Y’all know Karen Cantwell by her Barbara Marr books:

Book 1:Take the Monkeys and Run

Book 2: Citizen Insane.

JUST OUT: Book 3: Silenced by the Yams

Well, today she stopped by to tell us a story about her life. And from it, you can perhaps glean some idea of where she gets her book ideas. Or you can worry about her sanity, take your pick.

Karen Cantwell:

Flying is not my favorite thing in the world to do. I mean, I’ll get on a plane if I really have to in order to get from point A to point B in a decent amount of time, but I’m not happy about it. My palms sweat during takeoff and landing, and I grip the armrest mercilessly if the plane as much as hiccups once we’ve reached cruising altitude. One time during a particularly bad bout of turbulence on a flight from Baltimore to Phoenix, I felt an overwhelming urge to unbuckle myself, run to the cockpit, throw open the door and scream at the pilot, “Where did you learn to fly? Come on! You’ve got people freaking out back there!”

Of course, I was the only one freaking out. As I looked around, I was amazed at the number of people content watching the in-flight movie, reading their book, or even (how do they do it?) sleeping. Not me. And it was at that moment that I realized the real reason I experience fear when flying, isn’t my worry that we’ll drop out of the sky and splatter across some corn field in Kansas – it’s because I can’t be in control WHILE we’re doing so.

But this post isn’t about my fear of flying.

No.

It’s about my fear of driving in a car when my husband is behind the wheel.

The first time I took a road trip with my husband was when we needed to get from Denver to Aspen in a rental car.

There’s a mathematical equation for this experience:

Mountains + driver who likes to look at mountains and not watch the road = passenger with need for heavy dose of tranquilizers

To this day, if I hear Rocky Mountain High on the radio, I feel the need to change my underpants.

Basically, my husband thinks that controlling the vehicle on the road is secondary to other things he could be doing at the same time. During our mountain “adventure,” it was watching the scenery, but as time and anniversaries have passed, I have learned there are a great many things that can occupy a man’s attention while maneuvering a death machine at 70 miles an hour on a dangerous stretch of highway. The radio for instance. Did you know that finding the perfect radio station without ANY static whatsoever, is actually more important than keeping your car in one lane? No. I didn’t either.

Or the little mode-gadget-thingy over the rearview mirror – you know, the one that can tell you the time, the temperature outside, miles traveled, miles left on the gas you have in the tank, the conversion rate from US dollar to Euro, and the date Jimmy Hoffa disappeared? Right – you know the one I’m talking about. You have to push that button each time to toggle between each of the settings, and if you’re like my husband, you might miss the setting you were looking for once or twice, so you keep pushing that button and squinting at the digital readout looking for the right answer.

And if you’re like me, you’re looking apologetically at the driver in the car next to you because your husband has veered into his lane and nearly driven him off the road. Twice.

As cars became more high-tech, our marriage became more in danger of ending in divorce. I cursed XM radio (a gazillion radio stations to choose from while driving!) and the newest GPS system that he didn’t turn on or plug information into until AFTER we were on the road.

Now, my husband would tell you that it was not walk in the park having me in the passenger’s seat. He claims I do things like GASP! for no reason. Or that I distract him when I take deep breaths and grab the safety handle while muttering, “Tail lights, tail lights! Watch the tail lights!”

So, why did I start out talking about flying, you ask?

Well, it was actually that scary flight from Baltimore to Phoenix that repaired our marital issues. Like I said before, I realized as the plane bumped all over the stratosphere, that my fear came from the fact that I wasn’t actually controlling the plane myself. Of course, I can’t fly a plane (although maybe I should consider learning . . .), but I can drive a car.

The next time my husband and I slid into a car ready for a long distance drive and we were bickering before the ignition even clicked, I knew that there was only one way for both of us to be happy. I needed to be in control of the vehicle and he needed to be in control of . . . everything else.

And they lived happily ever after.

Karen, thanks for stopping by the blog to chat!