I dream of my 70^th birthday.  My plan is to commence upon a decadent lifestyle when I turn 70, since pretty much every day after that is just a gift.

In my dream, I buy a pack of menthol cigarettes, so I can finally be reunited with the bad habit I miss the most.  Once I’ve had my fill of morning coffee (which will be enhanced with real sugar and half & half), I’ll switch immediately to indulging in a Bloody Mary or maybe a Tequila Sunrise, and drink throughout the day with reckless abandon.  Both of those drinks have juice in them, and I don’t want to be without vitamins at that age.  I won’t go over a half gallon of alcohol per day.  (Don’t laugh… I am genetically engineered to handle that much liquor.)

I will drive fast.  In a convertible.  Manual transmission.  With my dog in the passenger seat, wearing Doggles and a bonnet.  Just not after my 4^th Bloody Mary of the day.

I will eat bacon every day.  Every. Single. Day. Maybe at every meal.  Maybe I will use bacon to garnish my tequila concoctions.

I will throw all of my verbal filters out the window, and say whatever I want to whomever I want.  I know some of you think I did that on my 45^th birthday, but you have no idea.  You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Today, as I was thinking about how marvelous my 70^th year is going to be, I started doing some math.  My kids will be under 50.  If they’re anything like me, they may still need a solid sounding board at that age.  My grandkids will be finishing their educations or starting careers and/or families.  Holy moly, I might even have a couple of great grandchildren running around.  So at 70, I’ll still be going to Disney films with little people, and reminding my son that HIS son is only acting just like HE DID at that age. ( By the way, Alex, I will smile when I get to tell you that.  I’ll probably even snicker.)  My daughter may need me to dig out some old recipes for Christmas dinner.

Well, Crap-A-Doodle-Doo.

My 70’s decadence is a pipe (cigarette) dream.  I can’t go off the rails of a crazy train.  I’ll still have a life.

So, I’m going to alter my dream to mesh with my reality…..which is pretty much what I’ve had to do with all my dreams throughout my life.  Lucky for me, they mostly turned out OK.  (Remember, happiness is a choice!)

So, here’s my compromise:  My 70^th birthday is going to be a blow out, with much tequila, even more bacon, and maybe even some 1970’s disco dancing.  Each subsequent birthday will be even more raucous and irreverent.  The other 364 days, though, I’ll behave.

Except for the bacon, which I will eat every day.  Every. Single. Day.

I love tourist season in Branson.  I love meeting people who are visiting here, I love the economic opportunity it provides for my community, and I love the entertainment options it provides for this area.

My question is, how can so many of these tourists have never driven on a road before coming to Branson?

I understand taking your time, looking for street signs, trying to follow directions.  Heck, I do the same when I’m in a strange place.  That part doesn’t bother me.

What I don’t understand are the drivers who have apparently never seen a roundabout…..or don’t know what a YIELD sign means……or have never been in a “turn only” lane…..

Please, if you miss your turn, don’t come to a dead stop in the middle of the street while you decide what to do.

Please, if you’re completely thrown by the roundabout, just go around a couple of times while you figure it out, but don’t weave back and forth between the turn lanes and the thru lanes, slamming on the brakes at every exit.

Please, don’t panic when you realize that you’re in a lane that is right turn only (just like the signs have said for the last 3/4 mile) and jerk your car into the left lane…..there are very likely other cars already there.  Just turn right, then turn around.  There’s really no reason to act like you’re turning off the edge of a cliff.  You’ll survive that wrong turn, I promise.

To the gentleman on the receiving end of my top o’ the lungs question “What part of RIGHT TURN ONLY do you not understand?”, because I’m pretty sure you heard me, I apologize.  My outburst wasn’t really aimed at you; you just took the brunt of my frustration over the dozen or so other inept drivers I had encountered over the past hour.  I’m better now, and promise to work on my patience and deep breathing exercises through the rest of the tourist season.

Welcome to Branson.  I’m glad you’re here, I really am.  I just think you might have a more relaxing vacation if you call a cab.