See, my mom is a lovely, wonderful, kick-in-the-ass-fun, woman. I could write about how wonderful she is--how when my anxiety hit overload last week, she refused to take no for an answer: "Pack your shit and get ready," she said.
"If I can't work, I sure as shit am NOT going on a road trip, walking all over Denver, and being stuck in the car with you driving for 12 hours!"
"We're not walking anywhere. We're gonna veg at Nikki's, and you can't go to work anyway until you go to the doctor."
Its an argument I lost--mainly because my husband, and everyone else with whom I live, is sick of me and pretty much pushed me out the freaking door. And, to be honest, it saved me from a bad bout of depression.
I should probably write something deep and profound, involving learning something about my inner being, or how much I love my family for putting up with all of my shit. But, its been a trying day--the one where I fretted and frayed about how SWAMPED I was (I actually got a lot done), the kid faked sick, and the doctor had to reschedule, so I get to sit in the freaking house for a few more days before I can again enjoy the world's shittiest coffee and enjoy learning how much I haven't got done while laid up. Honestly, I'm more excited than a kid at Christmas to be getting to go back to work and drive---oh, thank you GOD, I finally get to drive!!
So, I need a laugh today (and mostly because I spent the entire time in the car praying "hail Marys" to have much time to contemplate anything deep or profound), and I'm gonna write something that will make my mother wish she never sent me to school. I'm going to tell you about her driving. That way, we can all laugh together.
I'm at the age where I've started worrying about my parents. They're in their mid to upper 50's, and they're starting to do really crazy things, like take off for days at a time like they have no responsibility. I'm convinced this is a diversion from the empty nest from which they are suffering since my sister decided to abandon them for something called "her own life."
And, I've heard from older friends and relatives how hard it is to take away driving privileges from the elderly, but I think my siblings and I are close to an intervention with Tammy on the subject of operating a vehicle. Its to the point we have to do something--even if its just a safe driving course so the authorities can tell her and we can avoid responsibility.
The hardest part is she is in denial and truly believes she is the most awesome driver. This is despite the fact I once witnessed her blow through three consecutive red lights in downtown Salt Lake City at a cool 45 mph. I've seen her hit a 3' high fire pit she had walked by all weekend in a campground.
See, it starts out like this: she gets in the car with her phone, and everything else vital to her being all within easy reach for a good 10-12 hour drive. Inevitably, Buddy (that's my padre) calls within 45 minutes to make sure she's answering the phone, but MOST importantly, to ask what she's doing. Because, God forbid, she might not be driving.
This is terrifying 1) because she swerves like a raging drunk without yacking or trying to dial numbers without her glasses, 2) it takes away the precious little attention she gives to driving, and 3) it never fails to occur whilst passing an overloaded semi, on ice, and she thinks she HAS to answer the phone. For the record, I am a pansy ass when it comes to passing trucks, but on a scale of scared to shitting-my-pants, when Tammy does it, I'm off the charts at a nice "OMG!! WE'RE GONNA F*ING DIE!!!"
She will go on like this, answering the phone numerous times, completely oblivious to the fact she has crossed the center line 5,472 times (because she hugs that sucker to avoid getting a ticket for something called "following the fog line") or the fact that the rumble strip has been rumbling for 5 minutes.
Then, it gets really scary. She'll actually hang up, and not talk on the phone for about 20 minutes, and then it starts. We have termed it, "Tammy aerobics." Despite not having gotten out of the car, she becomes convinced she has lost everything but her mind. While driving, she begins looking for the phone, a lighter, her cigarettes, her purse, papers for the first house she bought in 1974. Then, as she's swerving and everyone in the car is white-knuckled on the oh-shit-handle and screaming like its a Shanghai taxi ride, she blames it on the wind blowing the car or ruts in the road.
Instead of waiting to pull into the parking lot of the truck stop, she will begin putting on her shoes while she is driving up the exit ramp.
While trying to determine if she spilled the General's Chicken she had for lunch, she contorts into positions only achieved by Beijing acrobats.
Somehow, by the grace of God, we survived. So, please excuse me while I take this phone call about being a backseat driver.
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