Commander of the Radio

I have spent the last twelve days in the constant companionship of my family.

All of us.

Together.

There were twenty-eight hours of all of us together in the car.

In. The. Car.

As in no escape route.

Surprisingly, I was fine with this arrangement for two reasons.

One, being in the car together for that length of time meant that we were going on vacation and I love to go on vacation.

And two, I got to be in control of the radio.

But first we had to discuss the role of navigator.

My husband prefers to drive, which by default, makes me the navigator. The unhappy navigator. Unhappy because being the navigator requires some map reading skills and I have zero map reading skills. Usually an adventure in the car involves the following conversation:

Husband: How much farther until the next exit?

Me (incorrectly assuming this is a riddle or joke): I don't know. How far?

Husband (sighing loudly): Seriously. How far?

Me: Seriously. I don't know.

Husband: Look at the map.

Me: What map?

Husband: The map on your lap.

Me: Oh, that? I spit my gum out in that about an hour ago.

This time the deal was if I navigated, I got to be in control of the radio.

Which meant cheesy pop tunes from the 70s and 80s.

For fourteen hours.

One way.

For this kind of power, I do believe I will saddle up and read a map.

My new found status as Commander of the Radio was revoked approximately two hours and fifty-one minutes later. I'm not positive of the reason, but it may have something to do with singing along to 99 Luftballoons at top volume.

Evidently not everyone is a Nena fan.

I was punished by talk radio, specifically NPR. I have nothing against NPR, but there are no pop tunes on NPR and this totally harshed my Commander of the Radio mellow.

And I still had to read the map.

Eventually my status as Commander of the Radio was re-instated. Fortunately it was in time for a four o'clock four play of Prince.

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