Driver's choice run amok!

In our carpool, the responsibility of driving carries with it a bundle of rights, collectively referred to as "driver's choice." The "driver's choice" doctrine provides, for example, that the driver on any given day has the right to decide the route that we take to and from work, the speed at which we drive, and (as is important here) what we listen to on the radio.

Usually, the driver exercises his/her rights of "driver's choice" with a certain amount of benevolence, taking into consideration the wants and needs of the other members of the carpool. And sometimes, the driver does not.

On Wednesday, Madd Dogg decided to exercise her rights under "driver's choice" to turn the radio on and treat Mumbles and me (Fidget) to a sampling of Keith Urban. For the sake of the people who don't know about Mr. Urban, don't be fooled -- there is absolutely nothing "urban" about his music. In fact, and somewhat ironically, his music is decidedly "rural." You see, when Keith Urban is not bouncing in and out of rehab, he is a maker of country music. And I hate country music.

Now, to be fair, I'm not sure if Madd Dogg knew my feelings about country music when she turned on the radio that morning. But my reaction should have given her a big, fat clue. I freaked out a little bit. And I'm afraid that I may have overreacted.

"No, no, no, no, no!" I frantically uttered. And when Madd Dogg failed to turn off the radio or change the channel fast enough, I took matters into my own hands, turning off the radio.

"Don't touch!" Madd Dogg scolded, and she turned it back on. Defiant. But as soon as her hand left the stereo, I turned it off again. "Stop!" she yelled, and she turned it back on. Then, when I went to turn it off again, she blocked me with her hand, taking her attention away from the road. That must have troubled Mumbles in the back seat, because he started describing some of the dangerous objects around us traveling at 70 miles per hour.

"Double dump truck, double dump truck," he said. "Double dump truck, double dump truck." (By the way, that phrase is very difficult to say. Go ahead, try it.)

But Madd Dogg and I were paying him no heed; our battle for control of the stereo continued. When Madd Dogg foiled my attempts to turn off the stereo with the knob on the left, I simply turned the knob on the right, which changed the channel to static. She responded by hitting one of the preset buttons, returning Mr. Urban to the airwaves. I turned the knob again. She screamed. She pushed the preset button. I attempted to turn it off again. She grabbed my pinkie and bent it backward. I yelped. She let go. I turned the stereo off. She screamed again. And so forth.

At the end of it all, I had won the battle. The song was over, and with my interference, I had been required to listen to only brief snippets of country music. (And Madd Dogg's blood-curdling screams had drowned out most of those, even.) But alas, I had lost the war. I sat nursing my hurt finger, embarrassed by my behavior, wondering what retaliation Madd Dogg would inflict.

My punishment was swift indeed. Madd Dogg shuffled through her available CDs, inserted one, and sat back with a smug smile. The Dixie Chicks. Oh, crap.

Sapped of my energy from the battle over Keith Urban, I forced myself to sit and try to ignore it. Madd Dogg tried to be positive. "Really, you'll like this one song."

"But I don't want to like it," I explained. After all, they are, like our president, from Texas.

[photo by scottfeldstein]