After an untold number of years working my substantial butt off in the advertising biz, I have acceded to my husband's lifelong desire to retire, sell everything and take off for a grand trip around the USA and, hopefully, points north and south as well.
But I'm a writer, and writers write, so here's an account of my adventures living full time in a monster bus. For a while, anyway. And its proper name is a Class A motor home, but someone I love named it the Betty Bus, so that's what I'm sticking with.
It all begins June 5, 2008. Here goes:
We picked up our big, no huge, no giant, no, mammoth mobile home yesterday. I took one look and felt faint, that's how big it is. We spent a good hour going over all the bells and whistles, then went for a test drive.
John did very well, despite my constant, "Move over, move over, you're going into a ditch!"
Then came my turn. Given that Brian, our instructor, had been directing his comments to John for about two hours, I couldn't wait to show him how terrific a (woman) driver I was. You get my drift.
We stopped for gas and John urged me to get into the driver's seat. By the way, the gas was $500 for a tankful.
Brian suggested I back up and pull wide to make the left. I countered with going forward, reversing wide and then making the left. He suggested I wait until the truck next to us, pulling a shiny red Jet-Ski behind him, finished getting gas. "I can do this!" I crowed, pulling wide and executing a hair-pin, hair-raising left around the pump.
Maybe three seconds later, I heard an awful crunch. I had caught our shiny new behemoth on the trailer, but I couldn't see that, so I kept going. And scraping. And crunching. And as I watched in the mirror, I saw the Jet-Ski teeter, topple and finally, plummet off its perch and land with a thud on the blacktop. Ooops.
Both John and Brian were kind, and the Jet-Ski owner was amazingly so. But hey, I'd just proved that women can't drive a rig. Or for that matter, anything.
Humiliated and embarrassed, I wouldn't take the wheel again. Exactly one hour later, we were sideswiped as John tried to change lanes and a little car tried to scoot past us. John turned to me and said, "Feel any better?" What a guy.
The driver of the other car was young, cute and dressed in rather strange blue serge pants, all the more so, considering it was well into the 80's that day. When I commented on his cool pants with all the pockets, he replied, "Yeah, I'm a New York City cop." Oh Jeez.
But the universe was with us, somewhat, and he was very understanding, too. He didn't want to do the insurance thing either, so we left it that we'd each pay for our own repairs.
We actually made it up the hill that pretends it is our driveway, successfully parking it near our basketball hoop, only to discover the next morning that ten tons of rig was too much for our tar-and-chip and the back wheel had sunk all the way up to the rim, bending the tailpipe and causing one of the back bays to buckle.
Anybody know of a good body shop with at least 1600 feet of turnaround space and a parking lot built on bedrock?
Betty
But I'm a writer, and writers write, so here's an account of my adventures living full time in a monster bus. For a while, anyway. And its proper name is a Class A motor home, but someone I love named it the Betty Bus, so that's what I'm sticking with.
It all begins June 5, 2008. Here goes:
We picked up our big, no huge, no giant, no, mammoth mobile home yesterday. I took one look and felt faint, that's how big it is. We spent a good hour going over all the bells and whistles, then went for a test drive.
John did very well, despite my constant, "Move over, move over, you're going into a ditch!"
Then came my turn. Given that Brian, our instructor, had been directing his comments to John for about two hours, I couldn't wait to show him how terrific a (woman) driver I was. You get my drift.
We stopped for gas and John urged me to get into the driver's seat. By the way, the gas was $500 for a tankful.
Brian suggested I back up and pull wide to make the left. I countered with going forward, reversing wide and then making the left. He suggested I wait until the truck next to us, pulling a shiny red Jet-Ski behind him, finished getting gas. "I can do this!" I crowed, pulling wide and executing a hair-pin, hair-raising left around the pump.
Maybe three seconds later, I heard an awful crunch. I had caught our shiny new behemoth on the trailer, but I couldn't see that, so I kept going. And scraping. And crunching. And as I watched in the mirror, I saw the Jet-Ski teeter, topple and finally, plummet off its perch and land with a thud on the blacktop. Ooops.
Both John and Brian were kind, and the Jet-Ski owner was amazingly so. But hey, I'd just proved that women can't drive a rig. Or for that matter, anything.
Humiliated and embarrassed, I wouldn't take the wheel again. Exactly one hour later, we were sideswiped as John tried to change lanes and a little car tried to scoot past us. John turned to me and said, "Feel any better?" What a guy.
The driver of the other car was young, cute and dressed in rather strange blue serge pants, all the more so, considering it was well into the 80's that day. When I commented on his cool pants with all the pockets, he replied, "Yeah, I'm a New York City cop." Oh Jeez.
But the universe was with us, somewhat, and he was very understanding, too. He didn't want to do the insurance thing either, so we left it that we'd each pay for our own repairs.
We actually made it up the hill that pretends it is our driveway, successfully parking it near our basketball hoop, only to discover the next morning that ten tons of rig was too much for our tar-and-chip and the back wheel had sunk all the way up to the rim, bending the tailpipe and causing one of the back bays to buckle.
Anybody know of a good body shop with at least 1600 feet of turnaround space and a parking lot built on bedrock?
Betty
9 comments:
Betty Fitterman - heard what you are doing from Lesley and now my parents sent me your link - I am so excited for you two - you will have an amazing adventure!! I can only hope that Anthony and I will be just like you guys and do the same! Love you both! Laura Iannarelli
Betty and John, best wishes on your excellent adventure.
We will all enjoy logging on to see where you are sort of like where's Waldo
Can't wait for your next entry
Love Donna
I GUESS THAT'S IT! BETTY AND JOHN'S MOST EXCELLENT ADVENTURE!!!
I'M THERE, DUDE!
Betty and John: I hope this means you'll be passing through the Land of Cleve and will pay us a visit on your way to shoot some clay pigeons or whatever it is that John likes to shoot. Just as long as you park the Betty Bus at the local RV park (it's a campground spelt with a Kapital K as in Kampground-I'm not Kidding-I'm sure it's a top notch facility) and not in our driveway. Not sure we can take the weight of the Betty Bus. Love you, Laurie
Betty.... after reading this I realized just how much I miss you!! What a start to life on the BB...can't wait for the next installment. Venice FL better be on your list! Wish you both many happy days ahead. Much love, Margie
HI GUYS,
WE MISS YOU BOTH ALREADY. HOPE WE CAN JOIN YOU IN THE FALL FOR A SHORT EXCELLENT ADVENTURE ON THE BETTY BUS.
LOVE,
JOYCE
Lots of love to you both as you begin your amazing journey. We wish you miles of laughs...and cheap gas at every exit. When we miss you too much, we'll just mail ourselves to wherever you are! Enjoy each turn in the road and may every day bring you to another more wonderful adventure. Keep blogging, it's hilarious!
Love and kisses,
Kathy, Chris, Courtney & Timmy
You have not failed the sisterhood dear, you will drive a rig, it just takes time, and lots of out of court settlements. Soon, you’ll be chewing gum, leaning one elbow out the window and crooning 10-4 10-4 this is Rubber Ducky do u read me over? Driving is the easy bit… think : changing the tyre (spelt correctly) .. it wont matter whether you’re a boy or a girl, the gulp factor will be the same. (Gulp Factor: inability to swallow when confronted with certain events or issues.) I have every faith in you.
As for the gas bill, for your info it will take 2 and a quarter tanks to LA and that’s direct with no sightseeing inbetween. Spare a thought for us, gas is 10 bucks a gallon so you know why camping is the fave summer pastime. And Big Buses that pass by cause the traffic to stop and people getting out of their cars to stare in wonder as Every Mans Retirement Fantasy slides by, never sure whether to salute the achievement or pelt with stones out of resentment. (In truth we really prefer to hire a small plane and drop flour bombs See: Anti Apartheid Protests circa 1970s) The only advice I can give you is do not spray VOTE FOR HILLARY or NASCARS SUCK or WE SUPPORT GAY RIGHTS on the side of the bus when you drive through the Southern states. Unless of course your life insurance is up to date. God, your going to have fun. Love from Jenny x
PS Oh, advice number 2: A 5 gallon ex-paint pail is awesome as a toilet backup should the flash one fail you. Truly, camp grounds are used to various shades of ex-paint pails exiting buses, caravans and tents first thing in the morning. When u gotta go, u gotta go. Great way to meet the camp ground visitors, and discover, whether you want to or not, who drinks the most the night before.
DubblePS: And Jeff, if you’ve any sense, you’ll make sure that all the house lights, street lights and traffic lights are off when they get near your vicinity. They’re going to take out all the neighbourhood lamp posts looking for you, all the stray jet skis parked nearby, a petrol bowser or 4, wreck all the driveways reversing up the wrong one and the neighbours are going to come looking for the only house left alive with lights on. In fact, move.
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