Driving Disability

If you know me at all, you are well aware of the sad fact that I drive like a one-armed, eighty-year-old who's forgotten her dementia pills and is legally blind in both eyes, (I actually am legally blind).

It all started in drivers education when I was fifteen:

There were two driving instructors. One was the football coach, a portly jolly man with a dead-tooth and a Big Gulp, and the other was Mr. Rosser; the freshly divorced social studies teacher that reminded me of Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, except with a southern accent.

Obviously, I was assigned to take my classes with Mr. Rosser, and my driving-nightmare began.

I was already extremely nervous, and before I really had a chance to hit anything, Mr. Rosser was asking if I was "some kind of an idiot" and slamming on his set of brakes (I had yet to locate my own set).

An hour into my lesson, I began to think that perhaps I was some kind of driving idiot, and started to develop an intense fear and aversion to getting behind the wheel.

"So I guess you decided it was best not to stop at that stop sign?" Rosser spat at me, when the tiny Ford Escort sped past the red hexagon into the Arby's parking lot. I was on the verge of tears and my legs felt like linguine.


We went inside, Mr. Rosser and my driving buddy (no real recollection of who he was, just a faceless character along for the ride) ordered, I sat alone in the booth, trembling. They returned, and Mr. Rosser unfolded his wax-paper to reveal two dry bun halves. If I questioned his humanity before, I was completely at a loss by this point. Anyone who goes into a fast food restaurant, especially one as sub-par as Arby's -- where their bread is probably made from cardboard and mouse-droppings, and orders just plain buns is someone I cannot relate to on any level. At least ask for ketchup or honey-mustard to dip the barren, dehydrated halves and make them a tiny bit less taxing for your body to ingest...

Needless to say, I didn't do so well in the course, and he recommended many more hours of practice, which I decided not to go through with because the very thought of driving gave me anxiety.

I didn't get my license until I was eighteen and the tiny guy passed me, despite the fact that my three-point turn adopted two extra points and a squished safety cone.

I feel obligated to confess that in addition to my anxiety linked to the physical act of driving, I'm also handicapped when it comes to directions and finding my bearings. (It's a constant ongoing search).

I often discover that I've been taking a much longer route to a place that's quite close just because I wanted to stay on roads that were familiar. A drive to Ollie Wallie's bounce-palace that takes a normal person fifteen minutes, takes me forty-five minutes, the maps application on my phone, the fingernails on my right hand and 20 mg of ADD meds.

Big intersections and one-way streets terrify me. If you ever see an extremely dirty, black Jeep Liberty stopped at a light with the front-half of the car in the turning lane, the back-half still in the lane to go straight, the light to go straight turns green, and you are stuck behind the dirt-caked ass of the jeep -- please don't honk or yell things out of your window, it's probably me; I've just figured out that I'm supposed to turn down that road -- your frustrated honking frightens me, and I have cloth seats.

Jonesing for a Laugh

We all have days that seem to squish and and pummel us from the minute we wake up to the moment our sleeping pills kick in. When I have days like that, I ask my friends for stories, the good ones, the embarrassing kind. Some friends seem to have a never ending supply...

"I was on my senior trip to the Cayman Islands. It was a christian school so we were chaperoned, which sucked.

This guy? Training wheels until thirteen? No shit.

A couple of guys rented mopeds and brought them back to the hotel. I saw this as a great opportunity to show off, and neglected the fact that I've always been rather terrible on two wheels since I didn't learn to ride a bicycle until I was thirteen years of age.

I was shoeless, shirtless and approximately 120 lbs. (This friend is 6'1" and was the same height then).

After the whole class had gathered around, I singled out the obese elderly Spanish teacher:

 "Hey Ms. Anderson! Check out this sweet wheelie!" I then rode for approximately two feet before wiping out on the asphalt and getting pinned under the moped. 

Ms. Anderson came to my rescue because everyone else was laughing too hard to help my scrawny entrapped body.

I was then rushed to the hospital where I received several stitches from a Russian male doctor with a Chinese male nurse who had no means of verbally communicating. it took about 20 minutes for them to pick the gravel out of my knee."

Pillow Cats is the WORST GAME EVER

One sun-shiney afternoon, I was babysitting my B.F.F. Otis, and his friend from school, Ella.

Ella's mom is a vetranarian, so naturally they have pets, and Ella's favorite is cats -- my absolute least favorite animal on the planet next to mosquitoes,  maggots, and the blobfish, see picture below.

"Let's play Pillow Cats!" Ella squeals, with her little fists in the air, balled up in jubilation. 

Blobfish--an actual fish.

I've babysat for Ella before, and her suggestion for Pillow Cats as the game, came as no surprise. Here's how to play pillow cats:

1.) Coat the T.V. room floor in a sea of pillows

2.) Crawl around on pillows meowing. That's it...I'm serious. 

Last time we played Pillow Cats, I was named "Mommy Pillow Cat" and I sat my rump upon the largest pillow while Ella and Otis meowed around me and I pet their heads awkwardly as they meowed in my face. It wasn't exactly fun, but it wasn't hard either and they seemed content, which is the most important thing. 

THIS TIME, HOWEVER, I was not allowed to play Mommy Pillow Cat; Ella condemned me to be the all important "Tree."

"What does the tree do?" I asked.

"You stand there like this," She said, as she stood up tall with both arms held up--fingers spread apart for branches.

"Can't I be a sweet bush? Or a super-cool shrub?" I suggested, trying to make them both sound as appealing as possible, because being either I would be able to sit down, and not have to hold my arms in the air. 

"No," Ella replied curtly. "I want you to be a tree."

"Yeah," nodded Otis, "Be a tree." So it was two against one, and I had no choice but to comply.

I had been standing in the corner of the room as the tree for about two minutes and my arms were aching, Otis's Dad walked into the doorway with a confused look on his face.

"I'm the tree," I explained, looking like Christ the Redeemer as the two children were crawling around meowing in front of me, it must have looked odd, to say the least.

"Have fun guys!" He said quickly, and ran up the stairs. 

"I have an idea!" I yelled, and the meows subsided, "How about an evil witch casts a spell on the tree, and the tree chases the cats and tries to eat them!" I thought this was an excellent idea, and I could tell Otis did too; He stood up in his striped little pants, readying himself to run. Plus he LOVES witches. Loves them. He was a witch for Halloween.

"No." Ella shot me down, "That's scary, and there aren't any witches in Pillow Cats." 

me.

"I think it could be fun." I defended my idea, and took the chance to put my arms down. Honestly, if any fairytale creature were to be present in Pillow Cats, I thought it for sure would be a witch, witches and cats are like peanut-butter and jelly, Richard Simmons and sweatbands, or re-fried beans and farts, the two clearly go hand in hand.

"Trees don't talk," she reminded, "Or yawn." And I closed my mouth at the end of a yawn, and put my arms out, because I was the tree, and trees don't talk.