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Stupid Adventures

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Battle Goddess:
Since I ended up recounting my adventures with a Moroccan sheep over a couple of posts recently, I thought it might be fun to create a thread where we could post some of the weirdest and funniest adventures we've endured in our lives.

The below is from a daughter's request for childhood stories involving my mother. Ma is... wacky.


*****

I believe you've heard me recount the story of the Fondy Mountain Deathride before, but once again:

Gma is known for making terrible decisions regarding driving. Creeping into crosswalks when children are in them, accelerating into brake lights, going the wrong way down one-way streets, etc.

She's also known for a misplaced sense of adventure. When she could be traveling in comfort on a pleasant, smooth interstate, she'll try to find squirrelly back roads on the grounds that they'll be more "fun."

On Fondy Mountain, I learned Grandmama's terrifying definition of "fun."

I think I was ten, and your Auntie a very small child, and we were driving to North Carolina to spend a week at the beach. Grandpa would be flying in later. I'm not sure why we didn't all fly. Maybe it was too expensive, but I bet rather it was because Gma wanted to recreate the long family road trips she took as a kid. Once her parents drove the family all the way from Tulsa to Acapulco. As in, Acapulco, Mexico. I suspect this trip was partially to help Gma work out some anger issues.

We were driving in our Dodge Aspen. This was a station wagon made about as poorly as one could make a car. I was just a little kid, and even I could tell it was a piece of <nasty>. Chrysler's production quality was so abysmal that a friend of mine had one that said Dodge Aspen on one side and Plymouth Volare on the other.

Your grandfather had the worst judgment in purchasing cars, and he only bought from our local Dodge dealer. Beats the heck out of me why. Frankly, whatever car he bought, buy the opposite. Every car he bought broke down, rusted out, had quality control problems, and generally stank. He and Great [my daughter's great-grandfather] purchased a Crosley once (look it up), and Gpa took out the transmission and reinstalled it, only he put it in backwards, so the car had three speeds in reverse but only one going forwards.

So off we set on a doomed adventure, your grandmother, your Auntie, and I, in a <poo>box meatwagon along a thin blue squiggly line in the road atlas. Squigglywhy, you ask? Because you just can't build a straight road through mountains, and looming before us was the sullen, hulking bulk of Mt. Fondy.

It was a narrow road to begin with. Two lanes, but mind you, two narrow lanes. Our vehicle wallowed in the ripples in the "pavement" (if that's what you could call it), but the road clearly had been paved long ago and never repaved since. Gaping, thudding potholes clanged at us. Parts of the road were simply washed out into gravel. The poor thing staggered as it rose up the mountainside.

The most harrowing part of the entire ride came when I looked out my passenger-side window and saw...nothing. There was no shoulder. There was no guard rail. There was no road. There was just the edge of a cliff, and empty air, and your grandmother blithely swerving among potholes, completely oblivious to the thousand-foot drop that lay over the side.

I chose not to tell her. It couldn't have helped, and we were going to live or die one way or another. Grandmama had a little smile and was clearly having a grand old time of it, completely absorbed in her own peculiar world.

Sigh. Ten-year-olds should not have to contemplate their own mortalities.

You wonder why I have PTSD? You wonder why I drink? [N.b.: this piece was written some years ago. I'm several years sober. Dammit]

After eons of ascent, the stinking, shoddy road tilted downward, and we wove between potholes, lurching from cliffside to far into the other lane, all the while with me praying some amphetamine-crazed hillbilly wouldn't squeal around a blind corner and send us toppling over the edge.

Final escape came at a gas station at the base of that wretched hill. We must have been quite the local attraction, because as Gma tanked up the car, Greasy Cooter the Mechanic/CEO of the station came out to greet us. He hadn't bathed for a while, but it wouldn't have helped. He was beyond washing. He shuffled up to us in his saggy overalls and filthy baseball cap, grinned to show all three teeth, and wheezed, "Lady, you just come down Fondy Mountain?"

"Yes." Grandmama replied.

"Why, that's the worst road in these United States!"

Thanks for the clarification, Mr. Cooter. If I ever need any further information from Mensa, you'll be the man I come to.

We finished filling the car and drove off.

Only Gma forgot the gas cap, so we had to use a baggie and a rubber band for the rest of the trip.

Battle Goddess:
My mouth gets out ahead of me a lot. Once on a flight to Dallas, I was seated next to a Jesuit. Full cassock, collar, the works. I turned to him and asked, "So, what line of work are you in?"



Another time, I was looking for baking chocolate at the grocery store with my kid. I don't know if y'all realize it, but it isn't as though you can only buy that yellow bag of chocolate chips anymore. There's this kind of chocolate, that kind of chocolate, semisweet, hemidemisweet, dark, kinda dark, 75%, 85%... it's like chocolate has developed gender identities.

We stared, gobsmacked and baffled by this surfeit of choice. Kid finally asks, "What kind do you think we should get?"

"Something dark and bitter," I replied. "Like your mother."

The kid giggled, but it really cracked up the lady pushing her cart behind us.

Rachel Montgomery:
Like
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ChrissyRyan:
Is a pessimist’s blood type typically “B negative”?


Chrissy



@Battle Goddess
@Devlyn @Megan.
@oldandcreaky
@Northern Star Girl

Battle Goddess:

--- Quote from: ChrissyRyan on January 08, 2022, 05:18:31 am ---Is a pessimist’s blood type typically “B negative”?


Chrissy



@Battle Goddess
@Devlyn @Megan.
@oldandcreaky
@Northern Star Girl

--- End quote ---
Shame on you.

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