Family Vacations, or Lessons in Self Torture
Women…the superior species, right? We rule. We rock. We also gripe, snap, whine, and bemoan. Enter the family vacation with mom and the sisters.
What was I thinking? Put a bunch of women in a closed car for more than four hours and you\’re asking for trouble. Five and somebody is going to bleed.
I\’ve just returned from a “family” vacation with mom and three sisters. Again I ask you, what was I thinking?
Going on family vacations is like giving birth—you do it; swear you\’ll never do it again because of the pain, and then your memory fades and there you are…in the car heading for the beach.
I believe the problem is that women simply cannot give in to letting someone else be the lead dog. And let\’s face it, unless you are, the scenery never changes.
- Where to stop for lunch…five women, five different replies. (Anywhere but fast food! And…sigh…fast food it is)
- Need to take a potty break? Three do; two want to keep going for another twenty miles. (Anybody got a jar?)
- The air conditioning is too cool, it\’s too hot. (Can\’tttt breattttthhhhheeee….fading fasttttt….airrrrr)
- SHOTGUN! Front seat! I called it first! (Just put me on the roof for Pete\’s sake)
- Watch that car! (Why? We\’re parked.)
- Can you move your seat up? (Sure, my knees can hold up my boobs)
And so it goes…400 miles of it.
Did we have a good time, you ask? Actually…we did. But will I do it again? Never. Ever. Ever. I mean if I even suggest it, somebody just shoot me! Tie me to the nearest tree an—and …
Ringgggggg… “Hey! Florida? Ohhhhh…new condo? On the beach? F-R-E-E?!!!
Sure! Count me in!”
Hey, I\’m shallow…sue me.