Opera Bob
My mother sings opera. Not in an opera company, not even in the shower. No, Mom’s favorite venue is the car.
Mom is the world’s worst, all-time champion, backseat driver. I hate driving with her. She bounces and squirms in her seat like her pants have tacks in them; and frequently grabs the “Oh crap!” handle. She can’t stop yelling the obvious, some examples: “There’s a car in front of you.” “Oh, it’s turning!” “Watch it!” “Look out!”, and the like. This from the woman who…I’ll get into that later.
Now, I’ll admit that I didn’t start out my driving career very well. No one does. There were fender benders, tickets, one totaled car. And I have a scar under my lower lip from trying to eat my steering wheel. But it has been over 20 years now, and I like to think that I have vastly improved in that time.
Driving in Oklahoma can present some unique oppurtunities to hone one’s skill behind the wheel. I have driven on gravel, dirt, pavement and pasture; over rickety trestle bridges, narrow wood-plank bridges, dams and deadman’s curves; on two-lane country roads, six-lane expressways, clogged city streets and stretches of old Route 66. When we lived in Chicago, I learned to deal, successfully, with Great Big City driving. Heck, I even won a show-down with a Chicago city bus. Since I had the kids, I’ve even slowed down considerably.
While still pushing the speed limit (ok, higher), I think I’m a pretty reasonable driver. Not so, my mother, she’s scary. My sister won’t even let her drive her own car when they’re together. My favorite part is Mom’s Philosophy of Lights. Part One goes like this: slow down to a crawl when approaching a green light, because it may turn yellow. This first part makes absolutely no sense when taken with Part Two: put the pedal to the floor if the light turns yellow.
So, Mom’s backseat driving has a slightly hypocritical flavor to it. But this is nothing compared to what she does to my Dad. Poor, poor Daddy, he doesn’t deserve it. He always obeys all traffic laws and is always aware of what the guy in the next car over is doing. This, by the way, frequently inspires my Dad to use his harshest language, “What a jerk!” He’s a clean-living guy, my Daddy.
These admirable qualities have no effect on Mom’s behavior. Not only does she go through her customary gyrations, complete with stomping on her imaginary brake pedal, she adds a vocal component.
In an amazingly loud, soprano, vibrato voice she sings, “Bob!” That’s my Dad as if you hadn’t guessed. “Bob, you’re getting too close to that car!” “Bob, the car is turning!” She is a diva and this is her aria. It’s really quite astounding, not only the singing, but that my Daddy doesn’t veer into oncoming traffic when she does it.
The truly awful thing is-she’s starting to rub off on me! I really try not to backseat drive Hubby; I only do so when he really is fixin’ to hit someone. (He’s laughing as he reads this.) What I mean is, in certain times of stress, I go operatic.
One winter we had a bit of a mouse problem, they were everywhere and the cat just ignored them. We put out traps and the mice weren’t interested. One even got into the trash. I had put a bag out in the garage for Hubby to carry to the curb. When I went out later to start a wash, I heard a rustling behind me. After some looking about, I saw the trash bag moving! Even knowing about our infestation, I was sure there was a snake in the bag, I was betting cobra.
Hubby heard me all the way inside the house, over the washing machine and TV, when I launched into a chorus of “Oh my gosh, there’s something in the bag!”
My future plans don’t include joining the Met, but it seems like my family can look forward to many more years of “Opera Hubby”.
