It's Just Me, Here . . . on Vacation . . . Suffering from a Few Syndromes. . .

So driving over the bridge yesterday to get to the liquor store (because Exit 25 is a DRY town - which simply means that all inhabitants must drive to the mainland in order to purchase alcohol and bring it back) my husband suddenly switched lanes and I let out a little Yelp!

You're easily frightened you know, he said to me.

No Shit, Sherlock! I replied. That's because I suffer from TDSS!

What on earth is that?

Teenage Daughter Stress Syndrome . . . and you already know that!

Now, my husband is well-aware of the fact that I suffer from this well-documented ailment. The trouble is that its symptoms have been . . . let's say . . . a wee-bit more apparent during this vacation week because some of the stresses have been out of the ordinary. . . you know. . . the kind that don't always crop up at home. . .

Take - for instance - the drive here.

The ever-plotting Ponzi wanted to prove to her parents that she could negotiate the two hour drive to The Shore by herself (ammunition for a not-so-distant argument, no doubt) and so we let her drive us in the minivan. Because my husband called shotgun before I did, the dog and I were relegated to the back seat.

I'm proud to say that the dog didn't scream once.

I can't - however - say the same for the other back seat driver. . .

Or how about Trigger's drive down by herself to meet us on Sunday evening?

Trig. . . you seemed to get here in record time. How fast were you driving???

Oh. . . I don't like to look at the speedometer when I'm driving, she answered me. It makes me nervous. I just pick a car and then I pass them. Then I pick another car and pass that one. . .

Could someone please remind me just who it was that taught this child how to drive????

And then there's the dreaded beach.

I used to like the beach until the fateful day that Veggie and Trigger almost drowned. And I used to tolerate the beach until the day I had to go out and rescue Trigger and two of her friends from a raging rip tide.

Now I go to the beach only when required by law.

Besides, would you want to sit next to your scantily-clad teenage daughters when their only beach reading consists of The Hot Issue of Cosmopolitan - whose cover boasts of the following hot topics . . . The Orgasm Whisperer - Every Woman Needs One! . . . or how about . . . Guys Rate 125 Sex Moves. . . or perhaps . . . What You Should Never Let Your Gyno Do. . . or . . . Secrets His Sex Style Reveals . . . .

Now I am dangerously close to turning the big Five-O, my friends, and this is the first time I have ever heard that guys actually had sex styles! Oh, I knew all about the Orgasm Whisperer (What??? You mean you don't have one???) and the sex moves. . . but I never knew about men's sex styles. I may have to steal that issue when they're not looking. . .

I even got fooled by the title of one article which read, Five Things That Can Blow a Job Interview. (Can't imagine why - in heaven's name - my mind wandered to the gutter on that one. . .)

And so you see that when - like me - you suffer from TDSS, vacation is not all fun and games, my friends. . . . not all fun and games. . .

And the only known cure?

Well that brings us full circle back to the purpose of that drive over that bridge. . .

Oh. . . and it seems that even the dog is as stressed as I am - for she is suffering from SPS (Safe Potty Syndrome) and can't find an acceptable place to do her business (as we call it) and so insists on dropping it a turd at a time as she walks . . . imagine trying to look all beachy, cool and sophisticated while stopping to pick that up every third or fourth step. . .

Don't you wish that life were a tad easier at times????