Christmas Eve, and Craze and I are driving to Germantown, Maryland to visit her niece’s family. Niece, hubby, and adorable daughter moved from Germantown to Houston last spring so hubby could get an advanced degree from Baylor University. (Note to grammarians: “Advanced Degree” and “Houston” may properly appear in the same sentence when accompanied by “Baylor University.”) They’re staying at hubby’s parents’ home, where we are to visit them.
Craze and I drive along the Beltway, north on 270, exit at Father Hurley Boulevard, stop for ice, and make the turn onto Wynnfield. About this time, it occurs to me to ask the immortal question: “I know we’re close, but where’s the turn for [names redacted]’s house? I only know how to get to [niece’s name redacted]’s house.”
Oh.
Fortunately, it was close, and we’d already passed it when I asked; since I’d also been there before, I’m not blameless. (I try to accept as much blame as possible for everything, so as not to give Craze a complex.) Thank God for cell phones.
As a special bonus, I learned what might be the single greatest thing for a father with a teenaged daughter to know. When explaining the curfew to a boyfriend, end your politely worded and helpful comment with, “I’m not afraid to go back to prison.” Works every time.
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