Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road: Humorous Views on Love, Lust, & Lawn Care
Barnes & Noble
"I recommend Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road to any adult needing a quick pick-me-up or a good laugh, and that would include just about all of us at one time or another."
"As a man, I heartily endorse her theories on the problems of mall navigation for men, and the ingenious solution of a male drop-off zone complete with vibrating chairs, televised sports, and attendant grannies missing their grown-up sons. Brilliant."
"Driving On The Wrong Side of the Road by Diana Estill will keep you chuckling and sometimes laughing uncontrollably, as I was while sitting in the airport reading it."
—Bonnie Neely, RealTravelAdventures.com
"... personal slices of life served in the spirit of Erma Bombeck ..."
—ForeWord Clarion Reviews
"Driving promises to bring to cheer to any woman who has bemoaned the antics of her household ... reassuring her that all families are just a tiny bit crazy."
—Patti Hill for Boomer Women's World
Explanations for "why men grill", "women want denim", "your bedmate won't stop snoring", and other socially intriguing questions from the author of Deedee Divine's Totally Skewed Guide to Life and Stilettos No More.
Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road careens out of the comfort zone and veers directly for disaster. In this collection of essays, award-winning humorist Diana Estill shares her misadventures in travel, home repairs, and everyday life as she discusses everything from designer dogs to self-checkout machines. Whether she’s decoding football terms for dummies (“Fourth and one — a period of seconds preceding either an eruptive scream of jubilation or a dangerous time for house pets”) or explaining “why men and malls don't mix,” her comedic take on the opposite sex appeals to women and the men who share their lives.
Book Excerpt from Driving on the Wrong Side of the Road:
Why Men Grill
In case you've noticed your man (or someone else’s) behaving strangely these past few weeks, let me explain what’s happening. It’s outdoor grilling time. My advice to any woman witnessing this phenomenon is to simply relax and let the guy have his way. Otherwise, you'll end up back in the kitchen.
I know. You're going to complain that the meat is undercooked, smells like Lea & Perrins sauce (which, I might add, contains anchovies) and tastes like scorched underbrush. And when you attempt to check on the broiling progress, you can’t find the cooker for all the smoke and flames. Well, all I can offer is that I’ve learned to eat around the edges of my hamburger, and I’ve taped the fire department’s phone number to my patio door.
Ladies, it’s not ours to question this primal ritual that connects men to their earliest caveman counterparts. Let’s face it. Bonfires and fresh kill have a greater history than, say, Viking and Albertson’s. This explains why a guy who'll regard the kitchen stove top as though it’s something that might give him estrogen has no problem tackling a backyard barbecue. First, he’s genetically encoded to build fires. And second, his reptilian brain tells him that, at least to cave woman, the scent of crackling meat over an open flame is an aphrodisiac.
In the Paleolithic Period, there were no dating services or Internet. A caveman had to depend on the size of his smoke spirals and the waft of sizzling meats to lure a prospective partner. Or to put this more directly, the bigger his blaze the better were his chances of finding “wooka-wooka” that night. So don't misinterpret your fellow’s intentions. He’s not trying to burn you out of your home. He’s just saying, “Hey, Baby, I'm ready for wooka-wooka!”
In earlier times, cave women probably had a choice of fireside dinners to attend. Before making a selection, they no doubt scanned the horizon instead of the personal ads. Our female ancestors reasoned that large smoke plumes indicated a sizeable roast (or else another cheap blind date trick). Hence, the guy with the biggest column generally won the girl.
Whole industries have been launched around man’s inclination to continue this kind of competition. Consequently, retailers now bring us barbeque pits so colossal they require trailer chassis and smokers capable of cooking an entire herd.
When it comes to charbroiling, it seems everyone has climbed onto the chuck wagon. Any day now I fear I'll be unable to enter Home Depot due to the grill display that’s consumed the remainder of the parking lot. (Though my absence might make a lot of summer workers happy, it would be horrible for shareholders.)
My husband is one of these barbecue warriors—but he competes only by degrees. His infrared Texas Incinerator-Master (guys will buy anything that includes the word “master”) reaches 1,600 Fahrenheit and will sear a filet mignon in two minutes. It can also, I've discovered, melt plastic forks at four feet and eliminate entire sets of wedding Tupperware.
I do my best to stay away from our backyard beast (the grill, not my spouse). That’s my man’s territory, and I don't want to infringe. Some sort of alchemy is happening there. A combination of brawn and blaze is transmuting into . . . well . . . wooka-wooka. I figure if I can't take the heat, I should stay in the kitchen.
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