When we’re driving, Chuck affectionately refers to me as “BB.” BB is the kid-friendly acronym for “Bitchin’ Betty,” because, at least according to him, I’m as persistent in the delivery of driving advice as a cockpit warning system on an aircraft. In fact, never am I more perspicacious and vigilant, or are my senses as keen as when I’m driving from the passenger seat of a car.
His favorite is when we’re sitting at a traffic light. At precisely the instant the light turns green, I bark “It’s not getting any greener, Chuck!” I’m constantly working the brake pedal from my side of the car as if by some metaphysical force transfer I’ll be able to control the approach to an intersection. I’m also quite astute at pointing out road hazards to Chuck, after all, he’s merely steering the vehicle and playing with the audio/video controls, whereas I can keep my full attention on the road ahead. And I do.
When we’re driving, Chuck affectionately refers to me as “BB.” BB is the kid-friendly acronym for “Bitchin’ Betty,” because, at least according to him, I’m as persistent in the delivery of driving advice as a cockpit warning system on an aircraft. In fact, never am I more perspicacious and vigilant, or are my senses as keen as when I’m driving from the passenger seat of a car.
His favorite is when we’re sitting at a traffic light. At precisely the instant the light turns green, I bark “It’s not getting any greener, Chuck!” I’m constantly working the brake pedal from my side of the car as if by some metaphysical force transfer I’ll be able to control the approach to an intersection. I’m also quite astute at pointing out road hazards to Chuck, after all, he’s merely steering the vehicle and playing with the audio/video controls, whereas I can keep my full attention on the road ahead. And I do.
Saturday we packed the car with our camping gear and headed to one of the State Parks we’d never seen before so we could get at least one use out of the Texas State Parks annual pass we spent $50 on last year and is now about to expire.
Leaving the relative safety of the 30 mph speed limit of our neighborhood Chuck navigated a left turn onto the 70 mph thoroughfare and began to pick up speed when he just happened to glance at the control panel.
LIFTGATE AJAR it read. This even BB missed.
“Lift Gate Ajar,” he repeats out loud and peers into the rearview mirror. “LIFT GATE AJAR?! LIFT GATE IS GONE!” he announces referring to the gaping hole that used to sport a rear-window defroster.
“What?” How did we miss that? All the events leading up to our departure pass before my eyes in a split second as I try to process who’s fault THAT could be.
“The Lift gate is wide open!” He seeks a safe spot to pull over.
And sure enough, the lift gate was wide open, flapping in the wind, happily waving to the cars judiciously following 200 feet behind, as if to say “Oh, don’t mind us, we’re IDIOTS! See, we’re going camping? Want a tent! One good bump and I’ll spit out a sleeping bag! But be careful, we’re not responsible for damage to windshields!”
We didn’t lose anything. Even the sneakers that Chuck had precariously balanced on the edge of the pile of gear were as he left them. And thankfully the lift gate wasn’t sheared off the van.
We laughed for a good long time and I made a mental note to add “Inspect Lift Gate” to the pre-flight checklist.