My wife called me at work on Wednesday morning, and bravely pretended to need to talk to me about a few items and errands she needed to run. Then she got down to business:

“I have some really bad news,” she says. “What’s the worst thing that could happen to you?”

Okay. In an instant, I run through the options in my head:

The kids are in the car; she’s standing on the front porch with her suitcases packed
A large brown envelope has come to the house addressed to my wife, documenting a period of my life in which I apparently (I will claim) suffered from amnesia
I’ve done or said something which I can’t remember at the moment, or I’ve forgotten to do or say something which I can’t remember at the moment, but for which I will most likely have to deeply and abjectly make an apology that I will never forget

“I don’t know,” I say. “Just tell me, okay?”

“Well, [graphic description of horrible, unspeakable act deleted].”

Pause.

”[Expletive deleted],” I mutter. “You’re kidding me, right?

“Noooo,” she says. “[Equally nauseous variation of the horrible act omitted].”

Pause.

”[Expletive deleted],” I mutter.

“You going to come home to look at it?”

“Why? I’m already having a bad day. Now I need to vomit in the front yard?”

Now, I appreciate my wife’s effort to overstate the life-and-death seriousness of the problem in the hope that breaking the news to me would allow me to immediately put it in perspective, but I’m still bummed. I’ve since understood, as I manage my grief, that others in this big world have had far more tragic and painful problems to cope with this week and that I remain, in spite of my grief, a lucky, lucky man.

But I’m still queasy. And [expletive deleted].

The bottom line: my buttercup needs some cosmetic surgery, but she’ll be just fine. Me? I hope to be taking nourishment sometime this weekend.

OK.

Apparently, I really do possess some special powers. I’m still just not sure which in particular; I’m guessing maybe invisibility. Or maybe I’m some sort of deity. Here’s why:

Tonight was a beautiful evening here in south central Vermont — cool and clear. In short, a perfect excuse to take the blonde for a spin, breathe the crisp air and clear my head.

There’s a great stretch of road south of town, where U.S. Route 7 goes to four lanes for five or six miles before hitting Wallingford, Vermont. It has several virtues: remote, well-paved, and straight.

In a word, catnip.

So, after passing a Toyota Corolla, I settle in the left lane at 82, 83 miles per hour — you know, reasonable (and still loafy for my little buttercup), but fun.

I signal and, as I drift back to the right lane, I glance into my rear view mirror. And — bam! — out of the very tall roadside weeds about a quarter-mile back lunges a Vermont. State. Trooper.

OMG! as my daughter says, only close your eyes and imagine something a lot less polite. I don’t even bother hitting the brakes. Perhaps my best (and least expensive) option, I think, is to simply and immediately pull over. Now. So as not to annoy the nice officer any further.

I slow down. He gets closer. He passes me. He doesn’t even glance at me. He turns on his lights. And — get this — he pulls over a tan GMC Yukon a few hundred yards ahead of me.

Wha…? Wha…? I don’t get it, I don’t get it, I don’t get it, I mutter to myself. I was moo-vin’, and I’m the baddest boy on this highway.

Then I realize: I’m an invisible deity. That’s gotta be it, right?

There’s the evidence; you judge for yourself. Me? I’m still shaking my head.

I had a great opportunity for some guilt-free time with my baby this weekend. Yum-yum…

Several of us with mid-life issues (and the various toys to wallow in them) met early Sunday morning for a quick breakfast, and then a tour through the heart of Vermont on motorcycles and roadsters.

Look at them — you just feel like somebody’s gonna get hurt, don’t you?

Anyway, the plan was to crisscross the spine of the Green Mountains, from south to north, at least four times: Killington Pass, Brandon Gap, Middlebury Gap and Appalachian Gap. Here’s the actual route:

U.S. 4 east out of Rutland;
Vermont 100 north to Rochester;
Vermont 73 west to Forestdale;
Vermont 53 to Salisbury;
U.S. 7 north to East Middlebury;
Vermont 125 east to Hancock;
Vermont 100 north to Waitsfield;
Vermont 17 west to Bristol;
Vermont 116 south to East Middlebury; and
U.S. 7 south to Rutland.

The total distance is just over 157 miles; it took us just under four hours, mainly because these coots have to pee every twenty minutes.

The route is an adreneline-pumping race of endless s-curves, undulating straightaways and hairpin turns up, over and around mountains and slicing through remote gorges — and a constant reminder of what a physically beautiful state this is, and why the rest of the world is often drawn here.

This was taken from the top of the Appalachian Gap, looking west, just before we headed down the mountain. Into a massive downpour. With the top down. As it turns out, the faster you drive, the drier you stay…

Actually, it was the very first time that my beloved Blonde had ever had a raindrop touch her luminous skin.

Here she is, waiting for me demurely in the background:

You’re in corrupt company, honey.

Overall, a great day. Lots of fun, challenging driving; good company; and a gratuitous waste of carbon-based fuel.

I Can't Eat. I Can't Sleep. I Can't Focus.

From the Annals of Unexplained Phenomena, No. 396

Me and the Blonde: Gettin' Our Groove On