Travel with Dad is a hoot. He rides shotgun, though he offers to drive. AFTER admitting that he got lost on the way to meet us in Columbia.

I am always reluctant to get behind the wheel when Dad is in the car. The combination is like a nuclear reactor. With a hairline crack. I barely geared The Tank into reverse before we had a situation.

Whoa, Andra! You’re gonna hit that rock there!

Dad, I see it. I SEE IT.

Okay. Well. DON’T DRIVE OFF THE SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN!!!! Golly Molly, Andra. You’re gonna kill us all.

DAD, I’M HAVING A HARD TIME SEEING OVER THE HOOD OF YOUR OLD MAN CAR. OLD! MAN! CAR!

I almost ran off the road when we were looking for a place to stop for lunch. Dad was too taken with his choice to apply his imaginary foot brake. Maybe it was the orange roof, making his mouth water with thoughts of melted cheese. Perhaps the two big OO’s in the middle of the sign gave him a hankering for a cupcake.

Or two.

Still, a girl doesn’t want to hear her father say, “There’s Hooters. Let’s go there.”

Not ever.