If women are from venus, then men must be from whatever planet encourages farting in public.
Previously published on clever girl goes blog circa 2009.
Awhile ago, someone asked me to post about a car trip taken by my husband and myself. Of course, in my typical absentminded (except when I'm a raging control freak, clearly) fashion, I forgot.
Let me preface this story with a few facts.
I get car sick. Easily. Ever since I was a little kid. For some reason, it got a little better for a couple years during my early twenties, but I just think that was because I had an overwhelming mix of tobacco, caffeine, rebellion, and angst coursing through my system, and a little vertigo didn't faze me.
I'm pretty sure my husband never actually farted in front of me until AFTER he proposed. Because he's tricky. Of course, that's about the same time that I started wearing sweatpants to bed, so I guess we're even.
I am always right.
Hubs is pretty much a saint. All of my stories about him are based on the 10% of his behavior that makes me want to throw him out the window.
It is hard for me to admit that #4 is true, because it makes me look bad.
Moving on.
I like to drive. When I am not actually driving, I like to tell the person who is what I think they should do next. It's really fun to ride in the car with me, especially if I don't think you're a good driver. More often than not, you will probably tell me to shut up. But that's okay, I don't mind. I'm fairly used to it.
Because of this, most trips with Hubs start out with me pouting about the fact that he never lets me drive. He will even admit that he doesn't like to drive very much, but that my driving scares him.
I'm not sure why.
I am an excellent driver. I've never had a moving violation or an accident. (I'm knocking on wood. Or the couch. Whatever's closer.)
The point is, I'm a backseat driver. I'll admit it. I am firmly convinced that I am saving us every time with my shrieking, pedestrian-watching, and eye-covering. Hubs actually thinks that my hysterics will distract him to the point where it will cause an accident, but I don't think so. I'm helping.
On any long car trip, the only way to assure that one of us will not be tossed out the window into oncoming traffic is if Hubs is driving, and I am drugged. Not kidding. I take motion-sickness medicine. I even carry it with me at all times, that's how easily I get carsick. It sucks. (Unless, of course, I'm driving. Then I'm fine. But see above mentioned: Hubs would rather walk.)
If we are on a car ride and I am not asleep, the conversation usually goes something like this:
ME: Watch the road!
HUBS: I am! Stop yelling.
ME: No you're not; you're looking at those boats! How can you be watching the road when your neck is craned to the side?
HUBS: Leave me alone!
ME: That guy is merging! Do you see it? DO YOU SEE IT??!
HUBS: Yes, I see it. *fiddles with the radio*
ME: (screeching) WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
HUBS: Calm down!
ME: (somewhat pacified now that we are not in a pack of cars) Okay. You're right. I'm sorry. Sorry.
HUBS: (turns to look at me) It's okay, you just --
ME: YOU'RE NOT WATCHING THE ROAD!
HUBS: (forced to step firmly on the brakes as the car in front of us slows down, causing me to grab the door handle and duck for cover) Maybe we shouldn't talk right now.
ME: Good idea.
**10 minutes of perfect driving and no talking**
HUBS: (reaching over to take my hand) Do you feel better?
ME: Yeah, I think so...I -- Did you just FART?
HUBS: (looking over at me, grinning) Uh...
ME: WATCH THE ROAD!
So there you have it. It's amazing that we can even make it the half mile to the grocery store. (Which, of course, we couldn't without my input. Clearly.)
Marriage is about being tolerant. Hubs and I bug each other, sure. But we're in it for the long haul: car trips, hysterics, flatulence, you name it. We love each other, so we put up with each other's crap. It's all good. And we learn stuff every day.
I've learned the meaning of "for better or for worse." It loosely translates to "it should be our life goal to afford a chauffeur."