized that I had taken it off to reach into my pocket to grab my wallet. “No, sir,” I said. “I just took it off now.”
“Be honest,” he said.
Well what the holy hell do you mean by that, pig boy? Are you calling me a liar, you goofy-haired prick?
Sometimes, my mind runs off and doesn’t wait for me to catch up.
“Yes sir. I had it on.”
I debated telling him how I always wear my seat belt and make sure that my passengers do as well, all the time, no matter how long or short the trip and how I am a very safety conscious person, and despite my perhaps excessive speed, I did not feel that I was at any time any danger to myself or my fellow motorists. Then I decided that he probably didn’t give a shit.
“Okay,” he says. “I usually give people the option of speeding or seatbelt, but if you say so…”
Now hold on a second, buster. You could have told me that before, so that I could have made an informed decision whether or not to LIE TO A COP, but I guess now that I’ve told the truth about things, I’ll have to take the bigger fine. Thanks.
He went back to his car and did whatever it is that officers do while waiting to give you a ticket. They certainly take a long time back there, don’t they? They give you plenty of time to contemplate the error of your ways.
On the other hand, I think it was pretty clear that I was in a hurry. I wanted to get home as soon as possible, see. Now this twenty minute delay means I’m just going to have to drive faster to make up the time, doesn’t it? Thanks a lot, buddy. I think you’ll agree that I now have no choice but to speed from here on out. Not in Ohio, though. I’ll wait until Indiana.
Turns out the fee was $100.00. He says he clocked me at 76 in a 60 mph zone. To be honest, my speedometer read a little bit higher, more like 78 or 79 at the time. 16 - 20 mph over in Ohio is $100.00. According to the little sheet, 11-15 over is $95.00. So, with that extra mile per hour, I guess I got my money worth, percentage-wise.
I deserved the ticket. No doubt. My first ticket ever.
I look at it like this. I was speeding for a good 450 miles before you stopped me, and I ended up speeding for a few hundred afterwards. There was just that one mile stretch where I got caught. The rest of the time, I got away with it. Hell, I’ve been a licensed driver in three states over the last 11 years, and I probably sped through at least 25 different states, and this is the first time I’ve been ticketed.
Overall, that means I’m the winner, right?
sigh
The rest of the way home, all the tollbooths were backed up for miles. There is nothing more frustrating in the world than having to go from 80 miles per… er… uh… 65 miles per hour down to Zero miles per hour on the highway and then just crawling along. Inch by inch.
Foot by foot. Car length by car length.
Forever. You just want to leap out of your seat and strangle somebody. Mostly that cop back there. No. No. Police officers are HEROES. You must remember that. He is a hero. He is just doing his job, saving the world one moving violation at a time.
Forgive me. I’m bitter.
We finally got home, where I realized that we didn’t have as much money in the checking account as I remembered having when we left. So… I guess… all those withdrawals that would bring our account pretty close to zero, but it would be okay since we both get paid on Friday…
Uh… I guess… it’s not okay after all.
But at least we’re home. Coming back to work yesterday felt like a freakin’ vacation.
There are no children here. And I don’t have to drive anywhere, living in the city.
It’s quiet.
And I am thankful.
Happy Holidays!