Holiday Roads

I’d like to set the stage for what might be the world’s most annoying joke that nearly drove a middle-aged mother of four to the brink of insanity/homicide. In 1989 a mother, father, ten year old boy, and an insanely vicious 3lb. peek-a-poo packed two week’s worth of belongings in to a tiny station wagon and drove from Mississippi to Canada. The route north was through the Rocky Mountains, while the trip home went from California straight across Texas. It was an amazing trip that took about three weeks. You guessed it, I was the ten year old and smutley was the vicious dog. Man, I hated that dog.

Here’s a helpful tip from me to you: If you rescue a dog from an abusive household and the first thing it does is bite your child’s face, ask around to see if there are any junk yards in need of a night watchdog. DO NOT pile it into the backseat of a car with the aforementioned child and expect them to become fast friends. I would’ve never thought it possible for a dog to continuously growl for three weeks. Smutley proved me wrong. I spent most of my car time trying to sit as still as possible hoping that “have teeth/will travel” wouldn’t go nuclear on me because I wanted a sip to drink. It was like I was sitting on a land mine, frozen in fear. The worst part was when the little monster would come over and snuggle against my leg. You’re thinking “aww, that’s really sweet.” WRONG. That was his setup move for a sneak attack. If you looked close enough, just behind his “let’s be friends” puppy dog eyes sparked the glint of “I can’t believe this dopey kid is going to fall for it.”

I'm actually sitting here angrily remembering how many times this psycho bit me for absolutely no reason. Why was this dog allowed to live in our home? Why did we put up with his prima donna/roid rage attitude? I'm not sure if he ever allowed me to pet him. The only thing that gave me solice was hearing my dad scream at night. You see, smutley would sleep on my parents' bed, under the covers, near my dad's feet. About once a week or so, smutley would wake from an apparent nightmare, and viciously attack dad's little piggies. Nothing was funnier than hearing my dad cursing at the dog while simultaneously trying to escape out from under the covers, stumbling in the darkness.

However, one thing kept me amused on the trip, despite satan’s spawn sitting next to me. A van. To be accurate, a minivan. To be specific, the Mazda MPV. Minivans were a fairly new concept in 1989. Our gigantic Chevy conversion van quickly became passé. We were terribly behind the fad craze over the minivan. It was the perfect suburban vehicle. You could fit a family of 34, load it down with groceries, strap your all too handy kayak on top and fill the tank with about eight bucks. Needless to say, the middle class were clawing each other’s eyes out to get to their local minivan emporium. Living in petite Purvis, MS we were apparently buffered from minivan madness. However, once we hit the road for vacation my dad was awestruck at how many minivans we were passing. This led him to pontificate over the meaning of the MPV acronym. The obvious answer was that it meant Most Popular Van.

As he quipped at how popular the van was, my mom made the mistake of ignoring his jokes. We Nolan’s don’t get subtle hints. If you’re ignoring my joke, then obviously it wasn’t big enough. Or sometimes the glossed over joke just needs simple repetition to drive home its witty components. This led to my dad remarking “that’s a popular little van” every time we passed one. That may sound innocent, but once I realized just how many MPVs there could be between Mississippi and Canada I began to panic. Surely he couldn’t keep this game going for three weeks, right? Wrong. Somewhere around the late afternoon of day one my mom was already getting annoyed. After week one, she began having physical reactions to that five word phrase. She would throw her hands up, sigh audibly, and shift in her seat. By the time we reached home again, she was threatening his life with tears in her eyes.

I was MESMERIZED by my dad’s commitment. If I had to guess, he probably said that phrase 14,000 times in a three week period. My grins gradually progressed to side-splitting guffaws at every passing minivan. He would try to work it into conversation, like “you know what I really loved about Yellowstone? That popular little van.” I know you are thinking that the joke isn’t really funny or my dad was being cruel by not letting it go. You’re wrong, it was hilarious. To this day, it’s one of the funniest things I’ve ever experienced. My mom still reacts badly when I bring it up.

I inherited this fascination from my dad. I love to wind Amanda up, or anybody else for that matter. There is something quite powerful about being able to “control” another person’s composure. One of my favorite ways to wind Amanda up is to play characters. She loves/hates it. Actually she tolerates/hates it. Lately, I’ve been working on “misogynist Jamey.” So far, the reviews are quite mixed. It all started at Amanda’s Bible study class last year. It was a women’s study that focused on lessons from the women of the Bible. Well, she screwed up and mentioned to me that they discussed the “men are the head of the household” concept. Now, this is interpreted in two very different ways. The first is that the man is responsible for the family, and should work hard to ensure that they are provided for spiritually. The second is that this concept promotes a male centric model where the family is there to serve the man. I adhere to the former, obviously.

I’m kind of a hippie when it comes to our marriage. I see marriage as two people who love each other so much that they choose to allow one another to experience everyday of their one shot at life. That’s a pretty heavy thing. I only get to live once. Along the way, I’m going to need to give and receive love, support, friendship, and guidance. What I don’t need is some strict, life-force sucking regimen of sex-based roles to tell me how my household should run. Therefore, I was amused at the subject matter and decided to take it to the absurd (imagine that).

Thus misogynist Jamey was born. Every once and a while I break it out when Amanda “steps out of line.” I imagine that misogynist Jamey would have to wear a T-shirt with “HEAD OF THE HOUSEHOLD” airbrushed in bold print. I’ll interrupt her and say something like “Please! The head of the household is talking,” or “shouldn’t you be getting me something to drink?” It sends her off the deep end. She knows I’m joking and don’t mean a word of it, but the concept still drives her crazy. Another one of my favorites is “answer me a question. Why am I in here ironing my own clothes?” Nothing makes me giggle more than watching her reaction change in an instant. I swear she’s going to kill me one day, but until then……she retaliates.