Dreaming Hippie-Van
It’s time, dear worst-reader. Better-halves of the world unite as the SHE decides what/where/how regarding all-things Holidays. In this case, the decision has been made to cruise around the Baltic Sea for a few weeks in a… wait for it.
That’s right. My better-half has decided, for this years holidays, to drive around in a house on wheels. In other worst-words, let the confrontation(s) begin.
The confrontation is the simple idear worst-writer can’t be seen in a house on wheels.
It’s too Spießig, I said.
But she insisted, claiming that we’re old enough to be a bit Spießig. I added that road campers give me the creeps because they remind me of how I should’ve ended up in life. For, don’t you know, dear worst-reader, there is somewhere in this grand world of worst a trailer in a trailer park on cinderblocks with my name on it but instead its lived in by #MAGA morons and #Americants of ill-repute who are unable to master any luck in their search for a life of leisure and/or sticking it to the man by not being a working-poor schmuck. But then she insisted and insisted and insisted and her masterful teary eyes, full of yearning and desire, for a camping vacation–that she’d always wanted… Yea. We know how this is gonna turn out.
Can’t we go to Thailand instead, I asked.
No, no, no, she said. I always wanted to go camping and now it’s time and we’ll do Thailand when the Covid thing has been declared over.
Really? We have to wait for the Covid thingy? I thought we have to worry about monkey-pox now? WTF!
Indeed. It may be time–both for compromise and a reality check about this worst-world of viruses galore. But then I had a idear.
Ok honey, I said. How bout this? We don’t do it in a house-on-wheels, which I think is embarrassing and scary, but how bout we rent a hippie-van? Yea. Hippie-vans are cool. Remember those?
A what, she said while those tears quickly dried and were as quickly replaced by woman-scorned skepticism.
You know, I added. Flowers on the dashboard. Maybe even a bobblehead of Elvis. We can forget the tie-dye t-shirts. I’ll let my beard grow and you’ll forget your bras and we’ll sleep in the back of a VW Bulli with hand painted peace signs all over it. How bout that?
She stepped away from the confrontation with her phone and started her google machine. A bit relieved that I had avoided a confrontation of blows, during breakfast the next morning, she blurted out that the VW Bulli thing is fine.
Wha…, I thought. I’m gonna have to get back to practicing ways to avoid all HER wishes with weak compromises. And with that in worst-mind, looks like I’m playing hippie in a hippie bus, come what may.
Rant on.
-T
worstwriter 