Wide Open Spaces

Whenever Marty and I go on long drives, he has to drive because I get bored and fall asleep at the wheel, and this is disrespectful towards other drivers trying to "get there alive".

His only other option is to let me drive after drinking 3 coffees, but since that entails singing Dixie Chicks at the top of my lungs (or rapping) for 5 hours straight, he tends to go with the former. I pretty much know all the words to every top 40 song for the last 15 years. It's a gift (...or is it a curse?) No, it's a gift.

We drove back to Ottawa recently to visit the fam, about a five hour drive.

For the first hour or two I'm pretty chatty, so this distracts from the unavoidable outward-bound traffic from Toronto, on a Friday evening. Then I start dozing off because Marty will only listen to old grendpa music, like Pink Floyd or Tupac. The kind of songs that no one under a 100 years old knows the words to, and when I get bored I sleep to pass the time.

Once I fall asleep, Marty will inevitably do something to wake me up: Indian sunburning (is that racist? Sorry, The Indians. I don’t know any other word for squeezing two hands on someone’s arm and rapidly moving back and forth in opposite directions in a painful manner.) or worse yet, filling his mouth up with one of those disgusting black licorice candies and breathing right in my face.

I. Hate. Black. Licorice.

Won’t let me sleep, ehhhhh? Nobody tells ME what to do! So now my new thing is whenever he pulls up beside a car, I start pretending like I’m running beside them. I’ll share this with you in case you are ever in my predicament. It’s not a happy, fun, “let’s-play-a-game run”. I mean like a balls-out race, pumping my arms as fast as I can and looking over my shoulder to see if they are gaining. Are they? Throw in a menacing look or snarl (but only for a second, keep your eyes on the prize)! Have a bottle of water or other drink handy? Chug it down like you’re dying of thirst (don’t stop pretend running with your other arm. If some rolls down your face, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT, stop and wipe it off. It adds to the intimidation.) Once in a while, make eye contact with your competitor, if you can. The key in Pretend Race is believability.

After two races, Marty will be begging me to go to sleep. But you know what? I’m PUMPED! I see you, The Girl in the Blue Hyundai. It’s on.


P.S. It has occurred to me that I should probably refer to Marty as something else, as he more than likely doesn't want any clients to know about his black licorice breath. Henceforth (don't mind me, I'm reading World Without End by Ken Follett right now, and also my friend is dating a prince, so I'm feeling very "days of yore" recently), Marty shall be known as The Boyfriend.


kthxbye.