Some things never change. My love life as I know it began with regret and embarrassment, and it’s really only been downhill since then.
I sometimes think there must be something terribly wrong with me, that everyone else seemed to blossom normally from adolescence into adulthood, making and breaking hearts along the way, and I always seemed to have a hitch in my giddy up when it came to those things. I seem to have gotten off the beaten path when it comes to relationships, and I don’t know where I took the wrong turn, but “since the very beginning” seems to be a good guess.
My first kiss though, like many of our first kisses, is probably the one I would most like to forget ever happened. Why, you ask? Was it because it was such a terrible, sloppy kiss, that I was traumatized for years by the thought of a tongue? Because it was with a boy who broke my heart to smithereens at a tender age? Oh, no. Nothing as simple as that.
My first kiss was with a carnie.
A carnival worker.
*sigh*
Let me just put this all in context real quick:
Anna was my best friend. Anna got boobs that summer of 5th grade. No, seriously. I remember getting on the bus the first day of 6th grade and immediately knowing there was a problem. The problem being I had no boobs. Was I supposed to? I didn’t know. I didn’t even shave my legs at this point. But, in a matter of seconds, I understood my chest was not worthy of a 6th grade boys attention.
Anna was, and is, blonde. I had a mousy, light brown color with a *slight* gray tint to it. Anna weighed like 80 pounds, and at least 6 of those were now in her chest. I had gained roughly 20 pounds between 1st and 2nd grade, and never lost any of it. I had signs of Grandma Corty’s midsection in the 6th grade (you shouldn’t be comparing yourself to your Grandma in the 6th grade). Anna had 20/20 vision. I wore humongous purple – framed glasses. So, as you can see, the next couple of years did quite a number on my self – esteem.
The middle of 6th grade, I decided to take up the razor, and started shaving my legs and pits. 7th grade puberty was good to me and I started to lose in places I need to lose in, and grow in places I needed to grow in. By the end of 8th grade, my transformation was nearly complete: I dyed my hair (with Anna – hers turned out a nice golden blonde; mine came out a more of a strawberry, of course) and got contacts. I still had no boobs. Anna still did. She also had a boyfriend. Bitch.
However, none of this changed the fact that ever boy in our grade I had probably taken a bath with or ran around naked in their yards at some point in my life. It’s a small town. So, you see, there were just no options. It wasn’t me --- it was them. Or lack of “them”.
Anna and I spend a lot of time together that summer. Specifically, we spent a lot of time being boy crazy 14 year olds. In August, the annual Burnett County Fair was taking place. These kind of events are horny teenagers wet dreams. Boys from other schools! From other towns! From other counties! (no, not countries --- that came much later --- other counties…)
(On a side note, I have no clue how my parents tolerated me when I was 14, or how they found it in their hearts not to send me away/murder me. If I have children, I will be truly frightened if it comes out a girl….)
Anyway, so we spend every waking and non-waking hours strutting around the animal barns, concession stands, and over priced, rigged games of what was the Burnett County Fair. It’s basically a rule that you need to buy cheese curds at a fair. Being a teenage girl slightly paranoid about her weight is no exception. And, oh, would you look at that! Look at these 2 cute, slightly older boys running the cheese curd stand….
I have no idea how we got ourselves involved with the cheese curd stand guys, but I totally blame it on Anna. The most confusing part for me at the time was that one of them was actually interested in me. *sigh* I was so ignorant of the male mind at this point, it truly depresses me. Anyway, to cut to the chase, after like 48 hours of ridiculous pseudo flirting, which I can only imagine was him trying to flirt with me, and me giggling uncontrollably because I am/was a completely moron when it comes to men, he offered to let me ride with him to the gas station to buy cigarettes.
(GOD, this story gets just more and more redneck with every sentence!!!! I disgust myself. I swear I am going to finish writing this story, and invent a new story about my first kiss)
We ride to the gas station, and I am sitting as closely as possible to the passenger side door as physics will allow. He suggests that, hey, maybe I should sit in the middle. Ummm, sure….(you fool!) and I move over, knowing exactly what is coming next.
The kiss.
Which was stupid.
He smelled like an ashtray.
First kisses are stupid, because like everything, you only get better at kissing with practice. And I can vouch that they are particularly stupid when they are will chain smoking carnies whom you will never see again (thankfully). The good news: There was absolutely nowhere to go but up, up, UP from there. And, 12 years later, it has most definitely went UP!
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Pucker Up.
You never forget your first; even if, sometimes you wish you could.
Time to wind back the hands of time to freshman year. Oh!, the horror, the agony, the immaturity.
This was the year I had my first official boyfriend and got my first official kiss. Being that I was one of the first girl to get a boyfriend out of my friends, I had very few options to go to for advice seeking. I wanted to ask - how should I position my face? What flavor chapstick should I wear? What should I expect? What do I do with my tongue? Well, turns out I was flying solo on this one.
I remember thinking having a boyfriend wouldn't be a big deal. It's not like I was dating the varsity quarterback, so the whole "relationship" thing could go over pretty much on the D-L. Yeah, that was until J.H. decided to announce to my entire Spanish class that me and said boyfriend were a hot item. I didn't even know what a hot item was, and we definitely weren't that, but whatever... It was from that day forward that I felt like I was being watched - everyone knew were were dating, so we had to act like that.
Well, at age 15 - the problem is you don't really know how to act. You're at a very awkward phase. Your body is changing, you get pimples, skipping swimming in gym because you have your period is no longer an excuse...etc. Not to mention, when you are the youngest in the high school there is a lot to live up to. You see that "A-list" seniors macking in the hallway during breaks; you see those same "A-listers" dry humping at school dances. You wonder when you get to be that cool. (Okay, no you don't. Most of the normal kids never wanted to be that cool. You only did if you were an A-list froshie; of which, I definitely was not.)
So it all began at a school dance. Just happened to be on -gag- Valentine's Day. That marked the start of our relationship. Slow dancing and group photos included. (I despise the fact that my first 'will you be my girlfriend, I like you' happened on the most pathetic day for saps of the year. I have never liked the day, and never found this coincidence to be all that romantic. I'm a realist, not a dreamer.)
Things were good. We had fun hanging out with friends, talking on the phone until way too late, and just being normal confused 15 year olds. Well, this "puppy love" continued for about 3 months. Then the second phase of our relationship began. This was the "I think we should take it to the next level, but I'm too dip-shit scared to start" phase. A lot - I repeat, a lot, of sweaty hand holding took place at this phase. The Great Salt Lakes and "kiss tension." [I say "kiss tension" because sexual tension was too far out of reach].
Phase 2 continued on for about a month.
Then we hit the 4.5 month mark. Still, no smooching. It was getting uncomfortable. He'd walk (Yes, walk because neither one of us drove!) me home, we'd stand there in silence looking at our feet. I'd always get super impatience (and insecure) so I'd run inside and slam the door in his face. To hell if I was going to be making the first move - he was the boy!
We crept to month 5 - and that was it. We were going to lock lips. No more of this pussy footing around it - it was going to happen. I distinctly remember going out that day and knowing I was not leaving until it happened. I was determined. It didn't help that the week before he flat out said to my face that we had never kissed. Just as he puckered up, I fled. My first kiss was not going to be so forced, damn it. However, with him being so blunt I knew I had to "put out" or hit the high way. I did still like the kid, so breaking up was out of the question.
That next weekend we went for a ride - he was on his bike, I was on my roller blades. It was swell. We were cruising around the 'burb on a spring/summer day and it was all good. As we started to head back home, I started to get really nervous, even if I was not backing down. We stopped at what would become our "infamous" corner and did the usual - talked, awkward stares, uncomfortable giggles, talked...etc. This continued on for about 10 minutes. [Editor's note: I am still on my roller blades at this point and balance is not my strong suit.] Then it came. I think we both knew it was now or never. We leaned in and ....
whooooooooosh. It was over. It hadn't even started and it was over.
What the fuck? I waited my whole adult life for this - a 1/2 second kiss?
I was so unsatisfied with the lack of kiss that I bladed home. The whole way home I remember thinking how my parents, relatives...etc. had kissed me on the lips for longer than that stupid, lame-ass kiss. What a frickin' waste of dream!
We did improve, and in writing this I realize that I should write about my second kiss. [That one instead of being the shortest kiss ever, could be classified as one of the sloppiest messes of a kisses I'd ever received. That is, however, besides the point. This is about firsts. ;))].
Wonder if the feeling was mutual? Guess the world may never know. :P
Time to wind back the hands of time to freshman year. Oh!, the horror, the agony, the immaturity.
This was the year I had my first official boyfriend and got my first official kiss. Being that I was one of the first girl to get a boyfriend out of my friends, I had very few options to go to for advice seeking. I wanted to ask - how should I position my face? What flavor chapstick should I wear? What should I expect? What do I do with my tongue? Well, turns out I was flying solo on this one.
I remember thinking having a boyfriend wouldn't be a big deal. It's not like I was dating the varsity quarterback, so the whole "relationship" thing could go over pretty much on the D-L. Yeah, that was until J.H. decided to announce to my entire Spanish class that me and said boyfriend were a hot item. I didn't even know what a hot item was, and we definitely weren't that, but whatever... It was from that day forward that I felt like I was being watched - everyone knew were were dating, so we had to act like that.
Well, at age 15 - the problem is you don't really know how to act. You're at a very awkward phase. Your body is changing, you get pimples, skipping swimming in gym because you have your period is no longer an excuse...etc. Not to mention, when you are the youngest in the high school there is a lot to live up to. You see that "A-list" seniors macking in the hallway during breaks; you see those same "A-listers" dry humping at school dances. You wonder when you get to be that cool. (Okay, no you don't. Most of the normal kids never wanted to be that cool. You only did if you were an A-list froshie; of which, I definitely was not.)
So it all began at a school dance. Just happened to be on -gag- Valentine's Day. That marked the start of our relationship. Slow dancing and group photos included. (I despise the fact that my first 'will you be my girlfriend, I like you' happened on the most pathetic day for saps of the year. I have never liked the day, and never found this coincidence to be all that romantic. I'm a realist, not a dreamer.)
Things were good. We had fun hanging out with friends, talking on the phone until way too late, and just being normal confused 15 year olds. Well, this "puppy love" continued for about 3 months. Then the second phase of our relationship began. This was the "I think we should take it to the next level, but I'm too dip-shit scared to start" phase. A lot - I repeat, a lot, of sweaty hand holding took place at this phase. The Great Salt Lakes and "kiss tension." [I say "kiss tension" because sexual tension was too far out of reach].
Phase 2 continued on for about a month.
Then we hit the 4.5 month mark. Still, no smooching. It was getting uncomfortable. He'd walk (Yes, walk because neither one of us drove!) me home, we'd stand there in silence looking at our feet. I'd always get super impatience (and insecure) so I'd run inside and slam the door in his face. To hell if I was going to be making the first move - he was the boy!
We crept to month 5 - and that was it. We were going to lock lips. No more of this pussy footing around it - it was going to happen. I distinctly remember going out that day and knowing I was not leaving until it happened. I was determined. It didn't help that the week before he flat out said to my face that we had never kissed. Just as he puckered up, I fled. My first kiss was not going to be so forced, damn it. However, with him being so blunt I knew I had to "put out" or hit the high way. I did still like the kid, so breaking up was out of the question.
That next weekend we went for a ride - he was on his bike, I was on my roller blades. It was swell. We were cruising around the 'burb on a spring/summer day and it was all good. As we started to head back home, I started to get really nervous, even if I was not backing down. We stopped at what would become our "infamous" corner and did the usual - talked, awkward stares, uncomfortable giggles, talked...etc. This continued on for about 10 minutes. [Editor's note: I am still on my roller blades at this point and balance is not my strong suit.] Then it came. I think we both knew it was now or never. We leaned in and ....
whooooooooosh. It was over. It hadn't even started and it was over.
What the fuck? I waited my whole adult life for this - a 1/2 second kiss?
I was so unsatisfied with the lack of kiss that I bladed home. The whole way home I remember thinking how my parents, relatives...etc. had kissed me on the lips for longer than that stupid, lame-ass kiss. What a frickin' waste of dream!
We did improve, and in writing this I realize that I should write about my second kiss. [That one instead of being the shortest kiss ever, could be classified as one of the sloppiest messes of a kisses I'd ever received. That is, however, besides the point. This is about firsts. ;))].
Wonder if the feeling was mutual? Guess the world may never know. :P
Monday, April 16, 2012
Miss Honey
Her name was Honey, and it only took one glance to scare the shit out of me.
Let me formally introduce you to Honey; Miss Honey my Driver's Ed Road Tester. She was not my first. Not my second either, but who's counting?
Anyway, back to Miss Honey. Instead of Honey, her name just as well could have been Tank. Imagine a huge woman, the largest woman you can imagine. Well, now add on another 50 pounds and that would have been Honey. There must have been a sweetness to her that I never saw; certainly parents wouldn't name their kid Honey for no good reason.for Regardless, I surely did not get any "sweetness" from her starting from the time I shook her hand to the time I rode back into the station with tears streaming down my face.
It surely was an eventful morning test ride with Miss Honey.
We walked out of the station and I specifically remember looking at my mom like it may be the last time I would ever see her. We approached my dad's Chevy Caviler. I got in and unlocked her door (no manual lock system - we sure were ballers :P). Miss Honey sits down. The car immediately drops to the ground. We were going to be low riders for this test.
I am sweating like a pig. I fasten my seat belt, check the mirrors and start the car. Is she wearing her seat belt? I glance over. She is not wearing her seat belt. In fact, she is still trying to reach around her belly to grab the belt. I do the unthinkable.
"Can I help you with your seatbelt, " I ask.
"That is so kind of you, yes, please," she replies.
I reach around her belly, grap the belt, reach back around her "tire" (if you will) and fasten it. During this process I realize that her gut is touching the dashboard. Yes, belly on the board. I may as well be with a beached whale. My heart is racing and I haven't even actually gotten out of the lot yet. This was not going to be good.
And, true to my instincts it was not going to be good. I just didn't know how bad it was going to be.
We started off with the easy stuff. Turn left. Turn right. Do a "Y" turn. Turn right again. Stop at the stop sign. Check your mirrors. Ya de ya da. It was nearing the time I loathed. Time to parallel park. I never understood why parallel parking mattered so much that they had to test you on it. I lived in the 'burbs. There was no need to parallel park ever. You either had a driveway or there was plenty of empty parking spots available on the street.
So I approach the "victim" (aka the car). I pull up aside it, put my turn signal on, check all my mirrors and I am ready to perfect the park. The only problem is this is the first time during the test where I actually have to see who is sitting next to me again. My nerves strike up again. I start backing up. Miss Honey says nothing. I must be doing all right. Let's keep going. Slowly, slowly...
"Stop, stop, stop! You're too close, too close," she shrills.
*Thud
Cue crying. I hit the damn car while parallel parking. Shit, fuck, damn. If Miss Honey had warned me BEFORE I was already hitting the car it would have been fine.
Now here is the worst part. We have to get out of the car to "access the damage and the situation." Remember how I had to click her belt on. Yeah..... now I have to undo the seatbelt and frickin' help her out of the car. I would rather die, truthfully. Eat my own shit, and die.
How the hell am I going to get through this. I still have to drive back to the station and then tell my mom. Oh my frickin' god. Plus - AUTOMATIC FAILURE. Who gets their license after hitting a car anyway? That's the golden rule - hit car = you suck at driving no matter how intimidating the tester is.
Turns out the damage was nothing. I left a note anyway.
I now had to endure what perhaps was the longest and most uncomfortable drive of my life. (After clicking her in and touching her belly again, of course). I rolled through stops, but other than that was a perfect driver. There was no conversation during that drive. In fact, I think I even stopped breathing to be even more quiet.
We got into the station and I gave my mom the look of death. She knew immediately that something went terribly, oh so terribly wrong during my test. Miss Honey filled her in on all the details. I was happy to have my mom drive me off so I could let the river flow.
I never wanted to drive again. Or at least never wanted a morbily obese person to be in the car with me spouting out directions.
It was my most memorable driving test. And it was a good thing she had such a good name - and one I will certainly never forget - Miss Honey.
---
**I did get a call from the owner's of the hit car. They told me not to sweat it. It was the third time their car was hit by a test driver in two months. They needed to go to the DMV and put their car on the "do not parallel park by this car" list. I have since gotten better at parallel parking, even if I still avoid it at all costs.
Let me formally introduce you to Honey; Miss Honey my Driver's Ed Road Tester. She was not my first. Not my second either, but who's counting?
Anyway, back to Miss Honey. Instead of Honey, her name just as well could have been Tank. Imagine a huge woman, the largest woman you can imagine. Well, now add on another 50 pounds and that would have been Honey. There must have been a sweetness to her that I never saw; certainly parents wouldn't name their kid Honey for no good reason.for Regardless, I surely did not get any "sweetness" from her starting from the time I shook her hand to the time I rode back into the station with tears streaming down my face.
It surely was an eventful morning test ride with Miss Honey.
We walked out of the station and I specifically remember looking at my mom like it may be the last time I would ever see her. We approached my dad's Chevy Caviler. I got in and unlocked her door (no manual lock system - we sure were ballers :P). Miss Honey sits down. The car immediately drops to the ground. We were going to be low riders for this test.
I am sweating like a pig. I fasten my seat belt, check the mirrors and start the car. Is she wearing her seat belt? I glance over. She is not wearing her seat belt. In fact, she is still trying to reach around her belly to grab the belt. I do the unthinkable.
"Can I help you with your seatbelt, " I ask.
"That is so kind of you, yes, please," she replies.
I reach around her belly, grap the belt, reach back around her "tire" (if you will) and fasten it. During this process I realize that her gut is touching the dashboard. Yes, belly on the board. I may as well be with a beached whale. My heart is racing and I haven't even actually gotten out of the lot yet. This was not going to be good.
And, true to my instincts it was not going to be good. I just didn't know how bad it was going to be.
We started off with the easy stuff. Turn left. Turn right. Do a "Y" turn. Turn right again. Stop at the stop sign. Check your mirrors. Ya de ya da. It was nearing the time I loathed. Time to parallel park. I never understood why parallel parking mattered so much that they had to test you on it. I lived in the 'burbs. There was no need to parallel park ever. You either had a driveway or there was plenty of empty parking spots available on the street.
So I approach the "victim" (aka the car). I pull up aside it, put my turn signal on, check all my mirrors and I am ready to perfect the park. The only problem is this is the first time during the test where I actually have to see who is sitting next to me again. My nerves strike up again. I start backing up. Miss Honey says nothing. I must be doing all right. Let's keep going. Slowly, slowly...
"Stop, stop, stop! You're too close, too close," she shrills.
*Thud
Cue crying. I hit the damn car while parallel parking. Shit, fuck, damn. If Miss Honey had warned me BEFORE I was already hitting the car it would have been fine.
Now here is the worst part. We have to get out of the car to "access the damage and the situation." Remember how I had to click her belt on. Yeah..... now I have to undo the seatbelt and frickin' help her out of the car. I would rather die, truthfully. Eat my own shit, and die.
How the hell am I going to get through this. I still have to drive back to the station and then tell my mom. Oh my frickin' god. Plus - AUTOMATIC FAILURE. Who gets their license after hitting a car anyway? That's the golden rule - hit car = you suck at driving no matter how intimidating the tester is.
Turns out the damage was nothing. I left a note anyway.
I now had to endure what perhaps was the longest and most uncomfortable drive of my life. (After clicking her in and touching her belly again, of course). I rolled through stops, but other than that was a perfect driver. There was no conversation during that drive. In fact, I think I even stopped breathing to be even more quiet.
We got into the station and I gave my mom the look of death. She knew immediately that something went terribly, oh so terribly wrong during my test. Miss Honey filled her in on all the details. I was happy to have my mom drive me off so I could let the river flow.
I never wanted to drive again. Or at least never wanted a morbily obese person to be in the car with me spouting out directions.
It was my most memorable driving test. And it was a good thing she had such a good name - and one I will certainly never forget - Miss Honey.
---
**I did get a call from the owner's of the hit car. They told me not to sweat it. It was the third time their car was hit by a test driver in two months. They needed to go to the DMV and put their car on the "do not parallel park by this car" list. I have since gotten better at parallel parking, even if I still avoid it at all costs.
Hit it.
“Never go on trips with anyone you do not love” – Hemingway A Moveable Feast
I've always loved road trips. There have been a couple of select awesome ones in the past…The winter my sister and I were driving home for Christmas from Boston, and we ran out of gas. In Buffalo. In a snow storm. Cruising along in the ol’ White Rabbit (Gio Metro) listening to my “Boston Blues” mix tape that had “If Winter Ends” on it by Bright Eyes over and over again. Both of us chain smoking bidis, or cigarillos, or cigars to stay awake -- because she refused to smoke cigarettes, but cigars and far eastern hand rolled cloves were ok. Staying at the skankiest motel ever (aside from Villa Verde in San Juan: “I’m scared these sheets will get me pregnant”) and the air conditioner was turned full blast and there was no knob to turn it down/off.
*sigh* Good Times.
But seriously, you do have to travel with people you love. You need to take a trip with a best bud who knows you well enough to email you first thing in the morning and ask if your going to leave your apartment today, because she knows otherwise you probably won’t; or a sister that will let you cling to her back like a spider monkey when you wake up at 3 A.M. with an air conditioner that you can’t turn off blasting on you. These are the people you travel with.
With that being said, there is just nothing quite like setting the cruise control and driving with the windows down in the summer, blasting some Queen. Or, blasting a particularly awesome mix CD your BFF made for you when you busted up with your boyfriend. Especially awesome if said BFF is riding shotgun.
A couple of summers ago, I picked up Chellber at roughly 9 AM on a Saturday in July. It was the third weekend in July, to be exact, because it was Watercross weekend and we were going to embark on the 120 miles journey from Minneapolis, MN to Grantsburg, WI. An easy 2 hour trip north and east on Highway 35. "Watercross" is perhaps the most ridiculous event ever created, and quite frankly I’m embarrassed at how excited I get for it. But, then again, it’s a weekend of World Class Drinking and Dancing (and usually at least one party at Huff’s). And, it’s a weekend of World Class Snowmobile Racing. How do people snowmobile race in the summer, you ask?
I have no idea. But they do it. I know it involves changing around some things on snowmobile so it can run better on water. But anyhoo, that’s beside the point. This story is not about snowmobiles. This story is about two people with A.D.D. who should not be told they need to get from point A to Z in X amount of time, because it just is never gonna happen.
Our first stop on this grand adventure was as we floated past a Best Buy. “HEY, you know what would be awesome???, I ask, “if I got a new camera today!” Um, sure. Okay. No time like the present, afterall. We shuffle around Best Buy for about 45 minutes taking pictures of our boobs with the tester cameras, and I eventually buy one. About 30 miles and 50 random pictures later, we decide, HEY, you know what would be awesome? it would be AWESOME if we made our own Tshirts! We should totally stop at Walmart and buy iron on thingys and some white shirts!
We stop at Walmart. And because I have a new camera, we decide that HEY, you know what would be awesome?? To dress up in muumuus (those huge granny dresses), and scarves, and sunglasses! And purses, and shoes, and umbrellas! And then take pictures! So, for about 2 hours we patter around Wal mart, grabbing any and all fluorescent, floral, and leather items we see, and put them on and take pictures of each other. Because that’s awesome. I end up buying a straw hat which to this day I have never wore. We also get our supplies for this T-Shirt project that apparently we are going to do sometime this weekend between being drunk and…being drunker? It was as we are leaving Walmart Bekah’s phone rings (mine was already dead as i had forgotten my charger, as usual). She picks up:
Jenn: So, where are you guysssss?
Chellber: *looking at me fearfully* Um…Walmart?
Jenn: ....In Pine City?
Chellber: No,no…in Forest Lake…
Jenn: WHAT? But you guys are supposed to be hereeee! You said you’d be here between 10 and11! (it’s already around Noon and we've travelled roughly 45 miles)
Chellber: We are on our way!
We hop back in the Fuckus (or, the "Focus") and Hit. That. Shit.
We were supposed to meet Jenn between 10 or 11 AM. Oopsie. We’ve been listening to Queen for about 3 hours now, so we decide to switch it up. Bekah digs through my CD case and finds the obligatory “break up mix” that every car must have, and that she has made for me, and pops it in. We listen to a couple tracks, and then on comes “Du”, by David Hasselhoff. Umm…ok. Sure. Never really thought to put on a "Break Up" mix CD, but it seems appropriate. But then again it’s in German and I have no fucking clue what he is saying. But, no matter. We “sing along” for a couple of verses in our fake German, and it goes a little something like this:
“Duuuuu…died in an alley, this is Nietzsche feeling Zaza….Duuuuu with the otter, we will feeelllll….DUUUU….do I like Nichteze when he standsssss….Duuuuu do you steal hair from the man...Du, yes my name is Don Shaun….”
And so on and so forth, until we are laughing so hard that I have to stop so we can pee. I pull off at the next exit and stop the car. But wait. What is this place? Why is it so familiar? Is the same town where we got our first tattoos, back in our days of being young and impressionable and the kind of kids who got tattoos without telling their parents! Remember that??? That was awesome. HEY, you know what would be awesome? If we got another tattoo!!!! Let’s go get a tattoo!
To be continued....gotta go buy some brown sugar now.
Okay, back. 4 days later....no, it didn't take me that long to buy friggin brown sugar. Though...if you want to get specific about it, I did get some brown sugar of another kind, What! (insert Barney Stintson voice here).
Anyway. So, we decide that we absoutely, positively, MUST get a tattoo immediately. It is imparative. This trip will not be completely without a new permanent marking on our bodies to commemorate this trip. So, now we are roughly 1/2 way to our destination and it's about 3PM. we said we would be there at 10 or 11AM.
We pull into the tat parlor and starting browsing around, debating what would be wise to get inked on us. I am debating between a black spade and Chellber is thinking about a little mushroom to go next to her ladybug or something. We talk prices with Mr. Tattoo Dude, who happens to be an apprentice so the work will be HALF OFF. "That is amazing!" we say! Hey, you know what would be totally awesome to get??? We should totally get a matching tattoo!!!! Like 2 peas in a pod!!!! Hey, Mr. Tattoo Dude, can you draw us a little something like that????
He sure can! He grabs some pencils and goes to work, and about 30 minutes later shows us what he has. The first draft looked a little like a vagina, so we asked him to refine the shape slightly so it didn't look so much like a Georiga O'Keefe painting. He does, and then it looks sooooooo cute! Oh my God Mr. Tattoo Dude, you are totally amazing!!! Can we get them done now this minute? Do you have the time? Sure he does. But, wait. Bekah thinks that *maybe* she should consult Mr. Chellber first. I mean, she did promise him the next tattoo she got would be with him....
Don't be foolish! I say. What kind of woman are you???
"But I promised him...." she replies
"well, I've had lots of people promise me lots of things" I say.
"Lauer...I can't just get a tattoo without asking my husband"
"SURE you can!!!! And if you do it now, you can do it for 1/2 price with this dude!!!"
Well, we end up leaving without the tattoos, but we keep the picture of 2 peas in a pod and totally promise Mr. Tattoo Dude we are coming back to get it next week (which we never do).
*sigh* Some day, some day....
So, we say our goodbyes and shower Mr. Tattoo Dude with thanks for wasting a good 90 minutes with us, and then we end up not getting anything tattooed. We didn't even get anything pierced. LAME. We pull out of the tattoo parlor and get back on the freeway.
It is approximately 5PM now. We begin to accept that we aren't going to make it to JeNN's in time to go on the lake and do a little sunbathing before the demolition derby at 7PM. Speaking of which, jeNN has probably called Bekah about 3 times in the past 90 minutes. Opps.
Finally, 45 minutes later, at 5:45PM, we make it to the state line. But we ain't home free just yet. We need to stop and purchase booze for the weekend. We pop into "Stop a Sec" AKA "Stop for Sex". Selecting booze is never an easy task, especially in the summer because so many things are palatable. Then you always have the wild cards to consider, too. In our case, today it was "HEY do you know what would be awesome??? Buying 1 of every flavor of Boone's Farm in stock. Such a *great* idea. You know, because Boone's Farm doesn't give you total gut rot after like 5 sips...I also take a box of wine. We get a 24 pack of Miller Lite. And, just because we don't like to kid ourselves, a bottle of JD. That should hold us over for a night, we decide. We check out.
It's about 6:30PM now. We can go meet jeNN at her house. OR....we can pop over to Tiff and Damon's who only live right over there, and have a quick brew and then head on over to the Demo Derby. Then, we'll just call JeNN can meet us there. If isn't livid and still decides to be friend with us still, that is.
We will take the risk.
I've always loved road trips. There have been a couple of select awesome ones in the past…The winter my sister and I were driving home for Christmas from Boston, and we ran out of gas. In Buffalo. In a snow storm. Cruising along in the ol’ White Rabbit (Gio Metro) listening to my “Boston Blues” mix tape that had “If Winter Ends” on it by Bright Eyes over and over again. Both of us chain smoking bidis, or cigarillos, or cigars to stay awake -- because she refused to smoke cigarettes, but cigars and far eastern hand rolled cloves were ok. Staying at the skankiest motel ever (aside from Villa Verde in San Juan: “I’m scared these sheets will get me pregnant”) and the air conditioner was turned full blast and there was no knob to turn it down/off.
*sigh* Good Times.
But seriously, you do have to travel with people you love. You need to take a trip with a best bud who knows you well enough to email you first thing in the morning and ask if your going to leave your apartment today, because she knows otherwise you probably won’t; or a sister that will let you cling to her back like a spider monkey when you wake up at 3 A.M. with an air conditioner that you can’t turn off blasting on you. These are the people you travel with.
With that being said, there is just nothing quite like setting the cruise control and driving with the windows down in the summer, blasting some Queen. Or, blasting a particularly awesome mix CD your BFF made for you when you busted up with your boyfriend. Especially awesome if said BFF is riding shotgun.
A couple of summers ago, I picked up Chellber at roughly 9 AM on a Saturday in July. It was the third weekend in July, to be exact, because it was Watercross weekend and we were going to embark on the 120 miles journey from Minneapolis, MN to Grantsburg, WI. An easy 2 hour trip north and east on Highway 35. "Watercross" is perhaps the most ridiculous event ever created, and quite frankly I’m embarrassed at how excited I get for it. But, then again, it’s a weekend of World Class Drinking and Dancing (and usually at least one party at Huff’s). And, it’s a weekend of World Class Snowmobile Racing. How do people snowmobile race in the summer, you ask?
I have no idea. But they do it. I know it involves changing around some things on snowmobile so it can run better on water. But anyhoo, that’s beside the point. This story is not about snowmobiles. This story is about two people with A.D.D. who should not be told they need to get from point A to Z in X amount of time, because it just is never gonna happen.
Our first stop on this grand adventure was as we floated past a Best Buy. “HEY, you know what would be awesome???, I ask, “if I got a new camera today!” Um, sure. Okay. No time like the present, afterall. We shuffle around Best Buy for about 45 minutes taking pictures of our boobs with the tester cameras, and I eventually buy one. About 30 miles and 50 random pictures later, we decide, HEY, you know what would be awesome? it would be AWESOME if we made our own Tshirts! We should totally stop at Walmart and buy iron on thingys and some white shirts!
We stop at Walmart. And because I have a new camera, we decide that HEY, you know what would be awesome?? To dress up in muumuus (those huge granny dresses), and scarves, and sunglasses! And purses, and shoes, and umbrellas! And then take pictures! So, for about 2 hours we patter around Wal mart, grabbing any and all fluorescent, floral, and leather items we see, and put them on and take pictures of each other. Because that’s awesome. I end up buying a straw hat which to this day I have never wore. We also get our supplies for this T-Shirt project that apparently we are going to do sometime this weekend between being drunk and…being drunker? It was as we are leaving Walmart Bekah’s phone rings (mine was already dead as i had forgotten my charger, as usual). She picks up:
Jenn: So, where are you guysssss?
Chellber: *looking at me fearfully* Um…Walmart?
Jenn: ....In Pine City?
Chellber: No,no…in Forest Lake…
Jenn: WHAT? But you guys are supposed to be hereeee! You said you’d be here between 10 and11! (it’s already around Noon and we've travelled roughly 45 miles)
Chellber: We are on our way!
We hop back in the Fuckus (or, the "Focus") and Hit. That. Shit.
We were supposed to meet Jenn between 10 or 11 AM. Oopsie. We’ve been listening to Queen for about 3 hours now, so we decide to switch it up. Bekah digs through my CD case and finds the obligatory “break up mix” that every car must have, and that she has made for me, and pops it in. We listen to a couple tracks, and then on comes “Du”, by David Hasselhoff. Umm…ok. Sure. Never really thought to put on a "Break Up" mix CD, but it seems appropriate. But then again it’s in German and I have no fucking clue what he is saying. But, no matter. We “sing along” for a couple of verses in our fake German, and it goes a little something like this:
“Duuuuu…died in an alley, this is Nietzsche feeling Zaza….Duuuuu with the otter, we will feeelllll….DUUUU….do I like Nichteze when he standsssss….Duuuuu do you steal hair from the man...Du, yes my name is Don Shaun….”
And so on and so forth, until we are laughing so hard that I have to stop so we can pee. I pull off at the next exit and stop the car. But wait. What is this place? Why is it so familiar? Is the same town where we got our first tattoos, back in our days of being young and impressionable and the kind of kids who got tattoos without telling their parents! Remember that??? That was awesome. HEY, you know what would be awesome? If we got another tattoo!!!! Let’s go get a tattoo!
To be continued....gotta go buy some brown sugar now.
Okay, back. 4 days later....no, it didn't take me that long to buy friggin brown sugar. Though...if you want to get specific about it, I did get some brown sugar of another kind, What! (insert Barney Stintson voice here).
Anyway. So, we decide that we absoutely, positively, MUST get a tattoo immediately. It is imparative. This trip will not be completely without a new permanent marking on our bodies to commemorate this trip. So, now we are roughly 1/2 way to our destination and it's about 3PM. we said we would be there at 10 or 11AM.
We pull into the tat parlor and starting browsing around, debating what would be wise to get inked on us. I am debating between a black spade and Chellber is thinking about a little mushroom to go next to her ladybug or something. We talk prices with Mr. Tattoo Dude, who happens to be an apprentice so the work will be HALF OFF. "That is amazing!" we say! Hey, you know what would be totally awesome to get??? We should totally get a matching tattoo!!!! Like 2 peas in a pod!!!! Hey, Mr. Tattoo Dude, can you draw us a little something like that????
He sure can! He grabs some pencils and goes to work, and about 30 minutes later shows us what he has. The first draft looked a little like a vagina, so we asked him to refine the shape slightly so it didn't look so much like a Georiga O'Keefe painting. He does, and then it looks sooooooo cute! Oh my God Mr. Tattoo Dude, you are totally amazing!!! Can we get them done now this minute? Do you have the time? Sure he does. But, wait. Bekah thinks that *maybe* she should consult Mr. Chellber first. I mean, she did promise him the next tattoo she got would be with him....
Don't be foolish! I say. What kind of woman are you???
"But I promised him...." she replies
"well, I've had lots of people promise me lots of things" I say.
"Lauer...I can't just get a tattoo without asking my husband"
"SURE you can!!!! And if you do it now, you can do it for 1/2 price with this dude!!!"
Well, we end up leaving without the tattoos, but we keep the picture of 2 peas in a pod and totally promise Mr. Tattoo Dude we are coming back to get it next week (which we never do).
*sigh* Some day, some day....
So, we say our goodbyes and shower Mr. Tattoo Dude with thanks for wasting a good 90 minutes with us, and then we end up not getting anything tattooed. We didn't even get anything pierced. LAME. We pull out of the tattoo parlor and get back on the freeway.
It is approximately 5PM now. We begin to accept that we aren't going to make it to JeNN's in time to go on the lake and do a little sunbathing before the demolition derby at 7PM. Speaking of which, jeNN has probably called Bekah about 3 times in the past 90 minutes. Opps.
Finally, 45 minutes later, at 5:45PM, we make it to the state line. But we ain't home free just yet. We need to stop and purchase booze for the weekend. We pop into "Stop a Sec" AKA "Stop for Sex". Selecting booze is never an easy task, especially in the summer because so many things are palatable. Then you always have the wild cards to consider, too. In our case, today it was "HEY do you know what would be awesome??? Buying 1 of every flavor of Boone's Farm in stock. Such a *great* idea. You know, because Boone's Farm doesn't give you total gut rot after like 5 sips...I also take a box of wine. We get a 24 pack of Miller Lite. And, just because we don't like to kid ourselves, a bottle of JD. That should hold us over for a night, we decide. We check out.
It's about 6:30PM now. We can go meet jeNN at her house. OR....we can pop over to Tiff and Damon's who only live right over there, and have a quick brew and then head on over to the Demo Derby. Then, we'll just call JeNN can meet us there. If isn't livid and still decides to be friend with us still, that is.
We will take the risk.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
Hit it and Screw Me.
There's the expression "Out with a bang." That was how 2008 concluded; and it most definitely made that "bang" sound, even if I did not officially hear it myself.
Let's just let it all hang out within the first couple paragraphs. This is how it all went down.
1) We go to Chicago for a weekend and parked the car on our street. (Our quiet, rather residential street). We come home to find out that the front end of our car was hit. It was a neighbor hit and run.
2) Civic LX gets hit again (while backing out) in the parking lot at Trader Joe's. No damage. It does, however, surface the anger from stupid neighbor hitting car and not confessing....[Watch face turn dark shade of pink]
3) The final incident: Car is parked outside of friend's home well away from the curb. (Friends live in a very residential area - so residential in fact that if you do not know someone who lives there or live there yourself you do not go there.) Civic is side swiped and totaled by a 17-year old who is 4 points away from losing his license.
Talk about bad car karma. Not to mention this happens just before the holidays, leaving us out of car and needing to get to Milwaukee. Ironic that when someone hits you and it is clearly their fault you suffer more.
And why do you suffer more, one may ask. Well, here is why.
I happen to be one who believe, much like Anne Frank once said, that all people are good at heart. For this very reason, I did not take insurance information from the driver, write down his license plate number or call the cops. No, instead I simply took his cell phone number. Very, very fortunately for me, the driver is a neighbor of our friends and daddy (with son in tow) came by to "access" damage and talk about next steps. They seemed like decent, fair people. No problem, right? A simple estimate and we'd have the check in hand. Hahaha
It was very clear they did NOT want to go through insurance. No big deal. (We did not know at this time of the kid's already tainted driving record). Avoiding insurance seemed like the best for the both of us. I have been brainwashed to think that all insurance companies want to do is steal your money and make a profit...oh wait... nevermind... (this may be a topic for another post ;))
So come Monday morning we bring the car in to get a couple of quotes. Each of these quotes nearly wiped me clean off my rocker. The estimates were for well over the value of the car. So it was deemed a "total loss." The real loss though was that the kiddo was no longer taking my phone calls and the parents didn't seem to think they'd have to cough up 3k.
To make a very long story short - we went through their insurance. I made a $250 profit (yes, profit) on the car. Bought it for $250 less than what insurance gave me three year ago. Sweet deal. As it turns out after all the going back and forth, being pulled through the mud with this family and their crap-driver son - we did end up ahead of everything.
However, that is the last time I assume everyone is good at heart. I have learned that there are plenty of people, that even after knowing what they did was wrong will still try to cheat you out of a buck. The whole, "Angela, we have tuition to pay. We need to reach an agreement that is fair for each of us" or the "You want 3k?! You want to rip me off? I'll give you 1500" or "Fine, we'll give you 3k and we keep the car." or my personal favorite "You'll have to talk to his mother. She will be dealing with this and her son."
I could go on, but it's really beside the point. It was an unfortunate thing that happened, but we got rid of a car that was starting to cause us problems and cost us money, and we got a good lump on money to get us a newer and better car. Happy Holidays from Progressive. :)
Lordly lordly lord. What a wonderful world we live in.
----
Side note: These are the following steps to make if ever in an accident.
1) Get all their information. (Insurance, license, address, cell phone, full name, SSN, birthday, sign... :))
2) Call your insurance and file a claim immediately.
3) Call the cops and file a report. (If they seem angered by this, do it from your car so they don't know the cops are a coming.)
4) If there are witnesses, get their names.
I would never want a friend (or enemy for that matter) to have to go through this process. It's a bear, plus being out a car makes for an uneventful life in these USofAs.
Let's just let it all hang out within the first couple paragraphs. This is how it all went down.
1) We go to Chicago for a weekend and parked the car on our street. (Our quiet, rather residential street). We come home to find out that the front end of our car was hit. It was a neighbor hit and run.
2) Civic LX gets hit again (while backing out) in the parking lot at Trader Joe's. No damage. It does, however, surface the anger from stupid neighbor hitting car and not confessing....[Watch face turn dark shade of pink]
3) The final incident: Car is parked outside of friend's home well away from the curb. (Friends live in a very residential area - so residential in fact that if you do not know someone who lives there or live there yourself you do not go there.) Civic is side swiped and totaled by a 17-year old who is 4 points away from losing his license.
Talk about bad car karma. Not to mention this happens just before the holidays, leaving us out of car and needing to get to Milwaukee. Ironic that when someone hits you and it is clearly their fault you suffer more.
And why do you suffer more, one may ask. Well, here is why.
I happen to be one who believe, much like Anne Frank once said, that all people are good at heart. For this very reason, I did not take insurance information from the driver, write down his license plate number or call the cops. No, instead I simply took his cell phone number. Very, very fortunately for me, the driver is a neighbor of our friends and daddy (with son in tow) came by to "access" damage and talk about next steps. They seemed like decent, fair people. No problem, right? A simple estimate and we'd have the check in hand. Hahaha
It was very clear they did NOT want to go through insurance. No big deal. (We did not know at this time of the kid's already tainted driving record). Avoiding insurance seemed like the best for the both of us. I have been brainwashed to think that all insurance companies want to do is steal your money and make a profit...oh wait... nevermind... (this may be a topic for another post ;))
So come Monday morning we bring the car in to get a couple of quotes. Each of these quotes nearly wiped me clean off my rocker. The estimates were for well over the value of the car. So it was deemed a "total loss." The real loss though was that the kiddo was no longer taking my phone calls and the parents didn't seem to think they'd have to cough up 3k.
To make a very long story short - we went through their insurance. I made a $250 profit (yes, profit) on the car. Bought it for $250 less than what insurance gave me three year ago. Sweet deal. As it turns out after all the going back and forth, being pulled through the mud with this family and their crap-driver son - we did end up ahead of everything.
However, that is the last time I assume everyone is good at heart. I have learned that there are plenty of people, that even after knowing what they did was wrong will still try to cheat you out of a buck. The whole, "Angela, we have tuition to pay. We need to reach an agreement that is fair for each of us" or the "You want 3k?! You want to rip me off? I'll give you 1500" or "Fine, we'll give you 3k and we keep the car." or my personal favorite "You'll have to talk to his mother. She will be dealing with this and her son."
I could go on, but it's really beside the point. It was an unfortunate thing that happened, but we got rid of a car that was starting to cause us problems and cost us money, and we got a good lump on money to get us a newer and better car. Happy Holidays from Progressive. :)
Lordly lordly lord. What a wonderful world we live in.
----
Side note: These are the following steps to make if ever in an accident.
1) Get all their information. (Insurance, license, address, cell phone, full name, SSN, birthday, sign... :))
2) Call your insurance and file a claim immediately.
3) Call the cops and file a report. (If they seem angered by this, do it from your car so they don't know the cops are a coming.)
4) If there are witnesses, get their names.
I would never want a friend (or enemy for that matter) to have to go through this process. It's a bear, plus being out a car makes for an uneventful life in these USofAs.
Ice Ice Baby
Since I told you last time I've only been in one major car accident, I should just clear something up right away before you read any further: the story i'm about to tell you doesn't constitute as a "major" car accident in my world. I mean, my first accident was when I ran my parent's car into a forest of trees, for Christsake. It's hard to top that one. So, with that being said, let me tell you of how I was in a car accident this January and broke a rib.
I hate driving when I go home. You know how your parents always used to tell you "I trust you, honey, but I don't trust the other drivers on the road..."? Well, I trust everyone else just fine. But I do not trust myself. Particularly when any forces of nature happen to be working against me and the giant aluminum and rubber death trap I'm driving -- i.e. snow, hail, sleet, ice, rain, sun in my eyes, etc etc...
But, as I said before, I always seem to find myself behind the wheel. In the case of this January the 2nd, it was because I was driving my brother whose license has been revoked for approximately the next 3 - 30 years to see my dying grandmother in the hospital. Another funny thing about me being "the bad driver": I'm the only one who will drive in cities, aside from my dad (but he grew up in one so he doesn't count). Everyone else in my family is scared shitless to do it, and I can't figure out why. The key to driving in cities is to remember this: no one actually wants to hit you, so they will stop. Have no fear on the road, my friends, because were all just trying to stay alive out there. Also, I am my own worst enemy and can do enough damage alone, I thank you.
So, half way to the hospital (which would be roughly 45 minutes from my parents house), we get word to abort mission and turn around; Granny has already said goodbye.
We turn around, and about 10 minutes into the ride...cue meltdown. I must say, I am a bit of a Drama Queen when it comes right down to it, and love myself a good tragedy. My brother looks at me and sighs. "Well...we may as well stop for a drink."
Couldn't have said it better myself, bro.
We actually stop at a liquor store first to gather some rations, and then go to a bar. I decide to order a Hurricane -- I don't know what it is, exactly, but it sounds just like what I need. It turns out a good old Jack and Coke would have been a little easier on the palette. After a couple sips I decide I don't need a Hurricane, but still finish half of it anyway. My brother is on his 3rd beer.
We proceed on the long journey home, me gripping the wheel with one hand and my tissues with another.
We near home, and I can't wait to get there so I can open the bottle of wine I bought. Instinctively, I take the backroads. Taking the "backroads" in northern Wisconsin in the winter is just about the stupidest things you could possibly do. You can ice skate down them until about March, which means you should try and avoid driving on them. Sometimes i forget these little nuances about the Midwest, unfortunately. I was going a brisk 30mph when suddenly I felt a *slight* pull on the back wheel. My brother picked up on it immediately:
Nick: "Jess, do NOT step on the breaks..."
Me: I'm not going to step on the breaks.
Nick: Jess...do NOT put my car in the ditch. (did i mention i was driving his car....? I was.)
Me: I'm not going to put yourcar in the ditch!
*sliding towards to ditch*
Nick: do NOT oversteer! do NOT oversteer! DO NOT OVERSTEER!
Me: AHHHHH I CAN"T STOP IT!!!!!
Nick: Shit.FUCK. Shit. Shit.
Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see a electrical pole. It's getting closer. And closer.
Nick: DO NOT HIT THE POLE!!
Me: I WILL NOT HIT THE POLE!!!!
I do not hit the pole. I slide sideways into the ditch and we thud to a halt, and briefly rock for the single most terrifying second of my life before the wall of snow that reaches the window of drivers side of the car stops us and pushes us on all 4 wheels.
Nick: (deep breath out) Okay, so, we didn't roll.
Jess: Thank.God.
*3 second lull of silence while our hearts start beating again*
Nick: Now...GRAB ALL MY BEER!!!
If you know my brother, he has been here before. I have not, but I know well enough that cars, beer, and police do not mix well. I start grabbing beer cans and hurling them into the field, into my pockets, and into the trunk. I wasn't sure which place was best, so i decide to do all three at the same time. 20 seconds later, we see car lights. The neighbors! They've come to help! Or have they....
I play it cool and tell the lady I've called someone to tow us out (which i have at that point...my friend's dad...). My friends dad arrives, and I run up out of the ditch to meet him. And I hit the ice. And then I hit the ground. And I land on a beer can in my pocket.
I lay in silence for a moment, trying to figure out if the day really just got worse for me, and listening to the hiss of a beer can that has been cracked open. With my very own ribs.
Moral of the story: Apparently God loves irony just as much as the rest of us, because I came out of the car accident unscathed, but whadda know, I can't seem to walk out of a ditch...
I hate driving when I go home. You know how your parents always used to tell you "I trust you, honey, but I don't trust the other drivers on the road..."? Well, I trust everyone else just fine. But I do not trust myself. Particularly when any forces of nature happen to be working against me and the giant aluminum and rubber death trap I'm driving -- i.e. snow, hail, sleet, ice, rain, sun in my eyes, etc etc...
But, as I said before, I always seem to find myself behind the wheel. In the case of this January the 2nd, it was because I was driving my brother whose license has been revoked for approximately the next 3 - 30 years to see my dying grandmother in the hospital. Another funny thing about me being "the bad driver": I'm the only one who will drive in cities, aside from my dad (but he grew up in one so he doesn't count). Everyone else in my family is scared shitless to do it, and I can't figure out why. The key to driving in cities is to remember this: no one actually wants to hit you, so they will stop. Have no fear on the road, my friends, because were all just trying to stay alive out there. Also, I am my own worst enemy and can do enough damage alone, I thank you.
So, half way to the hospital (which would be roughly 45 minutes from my parents house), we get word to abort mission and turn around; Granny has already said goodbye.
We turn around, and about 10 minutes into the ride...cue meltdown. I must say, I am a bit of a Drama Queen when it comes right down to it, and love myself a good tragedy. My brother looks at me and sighs. "Well...we may as well stop for a drink."
Couldn't have said it better myself, bro.
We actually stop at a liquor store first to gather some rations, and then go to a bar. I decide to order a Hurricane -- I don't know what it is, exactly, but it sounds just like what I need. It turns out a good old Jack and Coke would have been a little easier on the palette. After a couple sips I decide I don't need a Hurricane, but still finish half of it anyway. My brother is on his 3rd beer.
We proceed on the long journey home, me gripping the wheel with one hand and my tissues with another.
We near home, and I can't wait to get there so I can open the bottle of wine I bought. Instinctively, I take the backroads. Taking the "backroads" in northern Wisconsin in the winter is just about the stupidest things you could possibly do. You can ice skate down them until about March, which means you should try and avoid driving on them. Sometimes i forget these little nuances about the Midwest, unfortunately. I was going a brisk 30mph when suddenly I felt a *slight* pull on the back wheel. My brother picked up on it immediately:
Nick: "Jess, do NOT step on the breaks..."
Me: I'm not going to step on the breaks.
Nick: Jess...do NOT put my car in the ditch. (did i mention i was driving his car....? I was.)
Me: I'm not going to put yourcar in the ditch!
*sliding towards to ditch*
Nick: do NOT oversteer! do NOT oversteer! DO NOT OVERSTEER!
Me: AHHHHH I CAN"T STOP IT!!!!!
Nick: Shit.FUCK. Shit. Shit.
Now, out of the corner of my eye, I see a electrical pole. It's getting closer. And closer.
Nick: DO NOT HIT THE POLE!!
Me: I WILL NOT HIT THE POLE!!!!
I do not hit the pole. I slide sideways into the ditch and we thud to a halt, and briefly rock for the single most terrifying second of my life before the wall of snow that reaches the window of drivers side of the car stops us and pushes us on all 4 wheels.
Nick: (deep breath out) Okay, so, we didn't roll.
Jess: Thank.God.
*3 second lull of silence while our hearts start beating again*
Nick: Now...GRAB ALL MY BEER!!!
If you know my brother, he has been here before. I have not, but I know well enough that cars, beer, and police do not mix well. I start grabbing beer cans and hurling them into the field, into my pockets, and into the trunk. I wasn't sure which place was best, so i decide to do all three at the same time. 20 seconds later, we see car lights. The neighbors! They've come to help! Or have they....
I play it cool and tell the lady I've called someone to tow us out (which i have at that point...my friend's dad...). My friends dad arrives, and I run up out of the ditch to meet him. And I hit the ice. And then I hit the ground. And I land on a beer can in my pocket.
I lay in silence for a moment, trying to figure out if the day really just got worse for me, and listening to the hiss of a beer can that has been cracked open. With my very own ribs.
Moral of the story: Apparently God loves irony just as much as the rest of us, because I came out of the car accident unscathed, but whadda know, I can't seem to walk out of a ditch...
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Driver's Ed: The Pain. The Agony.
To get our license on your birthday; that is every sixteen year old’s dream. The best is when your parents call you out of school for the morning so you can take the test. Then you can return at lunch and show off your shiny piece of plastic.That is if you actually pass the test.
My story wasn’t so romantic. I did not get my license when I was sixteen. I also would not have had the option to show off the plastic at the lunch table. Nope, I have a summer birthday. Instead when I was sixteen I got to watch all my friends come to the table with their new licenses. (Amazingly they all seemed to pass on the first go-around). I also had to have all my friends pick me up when we went out. That part was cool. The lame part was that my curfew was a good hour earlier than all of theirs so my parents always had to come get me. It was like I was the ‘uncool’ kid who had to be home by 10:30p.m.
The worst was – it wasn’t my fault.
The Drivers’ Education classes were offered in the fall – I swam; then offered in the winter – I had indoor soccer; then offered in the spring – I had softball; and then offered in the summer – I worked. So the pattern continued this way for what seemed like forever. Yes, I watched my sixteenth year come and go – no license. I then watched what felt like my whole seventeenth year go by. Okay, only half of it, but still.
I enrolled in the class that winter. Our indoor soccer team must have fizzled out so I could. One of my other friends was in the class with me. We were the only SENIORS in a class with sophomores. (You could actually take the class at fifteen, just couldn’t get your license until you were sixteen.) It was an embarrassment to my name to be in that class with kids in my brother’s grade. A truly mortifying teenage experience.
The class was all right. Mr. Diet Mountain Dew and Licorice ropes (I kid you not) was kind of a tool, but whatever. It was the behind-the-wheel classes that sucked. [This is where the part of being the oldest of five kids comes into play… My parents never had time to actually take me out to practice driving until I started the class. And even when I was in the class, I still didn’t get enough practice as I should have.] Mr. Mountain Dew constantly reminded me about the importance of practicing. Naturally he did this while slamming on the emergency brake.
My first “spin” with the car was winding around through the ‘burb. That was actually kind of fun. Why go 20mph around the curve, 35-40mph was so much more fun! Yeah, that day was a blast. I thought I was already ready for the test. I realized very quickly that I was not. The next session involved driving downtown Milwaukee. I am surprised I did not have a heart attack, or for that case the kid in the backseat and the driver didn’t. It was horrible! So many one way streets. So many people. And so many frickin’ cars! Those classes eventually got better. And, we never drove around downtown again – just around safely in the ‘burbs. Ah – that was easy as pie!
Well, the class eventually ended – I passed. I got “poor/fair” marks for my driving. I wasn’t honestly all that bad. Mr. Mt. Dew just made me nervous; understandable considering he was always juiced up on sugar. I actually remember being sore about those marks. If he could see how I parallel park now, he’d surely change it to ‘superb/excellent’ driver.
Fast forward to, after significant practice, the drivers test. Gasp! I remember feeling as nervous as I would for final exams or right before my relay at a swim meet. It was as if I had forgotten what side was the brake and what side was the gas. (Well, not quite so bad – but nerve-racking it definitely was.).
So nerve racking, I’ll have to continue shortly….
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