So my family is in Delaware for Easter. My dad and I drove down together after work.
Now, driving with my dad is an experience in and of itself. There's the songs he makes up, the legendary tale of "I'm a Real Truck," and so on, so forth. This time was no different from any others, and included such awesomeness as BLASTING THE PASSION MASS ON THE CAR STEREO OLD SCHOOL.
But that's not the amazingly cool thing that happened! The amazingly cool thing started out small indeed.
Imagine us, back in New York City traffic. My father starts talking about how the two buses in front of us are going to kiss. When my father says cars are going to kiss, he means they're going to get into an accident, but he is rather romantically-minded about the whole thing.
Tea: Don't say that!
Daddy: It's not that thing...what do you call it, persuasion something?
Tea: Performative utterance?
Daddy: Yeah, it's not that. It's not going to happen just because I said it. Otherwise, do you know how many times I would have won the lottery by now?
Tea: That's not exactly what performative utterance means, but I get it.
A little later, we are in the tunnel.
Daddy: You know how behind us, they squished all the lanes of traffic into two little lanes? I imagine there's a lot of joy-joy up ahead of us on the road.
Daddy: Yes, because when we get out of the tunnel, it seems so big and easy to drive. Joy-joy.
The joy-joy continued for the duration of the trip and made me really wish I had the phone post number programmed into my cell. Kind of like this...
Daddy: We're running out of joy-joy. We only have 125 miles full of joy-joy and we're 140 miles away. We're going to need to fill up on joy-joy. I think we need about fifteen gallons of joy-joy.
Daddy: Look at all the joy-joy in the EZ-Pass lanes!
Daddy: Uh, oh, look up ahead, there goes the joy-joy!
Tea: Maybe those people are getting off in Pennsylvania.
Daddy: Is that a performative utterance?
Anyway, pretty much every sentence my father said the entire way down included the words joy-joy. This is typical of my father.
About 30 minutes to the end of the trip, in the middle of me busting my lungs laughing until I cried at the blasted Passion Mass, my father lifts a hand from the steering wheel and points at the only other car on the road for miles.
Daddy: Tamara, look at that license plate.
It was a white Cadillac (I think? It was dark). Delaware plate. Says?
Daddy: That's perfomative utterance. Either that or when we're together, we have magic psychic powers.
I so wish I had had my camera out. I want to track this car down because it was the most unbelievable thing ever.