Just one more Exit

by Alan R. Wolcott

My wife, who shall remain anonymous to protect her integrity from ensuing drivel, told me that I needed to give our younger son a lesson on accuracy in micturition. (“Alan, you need to teach Ben how to micturate with aplomb.” Sure, we talk like that in Richmond.) Though you may not recognize the terminology unless you have recently been in the hospital and harassed until you produced a measurable quantity, you’ll no doubt recognize the problem—Ben misses the pot when he goes. It’s not that he intentionally wets the floor, or seat, or tank, or sink cabinet. The problem is familiarity. When his mind wanders because he was just there 25 minutes ago...well, you get the picture.

What we need is a mandate not a lecture: “You slop, you mop!”

Not that he’s alone...

Before anyone jumps to conclusions, let me hastily point out that this was borne out by empirical research conducted on our recent road trip. We drove to North Dakota (motto: “Great buffalo chips!” Thanks, Dave Barry) pausing only to pee, get gas, and visit hospital PT departments to relearn ambulation skills. Informal research at the “rest stops” found that Ben is not unique. Apparently many of his gender are equally inattentive. Of course, maybe it’s the stress of driving—at home guys do better? Congress might need to allocate more funds for research, not to say clean up, here.

The first day we drove 905 miles. The second day was only 795.

That should have cured us but we needed to come home in two weeks. So, to maintain calluses and an appropriate level of motion sickness and ennui we drove an additional 700 miles to see the “Badlands” (motto: “Our slime’s (bentonite) in your milk shake!”) and Grandma J’s S. Dakota stomping grounds (motto: “Buy more soybeans!” (I tasted one; it was sort of like a Wheaties box-top.)) Actually, my kids wouldn’t mind living in Corona; drivers’ licenses are granted at 14. Apparently if you’re tall enough to see over a heifer, you’re in clover.

Despite the distance and time in close quarters we had few arguments. Nor is BO particulary noticeable when it’s shared. Interestingly, when I was not driving we tended to make better time. Which leads to a nagging question. My wife says it’s disrespectful of me to oink or give way to the compulsion to squeal “Suey! Suey! Suey!” when we pass county Mounties with radar guns extended. But I contend it’s worse to drive 75 in a 65 zone, slowing only when there’s a suspicious looking car with lights on top parked in the median.

Right?

One lesson I did learn. The answer, “Just one more exit” when the question is “How much farther do we have to go?” gets the same response as last night’s requirement of one slice (at least) of tomato for supper. Ben drenched his in sugar, glugged half a glass of juice and shuddered the whole way down.

By the way, ever notice how slimy a 3 day old tomato slice gets? And wouldn’t “Badlands Bentonite Boys” make a good name for a barbershop quartet (thanks again, Dave Barry)?

Better exit now.

For a PDF version of this document, click here.

VT-Mustard Seed

Just one more Exit

by Alan R. Wolcott