I am a city girl.  FOB (father of blogger) doesn’t drive anymore (he is 90, so thank G-d), POB (partner of blogger) doesn’t drive, SOB (sister of blogger) won’t drive (because she doesn’t feel her skills are good enough) and HOSOB (husband of SOB) let his license lapse. Son of POB and blogger is 8 years-old and we don’t let him drive.  Just call us strict parents.

So, I am the one.  Why do they call it a “minivan”?  The back half of the car was still in New York State for a full two seconds after the front half was welcomed to Connecticut on I95.  There is nothing “mini” about it.  Try parking that behemoth on a city street.  The good news is that I buy all the insurance the rental place sells, so I can ram cars forward and back to enlarge an otherwise snug parking space for only a $12.95 per day premium.  You get what you pay for.  (I am REALLY just joking although clearly I have considered the pros and cons.)

So, POB, FOB, SOB, HOSOB, our son and I set out for this place in idyllic Connecticut (that is, unless you have to drive there, using back roads, but I digress) where HOSOB has 3 bird paintings on show.  Lovely paintings.

But before he spoke, there were other bird nerds describing chickadees and their mating habits and such other interesting matters.  It caused me to take to a stone wall outside and try to snooze while knowing that bugs were crawling on me.  It was out in the country after all.  I fail to see anything remotely civilized about nature.  Ok, that is oxymoronic, but really nature is sooooo . . . creepy-crawling; how does one nap during a bird-nerd convention? By listening to them.  (Ok, that was a trick question.)  It was such a small space that it would have been ruder than even I could muster to lie down inside the gallery and snooze while the nerders were nerding.  (Don’t think it wasn’t a reasoned decision not to embarrass HOSOB; I have napped in the Islamic wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (pre-9/11) because it is sooooo soothing there.)

Then it was HOSOB’s turn to talk about the birds in his paintings.  HOSOB is really smart and his mind moves in many directions at once, but not all roads should be taken (if you understand my drift).  Luckily, he looked at SOB who was making the universal choking motion, as code for “you’re killing me” and he looked at me and I gave the universal “keep the ball in play” signal and he wandered back on the reservation and ended his talk.  Phew.  Of course, my son, Junior Bird Nerd, wanted to comment on the migratory habits of the subject bird.  I have made peace with muzzling my child.

FOB, a lovely man, tries to help me drive and give me directions and short cuts and then says, after I have committed to an exit, “Beats the hell out of me what you do once you get off . . . .”  Pause.  Grip the wheel.  Make sure that I keep everyone safe (including those outside the car) while I re-join the highway traffic.  Did I mention what a lovely man my dad is?

Any way, I have to go to his house tomorrow and fix the fool proof method I set up by which he can access Free Cell and his email account. By fix, I mean, I have to undo the buttons he pushed indiscriminately to fix a perceived problem — the computer took an extra second to re-load.  Oh well.  Did I mention he is a lovely, lovely man?

At various points during the day, I pretended to commit hari-kari and sometimes held out the back of my sweater in a point to show SOB where the sword had gone.

We all survived the trip, saw HOSOB’s beautiful art and, all-in-all, not so epic as, let’s say . . . . the trip to an family unveiling (http://40andoverblog.com/?p=35)