An Embarrassing Confession

I have a confession. I did not get my driver's license until I was almost twenty years old. I didn't even bother to learn until I was well past nineteen. I used to have horrible nightmares about getting into accidents and I just couldn't justify learning how to drive when the city had a public transportation system and an abundance of taxi cabs. Heck, who was I not to support the cabbies? It was my civic duty NOT to learn how to drive; to continue using cabs and supporting our economy.

That was, until I wanted to get laid on a frequent basis. Boo lived out in the sticks (not far from where we live now), and I couldn't expect him to always make the trip to the city, especially when he worked out of town. So I sucked up my fear, and with white knuckles and knocking knees, I learned how to drive.

That in itself is a post. Imagine a nineteen year old in a group of fourteen and fifteen year olds who were taking their driver's training so they could use their learner's permit. I didn't even have a learner's permit. Good times people, good times.

But Boo's Mr.Pickle was beckoning me, and I was in the throws of young love. I did what I had to do to fill my er, needs.

I have never claimed to be a good driver. I try hard not to speed, but sometimes my foot grows heavy. I try hard to always stop at the stop signs in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes I roll right on through and pray no one is looking. And there are times I have run a red light in my haste to make a quick trip to the Emergency room.

But the only accident I have ever been in is when my husband was driving and slammed into a cow. I was merely a passenger on that trip to hell. (Any one ever hear a cow scream in agony? Eerie.) So while I may not be the best driver, I am certainly not the worst.

However, that said, I have been known to confuse the gas for the brake pedal a time or two. Once, when I was a new driver, I almost crashed through a plate glass window while the office worker stared at me in horrified terror. Luckily for him and I, I quickly recovered and found the right pedal. No damage done, but I'm sure that office dude damn near shit his pants. I'm not positive. I refused to make eye contact and peeled out of there as quickly as I could. (Aren't I full of dignity and grace?)

Another time, when I was in a parking lot, my car tires were resting against a cement bumper stop. I was yelling at my darling husband and floored the gas and got my car stuck on the damn bumper. Had to have my brother and my husband lift my car off, while a crowd of teenagers laughed and snickered at the dumbass blonde driver.

Thank goodness this was before camera cell phones.

I have since mastered the art of avoiding plate glass windows and hanging my vehicle up on large objects in a fit of rage. What I haven't mastered is the art of avoiding a snowbank.

As my friend recently pointed out, I have a habit of finding myself stuck in a snowbank at least every two weeks. Thanks Piano man. (This is the same guy who clings to the "OH SHIT" handle in my car and pops beads of sweat when he rides with me.) However, he may have a small, slightly exaggerated point.

It doesn't matter if I'm coming or going. Snowbanks are like magnets to me and my car. If there is a large snowbank around, inevitably the ass end or nose of my car is going to be buried in it. It's a law of nature with me.

A few days ago, I went to see my beautiful, witty and very pregnant best friend, Roxylynn. She just lives down the road from me. After a lovely afternoon of eating her freshly baked banana muffins and poking fun at the size of her boobs (who knew they could grow so big?) it was time for me and my nephew, the Worm, to be off.

Roxylynn followed me out and waved goodbye and I put the car in reverse and started to back out. All I had to do was back straight down her drive which was freshly cleared of snow and wide enough for four cars to travel on, and I would be free and clear.

Did I mention there was a large snow bank nearby?

Like the eightball into the pocket for a scratch, that was me and the snowbank. Roxylynn watched from inside her warm and toasty home with wonder and amazement. How I managed to find the damn snowbank was all but a miracle. I was good and stuck.

So I did what any city slicker would do in this situation. I called Roxylynn on the cell phone and told her to come and waddle out to help get me unstuck.

Picture a very round, very heavy (albeit in a beautiful glowing way) woman digging the snow out from under the car, while the skinny chick with the pretty leather boots sat in the vehicle and told her to dig faster. (I have balls of steel to talk to a pregnant lady like this...)

When the digging didn't work, she did what any pregnant woman would do. She PUSHED me out like she's gonna push out that baby in a few weeks. She just buckled down, grunted and presto! I was free from my icy prison.

I asked if she was ok, and after assuring myself she didn't just push herself into early labour, I smiled and drove away, carefully looking for any more snow banks that might jump out and trap me. Me and my expensive leather boots were safe.

That's my confession, dear internet. Not only am I attracted to snowbanks, but I am willing to make a mule out of my best friend Roxylynn. I should feel shame about this fact, but somehow I don't.

I'm just glad my best friend is strong as an ox and ready to shovel when I need it.