The Music In Me

Things are pretty busy around here this week as MDH prepares for his big annual meeting in Dallas. Basically he has to qualify all the work he did in 2007 in front of his colleagues in the form of an hour long presentation. He has to puff it all up and make it look good, so he's been squirreled away in our home office this week doctoring it all and wrapping it in a big bright ribbon.

He likens it to that scene in Animal House where they all sit around and throw beercans at the projection screen. It can make or break a career so it has to be spot on.

Anyhoo... I've only been able to write or read blogs in small snatches throughout the day when he takes a break.

So since I haven't the time to write very much I'll give you all some tunes that I have plucked from my iTunes library, some of my old favorites.

You should be able to download by clicking on them:

Neighborhood by Space - this is just a silly song that sounds spooky at the same time. It always makes me laugh.

Vanishing Girl by Dukes of the Stratosphear - if this sounds familiar it's because it's the members of XTC in a little side project they did awhile back. The rest of the album, Chips from the Chocolate Fireball, is fantastic.

American Dreaming by Dead Can Dance - from their live album Toward the Within. It's the only song on the album that doesn't sound like it was recorded by banshees in a graveyard.

Primative Painters by Felt - this is a band that an old boyfriend turned me onto many, many years ago. It's a long song, and best listened to with headphones or a few candles lit for a nice make-out session. You can almost smell patchouli when you listen to it and I hope that doesn't keep you from giving it a whirl.

Sunlight Bathed the Golden Glow also by Felt - I thought I'd throw this in too so you can hear the contrast between this one and Primitive Painters.

Queen Bitch by David Bowie - it is officially the most played on my iPod and I talk about it all the time so I figured it was time to share with those of you who haven't been blessed to rock out to it. I don't use the expression "rock out" very often, so you know I love this damn song.

American Women - Butthole Surfers - My friend John shaved my hair into a mohawk and died the tips yellow and the sides bright pink before I went to this show in 1988. I do not remember anything else about the about the show or the rest of the evening. It's a sentimental old favorite and representative of a small period of time in my youth, but I won't be upset if you hate it.

Nobody In Their Right Mind Would Need This - Lucky #13 Edition

His & Hers Bingo Masks
I love making fun of old people just as much as the next jerk, but it's hard enough to breathe at bingo with all of the cigarette smoke without wearing a rubber mask. Besides you wouldn't be able to see properly through those eye holes to plop your marker on the right numbers. You'd just make a damn mess.

I also think the hats are a little redundant. Of course you love bingo. You wouldn't be there if you didn't. I'd like to see a hat that conveys a more honest message, like "I Smoke and I've Got a Gambling Problem" or "This Is the Only Time I Ever Leave the House and My Kids Never Visit" but I guess there isn't enough space.

Waistband Extenders
Also known as Buy Some New Pants, Fatass. It's better than muffin top, but only marginally.

At only $3.95 a pop I suppose it's more economical than buying new pants, but really, just go ahead and unbutton your pants. You know you want to. Keep an extra set in your pocketbook for Crab Leg Night at the Golden Trough.

Hairstyle Protector
Apparently Adriana Lima was busy so they had to hire an artist to draw it instead. It appears to be made entirely of spider webs.

Adventures in Phobia Part 2

Yesterday I posted about our narrowly missed twin appointments with death and stupidity when I fainted, causing everyone on an NCL shore excursion to collectively change their minds and decide not to ride down the side of an 10,000 foot volcano on bicycles at 20 mph in the fog and rain.

Today I will tell you about the other very stupid shore excursion we booked on our 2005 NCL Hawaiian cruise.

Kona Ocean Kayak & Snorkel (from the NCL Shore Excursion Catalog):
Kayak along four miles of the scenic Kona coastline and black lava sea cliffs to Kuamoo Bay. Along the way, see great sea caves and giant lava tubes; you may even spot a playful dolphin or a green sea turtle! Then, jump into the waters of a protected cove to snorkel and see some of Hawaii's marine life up-close. Don't worry beginners, a friendly and knowledgeable guide will greet you and provide you with basic paddling and snorkeling instructions and safety information. Note: Participants must be at least 10 years of age. We recommend you wear a swimsuit and bring a towel. This tour is not recommended for those with back problems or heart conditions.

This shore excursion was a much smaller group than the Maui Downhill adventure and we rode to the beach in a normal van, rather than the extendo 15 passenger crash mobile I described yesterday. Our tour guide didn't say much, but he looked like he belonged in one of those 1960's surfer movies with Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello. He even wore a floppy woven straw hat and threadbare khaki pants cut off at the knee like some kind of castaway. Like our mountain bike guide in Maui a few days before, he also called everyone "Bra" and "Cousin".

We arrived at the beach where life vests were passed out and kayaks assigned to us in pairs. MDH insisted on sitting in the back of our assigned kayak. In other aspects of our lives together he seems to prefer letting me be in front of him also. He says it's because he likes to watch my ass, but I'm pretty sure it's so he can keep a protective eye on me and catch all of the shit that I'm constantly knocking over in stores with my big giant purse without realizing it.

We got into the boat where we flailed around for about 10 minutes while our guide was giving instructions on how to move around, steer and right the boat should we tip over.

MDH and I missed this entirely.

Our guide didn't seem to notice, but we were about 20 feet away from the rest of the group paddling wildly around in circles further and further away, arguing.

By the time we pulled the oars out of our asses and paddled up to the rest of the group the guide shouted cheerfully, "OK, off we go!" and he and the rest of the groups glided out of the shallow, protected cove toward the big giant, very deep sea. I didn't know how deep it was until I heard someone shout out the question and the guide shouted back that it was somewhere between 200 and I don't remember, but it might have been 10,000 feet deep.

It was deep.

It was very deep and we were floating around in crazy circles on it in a tiny plastic piece of shit.

I didn't start to panic for real until we had paddled out of the bay into the deeper water and 3 things happened:

1. I looked back at MDH and he wasn't wearing his life vest. When I asked him where it was he said he had taken it off to use as a seat cushion.
I screeched back to him, "Are you outta your goddamn mind!?" as just then...

2. a swell about 6 feet high rocked our kayak and temporarily blocked my view of the boats in front of us. When the swell had passed...

3. The boat in front of us that had been carrying an older woman (about 50 or so) and her grown son (about 25 or so) had tipped over and both of them were flapping around, spitting and helpless while I watched their oars float away in the next 6 foot swell.

I had 3 epiphanies:

1. If our boat tipped over MDH were too out of shape to ever be able to get back into it and we would drown or a shark would come and eat my legs off, which would only draw the attention of more sharks and we would both die in a horrible blood bath feeding frenzy while the rest of the group kept paddling off without noticing.



2. I was having a gargantuan panic attack that included hyperventilation and if our boat tipped over I was too frightened and freaked out to make safe decisions and would probably drown and/or be eaten by sharks as described in epiphany #1.

3. Fuck it. I realized that we weren't that far out of the bay and that we didn't have to do this. We could turn around and go back. Just fuck it. (How's that for an athletic shoe slogan?)

I screamed back to MDH without taking my eyes off the next oncoming wave, "We don't have to do this!!!", to which he replied, "Good, 'cause I don't want to do this anymore either!" Great minds think alike. Great cowardly, scared shitless minds.

We hailed Moondoggie over and explained our decision and he paddled along side us until we were safely back to the shore where we thanked him and apologized profusely for any inconvenience we had caused. He was really nice about it and reassured us that lots of other people did the same thing. He also explained that we were going to be stranded there until the tour ended 4 hours later, because in addition to being our guide, he was also our driver. We told him we'd find our own way back, thanked him and apologized again.

After Moondoggie paddled out of site I cried like a big giant baby into the crook of MDH's arm. It was that bad kind of crying too with dripping snot and uncontrollable moaning. He held me tight until I was all done and let me blow my nose into the extra t-shirt he had brought along.

Then we began the long walk back into Kona town.

We must have looked pretty bedraggled because we didn't get further than a mile up the road before we got picked up by 2 golfer guys in a shiny red Mustang convertable who gave us a lift back into town. It's the only time in my life I have ever accepted a ride from a stanger. It shocked me to my core when they asked and MDH immediately said "Yes!"

It was an eye opening experience, way more so than the volcano mountain bike thing. I have nothing more to say about it except that we spent the rest of the day in Kona town, drinking coffee and eating pizza by the slice. We had a waterproof camera with us that day, but we didn't take any pictures. I do however, have this business card. It's a little dog eared because I keep it in my wallet to remind myself of what is the better way to spend my time.

Adventures in Phobia Part 1

My husband is always scheming and plotting travels. So much so that he has instructed me, in the case of his sudden death or coma to immediately go to the Marriot resorts website and cancel the multiple dream reservations he has made.

Currently we have reservations for 2008 in Bali, Turks & Caicos, Ireland and a Celebrity Cruise to Alaska, and these are only the ones I know about. I'm sure there are many more. The man likes to plan trips in the way that other people like to spend imaginary lottery winnings.

I'm not certain that any of our 2008 dream travel plans will come to fruition. Maybe one or two of them, but who can say? We usually go on one big vacation and several smaller, long weekend trips every year. We aren't rich, except in love, and our income has been cut by a third since I haven't been working.

Anyhoo... In the short time that we have known each other I've been to more places than I ever dreamed possible.

This time last year I was getting the house in order and the laundry ready for 8 days in Maui. It was our second time to Hawaii together and his third (he took his mother several years ago before we met). The vacation was fantastic. We hiked and snorkeled, we watched every sunrise and sunset together, laid on the beach when we were tired, and went on two whale watches. We had learned a lot on our first trip to Hawaii about what not to do.

Our first time to Hawaii together in 2005, we went on a cruise and made two huge mistakes. First of all, we went on a cruise. Hello? What the hell were we thinking? Cruises are teeming with annoyances - like e-coli and thousands of other people you are forced to wait in line behind. We also tried to squeeze in as much adventure shore excursions as possible, forgetting that we are both middle-aged and quite fat, and also that I am afraid of heights, deep water and don't like to get dirty.

The brochures the cruise company kept sending us, in the months leading up to our big adventure, displayed dazzling color photos of tanned, athletic and ecstatic looking older people, zip lining across forest canopies, surfing, sea kayaking, cliff diving and riding a mountain bikes down mountainous volcanos. These brochures made it seem like we'd be crazy not to try these things.

We couldn't afford to do them all so we settled on four, two of which were activities that we considered to be "once in a lifetime" opportunities (to maim and/or kill ourselves in painful and frightening ways).

Maui Downhill Cycle Adventure (from the NCL Shore Excusion Catalog):
Take the downhill bicycle ride of your life as you bike down Haleakala Volcano. Enjoy your beautiful surroundings as you travel at speeds up to 20 miles per hour through some of the most unique parts of Maui. Your adventure begins with a van ride to the summit and will end at the Sunrise Market and Protea Farm. You'll be escorted by an expert volcano guide, and followed by an escort van. Note: Participants must be at least 12 years of age, at least 5 feet tall and weigh no more than 250 lbs. Pregnant women are prohibited from this excursion. Bring a sweatshirt as temperatures can be cool at the summit and wear closed-toe shoes. This tour is not for beginners.

We rode to the summit via the narrow and twisting volcano road in one of those 15 passenger church-type vans that always seem to be crashing, while filled to capacity with student athletes, church choirs, or marching bands, on the way to important competitions, tragically killing everyone on board. It was the one exception I have made to my rule of never riding in one of these vans.

Along the way our guide, who called everyone "Bra" or "Cousin", entertained us with not so hilarious stories of downhill cycling adventures gone wrong as he pointed out the various spots where previous idiots had been seriously injured or killed on long ride down. I'm sure he meant this as a way to pass the time, give us safety tips and teach us about what not to do. It did nothing but scare the bejeezus of me and about halfway up I began to panic and as the air became thinner and thinner I also became light headed and lost my ability to breathe.

I laughed it off as the motion sickness I sometimes get if I'm not able to see out the window of moving vehicles. But when I looked out the window of the van, all I could see was the edge of volcanic insanity and it was a very long way down. Better to be nauseous I thought, so I kept my eyes in the van.

In for a penny, in for a pound. There was no turning back. There was nowhere to go but down. On a bike. In the rain. Toward oncoming traffic on a narrow, twisting, 2-lane volcano road with very few guardrails.

I kept reassuring MDH that I was fine and this was a great idea and that we were going to have so much fun and that I was really more excited than frightened.

I lied.

Did I mention that it was raining to beat the band and the air was choked with fog?

When we got to the drop off point at the top I hopped unsteadily off the van and put on the helmet, goggles and giant yellow rubber pancho and matching pants we had been given to wear for the ride down. The clear plastic goggles fogged up immediately and I couldn't see a thing. It was like wearing a body bag with metal trash can for a hat.

All my discomfort, dizziness and lack of oxygen melted away temporarily when I took a deep breath, walked few steps to join the rest of our group and fainted for the first time in my entire life. It was the most relaxed I had been all morning.

This caused everyone to freak out, especially my darling. Apparently I wasn't the only one with reservations about this shore excursion who had been hiding light headedness and panic. The driver and guide gathered the group and we all voted unanimously to retreat and all hopped eagerly back onto the church van and headed back down the mountain to safety and sanity. They even refunded our money.

MDH and I counted it as a free day and went back to the ship and celebrated our new found appreciation of a life well-lived in spite of not facing danger in the eye, with a few fruity cocktails at the bar followed by the good kind of "nap" back in our cabin.

When we went back to Maui last year we would occasionally see van loads of hopeful bikers riding to the top of the mountain and thanked our lucky stars that it rained and I had passed out. It's good to be old, fat, alive and unharmed.

See you at the bottom, suckers!

If I Get Shot I'll Stop the Bleeding With Toilet Paper

I moved out of my parents home in the late 80's, the summer I turned 21.
Living at my parents house had become unbearable as my late night, "wild" lifestyle was too noisy for them.

I went to school full time during the day and worked a full time job in retail at night. My shift ended at 9:30pm after the store closed and the cash drawer could be counted and the floors swept. I usually arrived home at around 10pm. In our open floor plan, ranch style house, their master bedroom was just off the kitchen/family room combo and they went to bed every night at around 9pm.

The biggest factor to our domestic problems was this: they refused to close their bedroom door, saying that it made the room too hot. So if I tried to fix myself something to eat after arriving home from work, no matter how quietly I crept about, the noise woke them up and one or both of them would get up and yell at me to be quiet. Ditto for watching television in the family room, or talking on the phone. (Hey kids! Once upon a time in the olden days there was no such thing as cell phones! Whacky!)

Everything I did it seemed, woke them up and they always woke up angry. I was paying them $150 a month for rent, which included groceries I never got to eat, cable TV I never got to watch, and a phone I never got to use.

During this period of my life is when my greatest dream was to get the hell out of that house as soon as possible.

Eventually I just stopped coming home from work altogether and found myself hanging out in the library of my university until it closed and then after that I would go and hang out in bars. This wasn't a great plan either because the later I stayed out, the more likely they were to be woken up when I unlocked the door to come in the house, which resulted in more yelling. On more than one occasion I actually slept in my car in my parents driveway rather than run the risk of waking them up. It was a really shitty and exhausting way to live. Essentially, I was homeless.

At this point my lifestyle became every bit as wild as my parents had originally believed it to be. College life started to interfere with the bar hopping and socializing (and there was that math phobia I mentioned in a recent post), so I dropped out.

After I dropped out of college things got really bad at home because in addition to being upset at my noisy ways and wild lifestyle, now they were seriously disappointed in me. To "teach me a lesson" they doubled the rent and said I'd have to start buying my own groceries.

I remember feeling very trapped. Nothing I did was right, and I was giving them a large amount of my very hard earned money each month to live this way. In the end I didn't so much "move out" as just not come back. I took nothing with me but some clothes, my alarm clock and a sleeping bag.

My friend Psych Major, was a beret wearing, Shriekback fan who went to school during the day and worked as a waitress at Friendly's in the evenings and on weekends. She was getting over a pretty serious break up with a long term, live-in, cheating boyfriend, whom I had made out with several times behind her back, while she was at work. My confession of this to her was likely the key factor in her resultant break up and need for immediate housing. To my amazement, she didn't hate me and even suggested that we move in together.

The apartment was pretty nice for a first timer, like me. It was a 4 bedroom, 2 bathroom duplex built at around the turn of the century (the other century, as in 1900), that Psych Major (never washed the pots and pans she cooked in and didn't flush the toilet when she peed) and I shared with Dancer and Debbie, who were friends of Psych Major's.

I had my very own bedroom in which I slept on the floor in my sleeping bag with my alarm clock next to my head. It was absolute bliss. I could eat, watch TV and talk on the phone whenever I felt like it. I could stay out as late as I wanted and with whomever I wanted. Na Na! Whee!

Dancer (fought loudly with her boyfriend late at night and constantly slammed doors) was an OSU student majoring in modern dance and minoring in fine arts. She was the kind of goth-ish girl that came from a very wealthy and educated family but wore unravelling sweaters held together by safety pins with wrap around skirts and colorfully striped knee socks. We didn't have much in common, but a love of Bauhaus and combat boots worn with fishnet tights.

Debbie (lost 3 sets of house keys in the span of 6 months, drank my liquor supply and lied about it and beat my cat with a rolled up magazine and then complained when he shit on her pillow) had a steady boyfriend majoring in cinematography, whom we all liked very much. He was thoughtful and a lot of fun and the kind of guy that stumbles into cool things without even trying, like the time he went to JC Penny to buy a new pair of Chucks and the escalator ate the toe of his shoe so the store manager gave him a new pair of Chucks. Things like that were always happening to him.

Debbie on the other hand was a bit of a scuzzball. I remember coming downstairs for breakfast one morning and seeing Debbie eating a big bowl of instant oats. I sat down across from her and said, "You've got a little oatmeal on your cheek there."

"Where?", she asked, and we proceeded to do that little wincing face dance you do when you're trying to help someone get a smudge or piece of food. She wasn't getting it so finally, I reached across the table and touched it with the very tip of my index finger. "Oh, that's just some dried sperms", she said, and carried on eating her oats.

Debbie also allowed her brother (hogged our parking spot, left whiskers in the sink and left the toilet seat up and little urine droplets all over) to come and live on our couch indefinitely without kicking in for the rent or bills. My other roommates and I pointed out that we had been sharing, bathroom time, hot water, groceries, cable and phone bills and square footage, not to mention an entire couch with him for nearly 3 months - so it was time for him to get the fuck out or chip in. For some reason she thought this was an unreasonable request and moved out to go live with her boyfriend. Her brother stayed for another 2 weeks until he found a place of his own.

I had many other roommates over the years, including my friends Dan (monopolized the TV and kept letting my cat outside) and Nature Boy (never washed a dish or made ice cubes and had noisy sex), and it's all pretty much the same.

Other people are irritating, weird and filthy in ways that I cannot appreciate and other people don't seem to appreciate the ways that I myself am irritating, weird and filthy (I will not answer the phone or take your messages and I leave my clothes, shoes and coats all over the place). This leads to arguments and unhappiness with people who you may or may not like.

There was only one solution for it so I traded the hip urban scene within walking distance to the bars and clubs I frequented for a neighborhood on the other side of town in an apartment complex known popularly as "Uzi Alley".

It seemed OK at the time because my friend Bob lived there too, for exactly the same reason - she desperately wanted to live alone. The rent was $250 per month for 600 square feet with utilities and heat included. Awesome.

I lived there for 5 years.

Yes. It was a terrible neighborhood.

Yes. My apartment complex was on the news nearly every night because of some gang related shooting or drug bust.

I didn't care.

It was a sweet little oasis in the middle of hell and living there meant living alone, so I was willing to put up with nightly gunfire, police sirens and low flying helicopters at all hours of the day and night. You get used to it in the same way you get used to train or airplane noise when you live next to the tracks or under a landing pattern. After awhile you might even miss it when it's not there.

When I could afford it, at the urging of my constantly worried friends and family, I moved somewhere less crappy. I never regretted living there though because having bullets whizzing over my head was better than fuming over dirty dishes or sitting down to pee and realizing that there isn't any toilet paper in the house because it was your asshole roommates turn to buy it and they forgot.

I lived alone for almost 11 years and never once ran out of toilet paper. After living with MDH for nearly eight years, the record remains unbroken.

Mrs. Excitement Strikes Again

Skyler's Dad tagged me for a little old meme. What a nice man. Being tagged not only sounds a little naughty, it gives me a reason to write more crap about myself. Hurray! More me!

Here's the rules:

Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself on your blog, tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs. Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog. I'm not going to tag anybody else, but I'll say the same thing I always say - tag yourself if you'd like to do this meme.

You know I think I did this meme recently and I really don't care that I'm doing it again. I'll do it again and maybe twice more after that because I think that highly of myself. The only reason I may not do it twice more is because I'm already wondering where I'm going to come up with 7 new things about me. Shit. I'm really pretty boring and I think I've already spilled most of the good stuff in previous "random facts about me" memes.

Anyhoo...

1. To get things started with a bang: I have over 100 pair of underpants divided into 4 categories. (How's that for exciting new meme material, eh?)

• The "A" underwear which fits perfectly, is the newest and most comfortable and leaves no visible line under my clothes. I always have enough for a 2 week trip.


• The "B" underwear which fits perfectly and is the most comfortable, but is older, and might or might not cause VPL. Usually consists of older model "A's".


• The "Home" underwear is merely comfortable and never to be worn anywhere but at home. These tend to be on the large and unattractive side of large and unattractive and are usually purchased in bulk.


• "Eye Candy", sexy, impulse purchase underwear. These fool the eye because they are made from silks, lace or satiny, shiny fabrics that are beautiful, but ultimately a bummer. I don't know why I have them and every time I put a pair on I know somehow it's going to be a mistake. I purposely hide them in the back of the drawer but occasionally stumble across them and say to myself, "how pretty, why don't I ever wear these?" Then two hours later I remember the panties are either too small and have been slowly disappearing into my butt crack and causing a rash, or are too large and have fallen down and are now inside out and around my knees under my pants.

2. I hate pesto.

3. I'm a skilled bubble gum blower and can make a bubble inside a bubble. Yeah.

4. One of my boobs is noticably larger than the other and knowing that this is perfectly normal doesn't make me feel any better about it.

5. I have a math phobia. I dropped out of college when I broke my leg, but didn't go back after it healed because I realized that I could go no further in my studies until I took some math classes. When I went back to get my degree 10 years later I placed into the standard math classes, but took the remedial ones anyway, because it was so hard for me. I also did all of my work twice, homework and tests. I'd do the problems once and then do them again to check my work against myself.

6. I have no idea who half of the people on "Cribs" are.

7. On the outside I'm all cool, but on the inside I'm a sappy freak when it comes to our cat. We got this today when we picked him up from the vet. I smiled and said "thanks guys!", but inside my head I squealed and gushed like I was on the Price Is Right. It's now hanging on the fridge.

Road Rage... or The Bickerson's Take a Road Trip

Since I began blogging this past June, it has become my custom to write at least one post every single day. I don't always publish the posts, because sometimes I think they are shite and I delete them, or other times I save them to be published another day, but I write every day. Spending an entire blog free week was strange. I wrote nothing and only had access to a computer a couple of times.

All week long though, I was writing a blog post in my head that I would publish today upon my return.

I was going to tell you about the great party we went to for New Year's Eve at Dan & Steph's house, and about how Amy's ex husband Assface reluctantly agreed to let their daughter LBL spend some time with us even though it was his week with her and Amy had to agree to give him her left nut sack (yes, she has them).

I could've also told you about the terrific impromptu party given by my friends Nature Boy and Frenchie last night.

In short, our trip to Columbus was too short and we had a marvelous time.

I was going to tell you all about it in this post, but I am no longer in the mood for niceties and pleasant stories as I have spent most of morning and early afternoon fuming at my husband while cramped in our tiny vehicle on the drive home.

We started arguing in the breakfast room at our hotel over who's coffee was whose.

Mine = blonde and sweet, like me
His = dark and bitter

You can tell our coffees apart by simply looking at them, but he insisted that the creamier one without the paper band was his. So I skulked off and added more cream and sweetener to the darker one and said nothing, but smiled from deep within when he finally took a sip and realized that I WAS RIGHT MOTHERFUCKER. Hmf.

We argued in the elevator after breakfast on our way down to the valet to pack the car. We argued in front of the valet about how to pack the car. I felt it was best to drape the garment bag overtop of one of the larger suitcases in the hatchback so as not to disrupt my visibility while driving and he for some reason was worried that the clothes in the garment bag would get smushed and wanted to hang them from the hook in the backseat. So we argued in front of the valet about whether or not dirty clothes should be smushed or I should be able to see out the back window. I rolled my eyes and slipped the kid an extra $5.

As MDH and I waved goodbye to the hotel valet we argued about whether or not I had emasculated him in front of the valet. MDH felt that I had and I felt that he should have shut the fuck up and let me pack the car, which is what ended up happening anyway.

The tension continued after he expressed his disapproval of my chosen route to the highway and I reminded him that he had asked me to drive and to please get off my back and let me do it without the running commentary and criticism.

We wound our home in nearly crushing silence, until we were about 2 hours out of town, which is when we came upon a weird little purple pickup truck. The entire back window was pretty much taken up with an enormous sticker that looked very much like this:

The silence was broken as we passed the truck, when MDH asked, deadpan, "Was that Tammy?"

After that I laughed like a hyena for the next 5 miles and couldn't be angry anymore.