STRANGER THAN FICTION: TRAVELING WITH SPOUSE CAN BE HAZARDOUS TO HEALTH

The Other Half and I celebrated our three-month anniversary Friday. So far, neither of us has hit the other in anger or used butcher knives in ways the manufacturer never intended.

We came close at the beginning of the week, however, when Mr. Half had to attend a seminar in Kansas City and invited me to come along.

While the Chicago Weekend of the Deadheads was pretty refreshing -- yeah, right -- I decided that Kansas City might be even better. I could take a few days off and be Deadhead-free, lounging around the pool and taking in the sights while Mr. Half sat in mind-numbing seminar sessions.

It didn't quite work out that way. We ambled into a bad area for dinner the first night there, eventually noting that we were the only restaurant patrons without multiple earrings in our ears, noses and bellybuttons.

"So, any neighborhoods we should avoid while we're up here?" we asked our friendly waiter.

"Yeah. The one you're in," he replied.

I reminded Mr. Half that I had just wanted to go across the street from the motel to Denny's, but noooooo! He wouldn't hear of it.

It set the tone for the rest of our trip. The next night, Mr. Half wanted to cruise the city and take in the skyline. I agreed, not realizing that we have different ideas on what a "short drive" is.

About two hours into it, I began to feel like the five passengers who booked a "three-hour tour" and ended up spending years on Gilligan's Island.

It's a man thing, I think, the incredible urge to burn up gasoline on an aimless trip. The women I know prefer to get from point A to point B in an acceptable amount of time taking the shortest route.

Go figure.

The Kansas City jaunt brought back memories of an easier time, when Mom and Dad planned the trips and the five of us kids didn't have to do anything but get on each other's nerves.

I've got to hand it to them -- my folks took us on a great vacation every year, even when times were tough and we couldn't afford to go any further than St. Louis or Memphis. And what did they get in return? A bunch of faded pictures and nervous tics they can't get rid of.

I think the trip to end all trips was one taken in 1982 to California, before the youngest child was born. Mom and Dad decided to drive out to California by way of all the desert-related sights in New Mexico and Arizona, eventually ending up at my uncle's house in San Diego. We camped in tents the whole way.

Where to begin -- the goat who refused to move from a picnic table in the middle of our campsite? The leaving of my sister at a gas station in Flagstaff? The station wagon's final breath heaved 30 miles outside Manhattan, Kan.? Our discovery of our skinny but healthy cat in the back of a closet when we returned after a week and a half? (No wonder the petsitter said she never saw him!)

That journey was rivaled only by one to New York City, where Mom forced us to go on a Gestapo death march to all the sights rather than take taxis or attempt to figure out the public transportation system.

By the end of the day, when she realized she would have to carry us on her back, she agreed to let us ride in taxis. Then we saw our mother's wisdom, as the taxi drivers flew up and down the streets, slamming on their brakes inches from other cars.

And no, the drivers really don't speak English.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.