When I was 12, we went on the mother of all roadtrips to Washington, D.C.. Nine of us in my aunt's Big Ass Suburban. For two weeks. We were only allowed to bring one bag each, and we crammed them behind the third seat, on top of which we fashioned a napping area we called "the baby berth." We left a single seat up for my grandmother so she could crochet her way across America and read the road signs we passed. All of them. Aloud. And the rest of us bounced around on a pallet in the back like something out of a bad driver's ed movie.
The crew included my grandparents, my mom and her sisters, my cousins, my bro, and moi. Again, all of us in one Big Ass Suburban. For two weeks. In July. Surprisingly, nobody ever got car sick, we had only one pallet-wetting incident, and my aunt only had to pull out her gun once. We were stuffed into one hotel room in New Orleans, and around 3 in the morning, the wizards next door confused our adjoining door with their bathroom door. I awoke to lots of banging and slurred cussing, my portly grandfather - in his wife beater, jockey shorts, and sock garters - splayed across the door like a human shield, and my aunt loading her pistol in the bathroom.
Out on the interstate, we seemed to attract an inordinate amount of honks and other "signals" from the long-haulers we passed. We later realized that such attention was directly related to the times my other aunt was napping in the aforementioned baby berth in her cut-offs and Gilley's tanktop, her ample bosom or butt cheeks pressed against the back window. We had no idea. Nor did we have any idea that when my mom and grandfather were trying to park the Big Ass Suburban in a tiny ass garage in D.C. , my mom with her skirt over her head, dancing around and trying to direct my grandfather into the only available spot, that the whole dance/peepshow was being thoroughly enjoyed, and recorded, by the garage attendants.
Being the extremely proud and patriotic American, my grandfather had secured passes and tickets to all the must-sees of our nation's capital. Unfortunately, so had every GD Boy Scout troop in America as our trip happened to coincide with the National Boy Scout Jamboree. Everywhere we went - everywhere - the Scouts were sure to follow. Big ones. Little ones. Ones with hats. Ones with kerchiefs. And all terribly excited to be there. You'd think with all that alleged scouting going on that they would have been polite and orderly. Wrong. They were all, individually and collectively, going apeshit bananas. When we went to Colonial Williamsburg, I saw two Weeblos take out a woman in period dress just so they could have their picture made in the fake stocks set up in the square. The poor thing's beeswax candles went everywhere. And those damn Weeblos never looked back.
It rained a lot, too. One day, we went shopping in Alexandria and left my grandfather in charge of the boys at the hotel. We returned to find the boys poised to nail each other with marble ashtrays wrapped in pillowcases and my grandfather snoring his brains out in the other room. Apparently, the plastic helmets and swords they had gotten at some fort we went to were not nearly menacing enough, so they opted for the ashtray/pillowcase maces instead. My grandfather awoke with a start, yelling, "Dammit, Thelma! I wasn't going to let them hit each other!" as he emerged from the mound of towels the boys had covered him with to muffle the noise - which noise, I'm not sure.
Luckily, we didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room that day because that would have seriously cut into the time we spent at a garage in Nashville after the A/C on the Big Ass Suburban blew on the way home. But that's another story.
The crew included my grandparents, my mom and her sisters, my cousins, my bro, and moi. Again, all of us in one Big Ass Suburban. For two weeks. In July. Surprisingly, nobody ever got car sick, we had only one pallet-wetting incident, and my aunt only had to pull out her gun once. We were stuffed into one hotel room in New Orleans, and around 3 in the morning, the wizards next door confused our adjoining door with their bathroom door. I awoke to lots of banging and slurred cussing, my portly grandfather - in his wife beater, jockey shorts, and sock garters - splayed across the door like a human shield, and my aunt loading her pistol in the bathroom.
Out on the interstate, we seemed to attract an inordinate amount of honks and other "signals" from the long-haulers we passed. We later realized that such attention was directly related to the times my other aunt was napping in the aforementioned baby berth in her cut-offs and Gilley's tanktop, her ample bosom or butt cheeks pressed against the back window. We had no idea. Nor did we have any idea that when my mom and grandfather were trying to park the Big Ass Suburban in a tiny ass garage in D.C. , my mom with her skirt over her head, dancing around and trying to direct my grandfather into the only available spot, that the whole dance/peepshow was being thoroughly enjoyed, and recorded, by the garage attendants.
Being the extremely proud and patriotic American, my grandfather had secured passes and tickets to all the must-sees of our nation's capital. Unfortunately, so had every GD Boy Scout troop in America as our trip happened to coincide with the National Boy Scout Jamboree. Everywhere we went - everywhere - the Scouts were sure to follow. Big ones. Little ones. Ones with hats. Ones with kerchiefs. And all terribly excited to be there. You'd think with all that alleged scouting going on that they would have been polite and orderly. Wrong. They were all, individually and collectively, going apeshit bananas. When we went to Colonial Williamsburg, I saw two Weeblos take out a woman in period dress just so they could have their picture made in the fake stocks set up in the square. The poor thing's beeswax candles went everywhere. And those damn Weeblos never looked back.
It rained a lot, too. One day, we went shopping in Alexandria and left my grandfather in charge of the boys at the hotel. We returned to find the boys poised to nail each other with marble ashtrays wrapped in pillowcases and my grandfather snoring his brains out in the other room. Apparently, the plastic helmets and swords they had gotten at some fort we went to were not nearly menacing enough, so they opted for the ashtray/pillowcase maces instead. My grandfather awoke with a start, yelling, "Dammit, Thelma! I wasn't going to let them hit each other!" as he emerged from the mound of towels the boys had covered him with to muffle the noise - which noise, I'm not sure.
Luckily, we didn't have to make a trip to the emergency room that day because that would have seriously cut into the time we spent at a garage in Nashville after the A/C on the Big Ass Suburban blew on the way home. But that's another story.
1 comment:
That's hilarious!
I couldn't take you up on your invite last week, since we'd just gotten back from our somewhat tamer trip to DC, but I am all for an Austin Mama Blogger meet-up.
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