Monday, March 23, 2009

Mortification Monday

I got the idea for this feature from Marinka, whose blog I read regularly.  (She does use profanity on a fairly regular basis, so I linked to a post I think is pretty un-profane, but I make no guarantees.  If you encounter words that offend you, I'm sorry, but I will not give your money back.  She's hilarious at any rate.)  From what I've gathered, the whole "stealing ideas" thing is perfectly fine in Blogland so long as you give credit and a link.  So, I have henceforth stolen this feature idea.

For now, I thought I'd change it up a little, though.  While Marinka tells weekly stories of her own embarrassing experiences, I thought it would be even more fun to tell embarrassing stories about my family and friends instead.  I know.  Brilliant.  

*Note to all family and friends who may  hereafter appear in this feature:  Sorry if you're offended or embarrassed, but that's sort of the whole idea.  If you'd like to tell your side of the story or write about something stupid that I've done, feel free to start your own blog.

Today I'm going to tell you about learning to drive with my mom.

My mom is a terrible passenger.  She has improved in recent years, but historically, I would rather take a few days and walk to my destination than drive with my mom in the car. 

In all fairness, I should tell you that my mom was in a really terrible car accident many, many years ago.  This, according to her, is the reason she feels the need to tell the person driving about every upcoming red light, yellow light, brake light, and turn signal within five miles.  (Yes, she can see that far . . . it's her superpower.)

She was so bad that I remember my dad running a red light once when he knew there was nothing coming (and no cop around, I suppose) just so he could say to my mom, "What? How was I supposed to know it was red you didn't tell me?"  

Yes, I'm a lot like my dad.

So, one Saturday afternoon when I was fifteen and had a learner's permit, I was where you find most fifteen year olds on a Saturday . . . at the bowling alley with my grandpa. 

(Yes, I bowled a lot as a kid.  It was what Grandpa liked to do with us, so much so that he gave all of us grandkids our own personalized bowling balls when we were old enough to handle it.  I'm not sure what age constituted the official coming-of-age bowling ball (and bag) ceremony, but it was apparently before I was fifteen.)

When we left  the bowling alley,  I, like most fifteen year-olds begged my mom to let me drive.  Because  I didn't know better back then, and really, what choice did I have?  

(I know . . . drive only with my dad, right?  Trust me, that carried its own issues.  On the day he took me downtown (where the DMV used to be) to get my permit, he let me drive from the DMV to his office  on a very busy part of Macon Rd .  My first time driving on real roads with other cars, and when I politely asked him which lane I should be in, this is the conversation that followed:
Me:  Do I need to change lanes?
Daddy: Why would you need to change lanes?
Me: I'm not sure if this is the right lane.
Daddy: Well, where are you going?
Me: To your office.
Daddy: Does this lane go to my office?
Me: I DON'T KNOW.  There are four lanes of traffic on this side of the road, and I've NEVER DRIVEN BEFORE.  Is this lane going to be turning-only?!
Daddy: Does it say it's going to be turning only?

You see my conundrum.)

So, Mom relented and let me drive.  From the moment we pulled out of the parking lot, she started telling me I was driving too close to the car  in front of me.  "You're not stopping soon enough.  Becky, don't get so close; what if  they slam on their brakes?Slow down, Becky, you're going to hit that car!"

This  was making me more and more irritated by the minute, and finally, I had all of it I could take, and I pulled off to the side of the road and traded places with her.  "Fine," I said in a huff, "You drive."  We both angrily got  out of our respective seats and traded places.

My mom then proceeded to pull back onto the road and immediately rear-end the car in front of us.

1 comment:

Jaime (ChaseNKids) said...

That's funny! My husband accuses me of being a backseat driver. I've even caught myself pressing my foot down on an imaginary break whilst sitting in the passenger seat!