Anytime we drive for a bit of a distance, (which is every time we get in the car really since Le Petit Village is in the middle of back a** nowhere) I like to plug in the GPS and fiddle with it. Not that we don’t know where we’re going, it’s just that I like to know exactly how long it’s going to take for us to get there. So we’re driving to French Mommy’s and making the best time ever (1. because we left at 5:30 in the morning getting quite the headstart on the traffic and 2. Fifty only threw up once on the way. Only once, and not at all on the way back. Way to go Fifty) and I was fiddling with the GPS and seeing how long it would take us to drive to London if I so wished, when the GPS whispered “tourner à droite“ (that’s turn right to you and me). But that tourner à droite was to go to London not to go to French Mommy’s and even though The Husband has driven the route so many times and knew exactly where he was going, he listened to the GPS and well, he tourner à droite-ed.
And I looked at him and asked why he tourner à droite-ed and he said because ‘my toy’ told him to. And I said, so? And he looked confused and a little irritated but I called him numbnuts anyway. Because really. You don’t just go tourner à droite-ing when you know where it is you’re supposed to be going.
It took us over a half an hour to get back on track. That little tourner à droite drove us all through Clermont-Ferrand where we hit every traffic light that was put in our way. But on the bright side, even though I didn’t get to London, we did end up driving by Clermont’s rugby stadium, and got to stare at it for awhile as we sat at the traffic light in front of it. So silver cloud, you know, but, Parra and Rougerie didn’t walk by. That would have been like a diamond cloud dipped in fairy dust.
And there you have it. We finally made it to French Nana’s bar, just in time for lunch (beef tongue for The Husband as usual… Y U C K) and had a wonderful weekend in the French Mommy manner, lots of relaxing and spoiling including this Easter cake…
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