Day 1: Dawning realization

I have been outwitted by my captor.

I confess to having felt a bit smug. Four days with my twelve-year-old daughter, on the road, for a photo shoot for my next book. Thelma and Louise (without the grifters and the double suicide). Mother-daughter bonding. Shared confidences and giggling after lights-out.

I did not realize that I was putty in her hands.

We were on the road for only ten miles when the realization dawned. I was not in control; she was. From the first moment she slid the CD into the player and the sounds of a “boy band” filled the car, I knew I was in trouble. With every “doo doo doo” and “na na na” my tension and discomfort increased — certainly in keeping with her diabolical plans. After several hours of this auditory torture, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse:  change to Taylor Swift or the “edgy” Five Seconds of Summer.  Either way, I was doomed.

My captor consented to a brief respite. She agreed to a rest stop, no doubt to feed me caffeinated beverages that I might remain awake to admire her beauty and continue my force-fed diet of pop music created by boys named Ashton with cantilevered hair.

The miles rolled by, my discomfiture growing even as her hair grew curlier. I tried to repulse my captor at lunchtime,  requesting a “salad” instead of bacon and french fries, but was denied this simple request. Her power over me grows.

I am now conversant in the social lives of girls named Emma, Madison and Abigail. I know the details of the “icky” boys named Jaden, Braden and Aidan. I now comprehend why Mrs. Nestor is like, the best substitute ever, and why Mrs. C is like, totally better than that other L.A. teacher who wears the Mom jeans. I want to die.

There must be wine waiting for me in Portland.

There must be wine waiting for me.

There must be wine.