Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
As I mentioned immediately below, Mrs. R spent the day yesterday running the younger gels up to their summah camp, carpooling with a friend of ours and her son. It was only upon her return to Port Swiller Manor rayther late in the evening that I learned the party had got somewhat lost on the way there.
“How on earth did that happen?” I asked.
“Well,” said Mrs. R, “the GPS steered us to the wrong highway and then it took a while for us to realize it and get back going in the right direction.”
“Eh, whaaaa…..?” I said. “Never mind the fact that the camp directions specifically say not to rely on GPS to get there. We’ve been running the gels up to that camp and back for something better than eight years now. Do you mean to tell me that you still don’t know the way?”
“Well,” she said, “You know I’m not very good with directions.”
“But, but….,” I said, “amongst the five of you in the car, you must have made that trip fifty times in the aggregate. Are you telling me nobody knew how to get there?”
“Well, no,” she answered.
At this there was much eye-rolling and hair-pulling by your host. Jesus. Mary. Joseph. Ol’ Robbo is a complete shark for geography, directions and what might be summed up as general self-orientation/awareness and it absolutely flabbergasts me that the people around me can be so…. cavalier about such things and also so increasingly dependent on technology to tell them where to go. Regular friends of the decanter will know that I speak the truth when I say that I have been on about this for years and years. As sure as Shire-talk, this is part of Skynet’s plan: condition people to become utterly dependent on their GPS systems and then, on Judgement Day, steer them straight into pre-arranged ambushes.
Do not tell me I didn’t warn you.
I also mentioned in the post below that teh Eldest Gel and a friend took a jaunt down to King’s Dominion yesterday. Apparently head-swollen by her successful completion of this trip, she announced today that she wished to drive down by herself to Virginia Beach this coming weekend in order to meet up with her godmother and attend some sort of Sweet Briar College celebratory do.
Mrs. R hemmed and hawed about it, but when I learned of said Eldest’s plan, my one-word response was NYET!
Honest to God: A 17 year old novice driver trying to negotiate the worst beach traffic in the Mid-Atlanatic alone? I. Don’t. Think. So. Hell, I hate making that run and do everything I can to avoid it.
Teh Eldest and I spoke about the biznay this evening.
“Daughter,” I said, “You know I’m sorry, but I can’t let you do this. Period.”
“You mean you won’t let me do this, not that you can’t, DAD. You’re the lawyer, DAD. Be clear about your word choice, DAD.”
“Can’t, won’t. Whatever floats your boat. Bottom line is that it isn’t happening.”
“Hmmph!” she said, stalking off to her room, “You’re awful, DAD.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I’m a mean old man.”**
And there it ended.
As for battle honors, I knew based on her relatively token protest and her resorting to semantics that she knew I was right about this one. But really, it was a no-brainer.
**Spot the quote.
UPDATE: Sheesh, you guys! It’s Mal Reynolds from the pilot episode of “Firefly“:
Kaylee: [sounding weak, but cheery] Oh, don’t you worry none. Doc fixed me up… pretty. He’s nice.
Mal: Don’t go working too hard on that crush, mei-mei. Doc won’t be with us for long.
Kaylee: [big smile] You’re nice, too.
Mal: [smiles] No, I’m not. I’m a mean old man.
Now I know there are Browncoats among the friends of the decanter, because I’ve talked here before about the fact that Joss Whedon was a classmate of mine in college and how amazed I am that such a typical Hippy Progressive Fascist could have turned out such a Libertarian teevee show.