No refunds or exchanges

Elizabeth was making a lot of noise in her high chair the other day.  Leah is sensitive to noise (other than her own) and starts hollering at Elizabeth to stop.  That, in turn, makes Elizabeth cry even more.  Leah looks up at me and says, "Baby WizBeff is broken."  Brooke then pipes up and interjects, "Yeah mom.  We need a new baby WizBeff."

Stop talking?

Leah:  Is it a ball?  A ball?  A ball?

Me:  Mm-hmm.  Yup.

Leah:  A ball?  A ball?  A ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ball?  Ballballballballball?

Me (remembering that I have to repeat exactly what she is saying in order for her to stop saying it):  Yes.  A ball.

Leah:  Oh.  A ball.

Me:  Yes.  It's a ball.

Leah:  Car.  It's a car.  Car?  A car?  A car?  Car?  Car?  Car?  Car?

Me:  Yes!  It's a car.

Leah:  Oh, a car.  Pants?  Pants pants?  Pants?  Pants?  Pants?  Pants?  Pants?

Me:  Yes!  Pants!

Leah:  Jacket.  It's a jacket.  A jacket?  Jacket?  Jacket?  Jacket?

Me:  Yes.  It's a jacket.  Hey Leah, how about we try something different?  Mama needs some quiet time.  How about you stop talking for a little while?

Leah:  Stop talking?

Me:  Yeah.  Just for a bit.

Leah:  A bit?

Me:  Just a few minutes.

Leah:  Few minutes?

Me:  Yes.  Just some quiet time.

Leah:  Quiet time?

Me:  Yes.  So, no talking.

Leah:  No talking?

Me:  That's right.  Quiet, okay?

Leah: Okay?

Me:  Okay?

Leah:  Okay?

Me:  Just no talking.

Leah:  No talking?

Me:  That's right.

Leah:  That's right?

Me:  Yes.  That's right.  Okay?

Leah:  Okay?

Me:  Okay?

Leah:  Okay?

Me:  So, shhh...

Leah:  Shhhh?

Me:  Yes, quiet.

Leah:  Quiet?

Me: ...

I totally just got played by my two year old.

A to Z of me

I've got some new readers since the inception of my blog so I borrowed this from Francesca.  Pay attention, there will be a quiz later.

The ABC’s of Me:

A. Age: 39.  Really?  I'll be 40 this year?  No wonder I can't see worth a darn anymore.

B. Bed size:  Saggy queen.  Seriously, it's like sleeping on a trampoline.  We both end up in the middle.

C. Chore you dislike: DUSTING!

D. Dogs: Yes.  Except the runners.  I hate dogs that run away.

E. Essential start to your day: Scalding hot shower.

F. Favorite colors: Blue for cars.  Burgundy for home decor.  Yellow for houses and dresses for little girls.

G. Gold or silver: Both.  My wedding ring and my watch are both both.

H. Height: 5’8’’ (when I'm not slouching)

I. Instruments you play(ed): Piano.  Flute.

J. Job title: Office Manager

K. Kids: 3

L. Live: California

M. Mom’s name: Donna

N. Nicknames: Platypus

O. Overnight hospital stays: 3 due to having babies

P. Pet peeves:  Interrupting.  Just let me finish my dang sentence!

Q. Quote from a movie:  Freddy, as a younger man, I was a sculptor, a painter, and a musician. There was just one problem: I wasn't very good. As a matter of fact, I was dreadful. I finally came to the frustrating conclusion that I had taste and style, but not talent. I knew my limitations. We all have our limitations, Freddy. Fortunately, I discovered that taste and style were commodities that people desired. Freddy, what I am saying is: know your limitations. You are a moron. 

R. Righty or lefty: Righty.

S. Siblings: 2 brothers.  One older, one younger.

T. Time you wake up: As late as possible.

U. Underwear: Yes, please.

V. Vegetables you don’t like: Onions and peppers.

W. What makes you run late: Finding shoes.

X. X-rays you’ve had: Hmm... I think I had x-rays at the chiropractor.

Y. Yummy food you make: Ham and cheese phyllo bake.

Z. Zoo animal you like: Otters

Operation: Body Spray -- Update

I blogged here about my struggles with body spray.  I am happy to report that all the body spray from my cupboard has been used.  All I have left now is a bottle a delicious perfume (that I was saving until all the body spray was gone.)  Thank you for your support.  I'm a stronger person for my struggles today.

Soft kitty, warm kitty

I was doing hall duty on Sunday so I wasn't aware that Brooke had volunteered to give the opening prayer.  It was reported to me that she stepped up to the mic confidently and without hesitation.  She refused the help that was offered to her.  She folded her arms, bowed her head, and closed her eyes.  She paused, obviously thinking about the sincere desires of her heart, ready to pour them forth in mighty spirit.  She took a deep breath and began:

"Meow."

Guess I'd better get up then

This morning before the alarm went off I languished in bed not yet awake but not fully asleep.  I became aware of a presence at the side of my bed.  I opened my eyes and found myself face to face with a tousle-headed Brooke.

"Mommy," she croaked rustily.  "It smells like morning."

Of mud and boogers

A few months ago, Brooke was sick with a head cold.  Her nose seemed to be very stuffy but not runny at all.  When she talked I could tell that she was plugged up and as her mother it was up to me to see what was going on.  So, being the intrepid explorer that I am I stuck my finger in her nostril and pulled out a big, crusty, hard, yellow booger that had been sitting up there for weeks.  I did the same on the other side and suddenly my little girl could breathe through her nose again.  In order to minimize the trauma of having my finger in her nose, I excitedly declared, "Look, you had pineapples in your nose!"  That's how we started calling boogers "pineapples."  Now when I ask Brooke if she needs to blow her nose she'll say, "No momma.  No pineapples in my nose!"

Fast forward to this weekend.  We had been out shooting and I was walking with the girls up a very muddy hill to the car.  The mud was super slippery and I was encouraging the girls to walk in the vegetation on the side of the road.  They were not grasping the concept and kept slipping and sliding around.  (Perhaps on purpose.)

"Walk over here!  Walk on the pine needles!" I called to Brooke after her third tumble.

"Pineapples?" she called back and promptly stuck her finger in her nose.

Motherhood rocks.

Public Service Announcement

Please be advised that if your baby has a growth spurt and grows approximately 2 inches in one month it may escape your notice that her bouncer needs to be adjusted accordingly.  She is now tall enough to launch herself out of the bouncer and end up on the floor in a screaming pile of tears.

Thank you for your time.

P.S.  No babies were (seriously) harmed in the making of this PSA.

Not So Easy A

It baffles me when people talk about the P.E. courses they took in college "for fun."  I’ve never been what one might call “athletic.”  I lack an awareness of what my body is doing at any given moment and possess a strong aversion to using my muscles to move me about for any reason other than fetching the remote or another cookie.  My limited attempts to do anything fitness related have usually ended in humiliation. 

When I was in 7^th grade, the criteria for fitness were set by the federal government.  Really.  Regan (or whoever was president back then, am I old enough to remember the Regan administration?) had come up with standards regarding how fast one should be able to run, how high one should be able to climb a rope, how many situps one should be able to do without passing out, etc.

I’m sure the criteria were established using the mean or the median or some such nonsense that you’d have to be a statistician to understand.  It’s completely over my head.  Anyway, we were tested against these standards and assigned a grade accordingly.

I hated all graded physical activity equally, but I reserved an extra bit of rancor in my soul for the chin-up.  Sure, let me hang on a bar like a rotting bloated manatee carcass in front of the whole class and writhe and grunt while not lifting my body a single fraction of an inch.  Yes, please!  May I have another?

I was delighted to learn that this year an alternative to the chin-up was presented.  It was the Flex-Arm Hang.  Those of us who were unable to complete even a fraction of a single chin-up were given the option to be boosted up to the bar and then timed on how long we were able to remain in the flexed arm position with chin above the bar.  Surely, 30 seconds or a whole minute would not be difficult.  For the first time a glimmer of hope surfaced.  Would this be the first P.E. activity at which I would be at least average?  Dare I even hope for above average?

I wiped my palms and the teacher boosted me up.  He gave the signal to the stopwatch operator.  “Ready, set,… GO!”  He let me go.

I crashed to the ground immediately.

“Uhhhh….one second?  She was up for… one second?” the stopwatch operator reported tentatively.  He consulted the table to see where that put me in the rankings of all children in the US.  “The lowest score is 3 seconds.  What should I do?”

“Never mind,” the teacher said.  “It’s the best of three tries.  You were just unprepared for this one, I think.  Remember, when I let go just hold yourself above the bar.”  Got it.  Now that I knew what was expect, I was psyched and ready.

He boosted me up, gave the signal, and let go.

Again, I crashed to the ground immediately.

“That was an even shorter time this time, I think,” the timekeeper said.  “I couldn’t even push the button all the way down before she hit the floor.”

(If I was a wiseacre then like I am now I would have quipped, “That’s because I’m getting tired.”  Why do I always think of these funny things to say 26 years later?!)

Thoroughly mortified, I muttered to the teacher that I would waive my third attempt and just take a zero on the exercise.

It never occurred to me during all my schooling through the years that P.E. was something you could learn to do and become good at.  It was just something that some kids could do and some kids couldn’t.  I never thought that non-academically inclined students would feel that was about math or reading.  And I believe the reason for this was that in P.E. were we always just tested.  Tested out of the blue on one horrifying and humiliating afternoon.  Here are the standards.  See how you measure up.  No before and after.  Let’s just take a snapshot in time and that’s your grade.  At least with an academic subject you have a teacher to answer questions and homework to help you learn.  I never experienced that with any of my P.E. classes.

During a unit on volleyball in high school I had trouble serving the ball over the net.  I asked the teacher what I was doing wrong because, whatever it was, I was doing it consistently as the ball ended up in the same spot in the net every single time.   It took a lot for me to muster up the courage to ask for help.  She looked at me like I was a total moron and told me to stop hitting the ball into the net.  She said that I needed to hit it OVER the net.  No advice like, “You need to throw it up higher” or “You need to jump so you can hit it before it starts coming down.”  Just “Stop hitting it into the net.”  THANK YOU.  I understand that much.  I’m uncoordinated BUT NOT STUPID.  The grading criteria was that the ball made it over the net in 3 out of 5 serves.  Guess who got a zero on that exercise, too? 

When I reached college, I decided I’d had enough of this P.E. nonsense dragging my GPA down.  I was required to take 2 P.E. classes, one of which was the standard “Fit For Life” course.  It was largely graded on book learning and not so much on performance so I did okay.  My elective course had to be chosen with care, though. 

If you picture a Venn diagram for my decision, the first circle contains Courses For Which I Am Not Required To Wear BYU Issued Clothing and the second circle contains Courses Which Require No Running, Sweating, Or Chasing After A Ball.  The only course in the intersection of my two circle was archery.  I signed up feeling something akin to the glee that someone feels when she realizes she’s not going to be beheaded but instead will only have one hand chopped off.

I expected that most people have no experience with archery so unlike basketball or volleyball we might all start at a beginner level.  The teacher was actually pretty nice and helpful.  That was a refreshing change.  She would demonstrate the correct pose and move down the line of students making slight corrections to each.  “Okay, so your extended arm, your stance and your hips should all be lined up.  Straight line, front to back.”  She might  move someone’s back foot a couple of inches to the side or slightly twist their hips.  “Looking good people!”  She got to me and stopped.  “What you need to do is get everything lined up.  Arm, hips, feet,” she said gently. 

“Yup, got it,” I beamed, sure of myself for the first time ever in a P.E. class.

“Uh…so, straight line.  Front to back.  One parallel line.”

“Yup.  Got it, “I said again.  “Arm out straight.”  I stuck my arm holding the bow out.  “Body in line.”  I swiveled my hips to be in line with my arm.  “And feet directly underneath.”  I stomped my feet in place for emphasis.

“Uh… no.”  She moved my arm a whole 45 degrees to the left.  “This is having your arm straight in front of you.  And your hips…this way.”  She turned them in the opposite direction.  “And your feet… your back foot needs to be waaaaaay over here.”

When I said I have no idea what my body is doing most of the time, I’m not joking.  I had no clue that I wasn’t all lined up.  I truly thought I was William Tell and ready to shoot a freaking apple offa someone’s head.

The archery class ended up not being too bad.  It was kind of fun and I got a good grade, probably because 60% of the grade was based on written tests.

The best part about it was one afternoon, the teacher sounded her whistle in 3 short loud blasts which indicated there was a safety issue and we were to stop shooting immediately.  Safety was a genuine concern and we’d had a couple of drills and one actual incident when someone had stepped beyond the firing line to retrieve a dropped arrow.  We stopped shooting just in time to see that someone had opened the roll-up door which separated our area from the rest of the indoor track and a horde of very determined runners were barreling into the building RIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF OUR SHOOTING RANGE.  They looked confused and irritated when it was explained that the door was shut for a reason and they were interrupting a class. 

They looked skeptical.  I guess it’s not really P.E. unless you are running.

I am officially a mom

These words came out of my mouth just now:

"Sweetheart, you can eat the cereal that is on the floor, but you CANNOT eat the cereal that fell into the potty!"

Conversations with a 6 month old

Me:  Look at your little feet!  One has and sock and one doesn't.  What shall we do with the toes that have no sock:

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Me:  Eat them?  Okay.  Nom nom nom!  And what about the toes that do have a sock on them?

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Me:  Eat them, too?  Okay!  Nom nom nom!  And how about those little baby fingers?

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Me:  EAT THEM?  ALRIGHT!  NOM NOM NOM!  Your cheeks.  What are we going to do with your cheeks?

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Me:  Alright, I will eat them too.  But only because you insist.

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Me:  You're looking at me with great interest.  I wonder what you are thinking.  Are you thinking that you would like to eat ME?

Elizabeth:  *giggle*

Me:  Okay, but I have to warn you.  Mommies are not as tasty as babies.  First of all, there's a texture issue. I'm pretty soft, but not nearly as soft as you.  And sure I'm chubby like you, but it's a different kind of chubby.  It's a too-many-french-fries kind of chubby instead of a I'm-a-happy-baby chubby.  They taste quite different, you know?  What's that?  You don't care?  You want a taste anyway?

Elizabeth:  *divebombs onto my face with her mouth wide open*

Me:  *wiping away the slobber*  Well, I'm glad you enjoy trying new foods.

Elizabeth:  *smile*

Comcastic!

Comcast:  We're calling about a past due balance on your account.

Me:  Weird.  I have this set up on autopay.  There shouldn't be a balance.

Comcast:  I show the amount owing is 89.40.

Me:  Can you tell me why the autopay didn't go through?

Comcast:  I don't have access to that information. You can call customer service at 1-800-COMCAST.   I'd be happy to take a payment today for the past due balance of 89.40.

Me:  Well, I'm not entire sure I owe anything.  It is usually charged to my card automatically.

Comcast.  Your service may be disconnected if I don't receive the payment of 89.40.

Me:  When is it scheduled for disconnection?

Comcast:  I don't have access to that information.  You can call customer service at 1-800-COMCAST.  How would you like to make your payment of 89.40 today?

Me:  I'm not going to make a payment until I find out why the autopay didn't go through.  I don't want to pay it twice due to an accounting error on your part.

Comcast:  Is there anything else I can do for you today?

Me (ignoring the fact that he has done absolutely nothing for me yet):  Yes.  You are the third person to call me about this account in the past 3 days.  None of you have been able to answer my questions.  Can you at least take me off your calling list?

Comcast.  No.  It's an automated call center.  As long as there is a balance due you will continue to receive calls.

Me:  Let me get this straight.  You are assigned to speak with customers about their past due accounts but you are given no useful information about said accounts.  You have no resources at your disposal, no way to answer questions, and no power to make the calls stop.  You can do NOTHING but accept my payment.  Is that right?

Comcast:  Well, yes.  Is there anything else I can do for you?

Me:  *facepalm*

Have Yourself a Merry Little Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer's Joy to the World Christmas

Brett and I were discussing Christmas music the other day.  He noticed one stations plays a heavy rotation of 80's and 90's Christmas songs while I was lamenting the fact that out of the literally THOUSANDS of Christmas songs in existence to day I always hear Bing Crosby warbling something that sounds like he's underwater.

"There are some songs I rather like, though," I admitted.  "I heard a version of 'O Holy Night' which was fantastic.  Well, fantastic until he changed the words at the end from 'O night divine' to 'Noel, NO-ELLLLLLL!  I just... don't like that word, noel.  It rubs me wrong."

"There's nothing wrong with 'Noel,'" Brett insisted.

"Really?  Tell me... what does it mean?  This 'Noel' business.  Is it a noun?  A verb?  Adjective?  What is The First Noel?  A song?  A message?  Aurora Borealis?  What is it?  No one actually knows.  Yet we listen to the song and decorate our homes with it."

"Well, it's uhhh... the... ummm... yeah, I don't really know either."

"I'm just reserving my right to dislike a word that I have no idea the meaning of, that's all."

So, for your edification:

Noel -- according to wikipedia.

Also for your edification, in addition to disliking The First Noel, I also dislike most Christmas songs in which the singer leaves out the original words and inserts some version of "shoobydoobydoo."  As in, "Have yourself at merry little shoobydoobydoo..."  Or "Chestnuts roasting on an open shoobydoodoowop..."

Now be quiet and let me listen to the radio's 10,000,000,000th playing of "Last Christmas."

Mind meld

I'm sitting at my desk today, thinking about all the things I need to do this evening.  Included in my list was to do a walk-thru at my rental property.  I'm packing a few tools and some cleaning stuff in my car today so I can do some caulking and light repair.  I also know there's a stain in the carpet so I packed the iron in case I need it to try to remove the stain.

"Wouldn't it be funny," I mused, "If someone needed the iron at the house today?  I'm the only person who ever uses it and even then it's just when I'm sewing.  But wouldn't it be funny if the one and only day the iron has ever left the house it was needed?"

I kid you not, 30 seconds later my cell phone rang.

"Hey baby," Brett said.  "Hey where are we keeping the iron these days?"

"WHAT?!"

"The iron.  Mom is looking for it and we haven't been able to find it anywhere."

Seriously.  I'm thinking of playing Powerball tonight.

A spider town hall meeting

Head Councilspider:  Thank you all for coming. Scoot in, scoot in.  We've all got 8 legs you know.  Those of you who can spin your own web and dangle from above, please do so.  We're a little crowded here.  We'd like to thank Gus, our facilities manager, for constructing this new web here on the abandoned car tire on short notice.  Imagine our surprise when we went to check out our previous town hall web in the wood pile and found it was gone.  Not just the web.  The whole wood pile.  Weird.  Seems to happen every year when the weather gets cold.  Anyway, on to the business at hand...

Random spider citizen:  Sorry I'm late!  I went to the bicycle tire on the patio by mistake!

Head Councilspider:  It's okay.  Just squeeze in wherever.  So, the purpose of this meeting today is that Wolfbane, who many of you know, has asked to be allowed to address the community on a matter which he consider to be of great importance.  The floor is yours Wolfbane.

Wolfbane:  Thank you, sir.  And thank you fellow spider citizens for coming today.  Many of you have known me since I was an egg in my momma's sac.  I've grown up in this community and consider all of you as my family.  I've come to speak to you about the destruction of our homes.  Whether you want to admit it or not, it's happening more and more frequently.  Miss Sally, your fine home above the front porch light was destroyed just last week.  You and all your children were forced to relocate into a web half the size way out in the garden area, isn't that right?

Miss Sally:  Yeah, that's right!  I spent weeks on that web... it was my dear departed mother's design.  And then one day, BAM!  We're homeless.

Wolfbane:  I'm truly sorry.  And Phil, a similar thing happened to your web in the darkest corner of the closet just last night.

Phil:  Why, that's right.  And believe-you-me, it ain't easy for a 7-legged disabled arachnid like myself to just pick up and spin a new web.  I'm living with my niece up near the fireplace for the time being but it just gets so dagnabbit hot in the evenings.  I won't be able to stay there forever.

Wolfbane:  I think every spider in this community has been touched by disaster at one time or another.  That is why I have asked to address this council.  I propose moving the community to somewhere safer.

Head Councilspider:  But where?  The wanton destruction seems to follow us wherever we build our webs.

Wolfbane:  I wish permission to seek for the mythical land of... Tub-Show'er.

(There is a quiet uproar among the spiders.  Several mother spiders cover the ears of their little ones and many shake their heads in disgust.)

Spider citizen #1:  This again!  We all know Tub-Show'er doesn't exist!  It's a legend!

Spider citizen #2:  Oh, it's out there!  It's a magical land!  Cool white tiles as far as the eyes can see!

Spider citizen #3:  It's too dangerous!  Be afraid, be very afraid!

Head Councilspider:  Order please!  Come to order!  Wolfbane, this is folly.  Many have attempted to find this land, Tub-Show'er, and none have ever returned.

Wolfbane:  I know the road will be dangerous but I am a mighty spider, wide of girth and hairy of leg.  I can find it and lead our people there.  They will be safe there.  How many more homes need to be destroyed?  How many more of us must be stepped on or sprayed with hairspray and lit on fire before we take action?!

(The web falls silent as a grizzled old spider, older than the hills, makes his way forward on shaky legs.  He addresses the group in a near whisper.)

Old Man Spider:  When I was a young spider, my grandspider used to tell me stories of Tub-Show'er.  He's long gone but the stories stayed with me.  It is truly a unique place, warm in the winter and cool in the summer.  And white... so much white.... but beware.  The true danger of the land Tub-Show'er lies in the sudden, violent rains.  Don't shake your head, young man.  You ain't never seen nothing like these rainstorms.  One moment you are basking in a cool rounded corner and the next you are fighting for your life!  You may think that you are strong but when the storm comes it will be all you can do to skritter around, desperately searching for a foothold, while the drops pound, pound, POUND you from above, draining your strength and your will to life.  Another moment later you will have no choice to curl up in a ball and be washed away to wherever the current carries you.  IF you survive the current, you will no longer be in the land of Tub-Show'er but in a land far removed, dark and moist and prone to flashflooding from whence there is no return.  Think twice before you set out on your quest, young Wolfbane.  What I say is true.

(There is silence for a moment.)

Wolfbane:  Thank you all for your concern, but with your permission, I shall begin my journey to find Tub-Show'er in the morning.

Head Councilspider.  We cannot stop you if you are determined.  May the odds be ever in your favor.

***

Epilogue:  After many days, Wolfbane did indeed discover the mythical land of Tub-Show'er.  He had only been there a few hours to enjoy the cool white tile as far as his eyes could see before the prophesied torrential rain started.  It was scalding hot and seemed to follow him in all directions.  As he curled up in a ball and resigned himself to his fate he thought he heard a woman's agitated voice, "Blasted spiders!  Why is there one in my shower EVERY SINGLE DAY?!!"

The nose on her face

I went into an office the other day to pick up a letter which I was told was left at the front desk.  The receptionist is sitting a a desk which has a little raised counter attached to it so the public can write checks or whatever on it, and so I can't see over into her workspace.

Me:  I'm Andrea Fox.  I'm here to pick up a letter that was left for me.

Receptionist:  A what?

Me:  An envelope.  It has a letter in it.

Receptionist (looking around her desk):  I don't see anything.  What's your name?

Me:  Andrea Fox.  I was told yesterday that it was ready and I could pick it up at the front desk today.

Receptionist:  Hmmm.... there's nothing here.  (looking around again)  Could it be under a different name?

Me:  No.  It's just an envelope with a letter in it.  I was told it was already ready and at the front desk.  Is there another place that might be "the front desk?"

Receptionist:  Well... no.  I just... there's just nothing here... (flags down a coworker)... Hey, I'm looking for a letter for Andr...

Co-worker (grabs an envelope that is hanging at eye-level, right in front of the receptionist's face with the words ANDREA FOX WILL PICK UP ON WEDNESDAY emblazoned on the face):  Andrea Fox?

Receptionist:  Oh... is this what you are looking for?

Me (blink, blink):  Yes.  Thank you.

Conversations with a 3 year old

Brooke is looking out the window while eating dinner last night.

Brooke:  Look mom!  The moon!

Mom:  No, sweetie, that's the Target sign.

Conversations with a 2 year old

We were chatting with Leah yesterday morning.

Mom:  What's your name?

Leah:  I'm Weee-ah!

Mom:  And how old are you?

Leah:  I'm two! (holds up two fingers)

Mom:  Are you a boy or a girl?

Leah:  (thoughtfully)  Cow.

Dad:  A cow?

Leah:  Yup.  Cow.

Dad:  Are you a dog?

Leah:  Dog.

Mom:  Are you an elephant?

Leah:  E-phant.

Mom:  Are you a platypus?

Leah:  Claptypus.

Dad:  Are you a parrot?

Leah:  Carrot.

Love my little carrot girl!

Driver's Ed, part 2

... continued from part 1

For my second drive with the instructor, I chose an after-school session.  No darkness and no snow.  Both cars from the driving school were parked in the lot when I got out of class.  Who should I drive with?  The husband, who had made my very first driving experience... memorable.  Or the wife?  She was unbearable during the classroom portion but she might be better behind the wheel with a responsible and conscientious student like myself.  I scurried to the car where the wife sat and hoped for the best.

We drove around town for a while and I began to relax and become a little more comfortable.  The wife seemed okay if a little uninterested.  She only overreacted once when I "failed to come to a complete stop" at a stop sign.  (Her definition of a complete stop:  all the parts of the car settle completely and you wait for another 2 seconds.)  We headed downtown to practice some parallel parking.

As I was attempting to maneuver into a parking spot on Main Street, while the instructor maintained her "laissez-faire" to teaching me about driving (read: ignored me completely), suddenly there was a BAM! and the whole car shook.  I froze.  The instructor looked at me and barked, "A**h***!"

Wait, what?  Listen, lady.  I'm a student driver.  It's YOUR JOB to make sure I'm not running into things.  And if I do hit something I'm pretty sure it's NOT in your job description to hurl vulgarities at me.  I stared at her and finally squeaked, "What did I hit?  Is it bad?"

"I can't BELIEVE this!"

"I'm sorry!"  I felt terrible even though I felt like she should have been helping me to not hit things.  "You have insurance, right?"

"Huh?  No.  Hold on."  She sprang out of the car and began inspecting the rear fender.

NO?!  No insurance?  How can you run a driving school and have no insurance?!  Visions of indentured servitude crowded into my brain.  How many hours would I need to work for her to pay for the damage?  And what about the damage to the other car?  I felt faint.

She finally returned.  "A**h***," she muttered again.  I tried to make myself as small as possible.  She glared at the dashboard for a long, long time without moving.  Suddenly she jolted to her senses and turned on me.

"Did you see him?!  Did you?!  What was he wearing?  Can you give a description to the police?"

"I didn't ... I didn't see... any...one.  Did I hit a person?  Oh my gosh!  I hit someone!  Where is he?  Is he hurt?"  This was a thousand times worse.  How long would they lock me up for running over a pedestrian while parallel parking?

She looked at me like I was insane.  "The guy," she said slowly.  "The guy who crossed the street behind us slammed his body into my fender.  There's a big scratch in the paint and I'm going to press charges.  I think I know who it is.  He and his a**h*** friends are always harassing my driving students."

What.  A.  Relief.  I wasn't going to jail after all.  It was just some idiot who probably had to drive in the snow while being verbally abused by his instructor and had held a grudge for all these years.

****

My final drive was with the husband again.  It didn't much matter which instructor I chose.  I was going to have a miserable, nerve-wracking time no matter what.  Not only were my teachers soulless burnouts, but there was a gang of Placerville thugs out to get me as well.

The sun had just gone down when a car full of guys zoomed past.  Two guys hung out the windows and taunted, "HEY, A**H****!"  My instructor was livid.  "Follow that car!" he commanded.  "Just... just don't worry about anything!  Don't lose them!  Faster!  Don't worry about the speed limit!  Go go go!"

I couldn't really even tell which car I was supposed to be following but I dutifully mashed the gas and we took off like a rabbit.  "Don't even stop here!  There's no one around... just go!  Go go go!" he screamed.  We blasted through a stop sign.  "Turn in here!  Don't slow down.  Go go go!"  We rounded the corner on two wheels and screeched to a halt in the Rite-Aid parking lot.

"Stay here," he barked.  I'll be right back."  He ran off to confront the hooligans.  Cars began to pile up behind me.  (I wasn't in a parking space.  I was in the middle of the traffic aisle.)  There was very little room to go around my car since the instructor had left his door wide open.  The honking started and I could see other drivers rolling their eyes to say, "Ugh.  Student drivers."  I forgave them.  There was no way they could  know the ordeals that I had been through in the last 72 hours.

Eventually, my instructor came back.  As he settled heavily into his seat, he apologized.  "I'm sorry you had to had to hear that.  Those guys are so vulgar."

I refrained from pointing out that his wife had used the exactly same word no less than three times just the day before.

To be continued...

Driver's Ed, Part 1

Learning to drive was one of the worst experiences of my teenage years.

Because of the birthday cutoff, I missed being able to take Driver's Ed as an elective at school and so my only option was to enroll with the private driving school in town.  The instructors were a husband-wife team and had a reputation for being at little... uneven.  Some kids reported that they were cheerful and friendly and some couldn't stand them.  I guess many years of trying to make a living dealing with teenagers ranging from flighty featherbrains to mouthy know-it-alls took a toll and you never knew what you were going to get from either one.

The wife of the team taught the classroom portion.  She turned out to be strict and demanding and had high expectations of a class with well... varying academic levels.  All teenagers want to drive.  Not all are good with books and tests.  I didn't have a problem with the coursework but didn't like her personally.  You could tell she felt like all teenagers were stupid and liars and would do anything to get out of completing the required material.  I'm sure this was true of some but it was a broad brush to color all adolescents with. As a result, she overcompensated by being extra strict and extra condescending to everyone.

I remember one boy, who was not the sharpest knife in the drawer but who legitimately tried to learn the material, could not understand when the teacher explained how to curb the wheels when parking on a hill.  She drew a picture and said to turn the wheels "in."  Confused, he raised his hand and politely asked if she meant "out" based on the diagram she put on the board.  "No," she said flatly.  "In.  Like I've drawn.  Just look at the picture."  He was still confused.  "So... that looks like... out?"  "No!  In!  In!  Can't you see?  Do you need to move up so you can see the board better?  Here's the curb.  Turn them in!"  Humiliated in front of the class he cried, "But that's out!"  She berated him further and actually made him get up and draw what he considered "in."  It was the exact opposite of what she was telling us.  After many long and painful minutes had passed someone eventually figured out that she was meant "in toward the street" while he meant "in toward the curb."

She was also superstrict with break time.  We had a certain amount of time allotted for each break and if we weren't back exactly on time she threatened to give us an incomplete for the course.  The vending machine downstairs was bottlenecked during break and there was only enough time for about half of us to get a snack.  She didn't like to excuse students during class to use the bathroom because she was afraid we might sneak down to the vending machine.  (A problem which could have been avoided if she would have given us a longer break to begin with.)  One girl asked to leave to use the restroom, explaining that she had had to go out to her car on break and didn't get a chance.  The teacher grudgingly agreed and as the girl stood up to leave the teacher snapped, "What are you doing?"  "Uh, going to the bathroom," the girl replied.  "No.  Leave your purse."  "What?"  "You heard me.  If you're going to the bathroom, you don't need your purse.  This is not time to get a snack.  Just go to the bathroom and come back."  "But I need...uhhh..."  "I know what you are doing!  Leave your purse!"  "It.. uhhh... I just need it..."  "You don't need your purse to go to the bathroom.  Leave it!"  Furious, the girl finally blurted out, "I'm going to change my pad!  Is that okay with you!"  That was awkward.

Weirdly, even though she believed teenagers to be idiots, the teacher had the attitude that most student drivers were too cautious.  She preached hard on making sure you were driving the speed limit (but not over the speed limit) and drilled it into us that if we slowed down without sufficient warning (or really if we ever slowed down at all) we would be rear ended and the collision would be our fault. I completed the classroom portion of Driver's Ed with flying colors but without the faintest idea of how to actually operate a motor vehicle.  And in full possession of the knowledge that hitting the brake meant getting into an accident that would be my fault.

You can see why I approached the actual driving portion of my instruction with more than a little trepidation. My first drive was scheduled for the wee hours of the morning.  We were to start at my house and end at the high school just in time for the first class of the day.  When the little Corolla with the lighted "Student Driver" box sign on top arrived at my house, I was relieved to see it was the husband and not the wife who would be my instructor that day.  I was not relieved, however, to discover that it was snowing.  Now, unlike many teenagers, I never had the opportunity to "experiment" with driving on a deserted country road or on a farm vehicle or even in the driveway.  Literally my first experience driving a car would be with a man who would surely hate me for being too cautious while I drove in the dark in the snow.

I remember we took a lot of time adjusting the mirrors.  He stood behind the car, held up his arm, and told me to adjust the mirror so I could see his arm.  I couldn't see jack squat in the mirror because it was dark and snowy so I fiddled with it until I could see... something and yelled, "Okay!"  He got back in the car, cold and wet, inspected my adjustment and said, "That's where you want the mirror?  You could see me?"  Uhhh... yup.  That's it.  "No.  It's not right.  Let's do it again."  He got out, I fiddled some more and he got back in, even more cold and wet than before.  "I just can't believe that's right for you!  YOU NEED TO BE ABLE TO SEE ME!"  I was a bundle of nerves and all I could think was, "Let's go let's go let's go!  The snow is piling up and it's not like I'm going to use the mirror anyway!  You don't want to be cold and wet anymore?  Just adjust the stupid mirror for me!  Can you not see the snow snowing down?  It's snowing unless you haven't noticed and I HAVE NEVER DRIVEN A CAR BEFORE."  We tried again and for good measure and to make sure he had more cold and wet to complain about, he made me stick my arm out and show him the arm signals for left and right.

We did all these things before leaving but he neglected to show me where to turn on the headlights, wipers, and turn signals.  It comes naturally now, but there was a time when I had to memorize "up=right turn, down=left turn."  And I had to figure all this out in the dark.  And the snow.  With a driving instructor who thought I was an idiot because I didn't already know how to drive.

Now, it snows a fair amount in Pollock Pines and the foothills, but the elevation drops rapidly so unless it's a really bad storm you can drive for 5 or 10 minutes and change from full on snow to light slush to just rain very quickly.  I figured no one would want to be out with a student driver in the dark and snow longer than necessary.  So, we'd get on the freeway and head down toward the high school.  Wrong.  Mr. Driving Instructor was bored and wanted to take all the backroads down the hill.

We ended up driving on (appropriately named) Snows Road, a very narrow two-lane road full of hairpin turns on the side of a cliff.  I wonder if Mr. Driving Instructor had a death wish or if he just didn't believe me when I said I'd never driven before.  I couldn't see both because of the dark and because of the snowflakes whizzing toward me, catching the glare of the headlights.  Mr. Driving Instructor kept sighing that I was driving too slow and when I'd speed up he'd holler, "Not so fast around the turns!  The road is slushy!  We'll end up at the bottom of the canyon!"  It took FOREVER to get off the mountain.  When we reached the bottom, the snow had ended and daylight was creeping over the horizon.  I was beyond frazzled.  Mr Driving Instructor looked alternately frustrated and distracted.  We reached a T in the deserted road,  He was off in lala land so I took a second to sit quietly behind the wheel and contemplate the beauty of my life which had miraculously not ended with a snowy plummet to my death.  He snapped to and hollered, "WELL!  Turn on your blinker!!  You need a blinker!  You can't just sit here!  YOU ARE GOING TO GET REAR ENDED!  GO!"

"Which way?" I asked meekly.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHICH WAY?" he roared.  "TOWARD THE HIGH SCHOOL!  WHERE DO YOU THINK WE ARE GOING THIS MORNING?!"

"But which way?" I asked.  He looked at me like I was a moron, reached over and slammed his hand down on the blinker.  "Toward the high school."

I could tell he didn't want to hear that I had no idea where we were or how we'd gotten there or which was the way to the high school.  I dutifully checked the dashboard to see which way the flashing light was telling me to go and pulled out, aware that if I stayed in place for one more moment, I would be rear ended.

To be continued...