Beware of Shiny Objects

As much as I hate to admit it, I am very much a woman, especially when it comes to shiny objects. I'm drawn to sparkle, no matter where it occurs. Diamond rings, sapphire necklaces, crystal-clean shop windows, metal signs, even the garish, reflective sequins on your grandmother's Christmas sweater. The more eye-catching and shiny the better, in my opinion.

Now, this love for shiny objects may be fine under normal circumstances (although my brothers may argue that point), but when I get behind the wheel of my car, shiny objects become a downright hazard. It's quite obvious that men designed roadways, because a woman would know better than to put light reflecting objects down the center of the pavement, like a beautiful necklace laying on the black velvet lining of a jewelry box.

I love lane-dividing reflectors.

Unfortunately, between juggling my cell phone, coffee, makeup, planner, and pen when I drive, I am unable to avoid damaging those lovely, sparkly bumps on the road. To remedy this, I've taken to straddling them when I drive. After all, who would want to cover the shine with yucky tire rubber? For some reason, the last three policemen to give me tickets didn't care for my logic.

But it's not just reflectors that form a hazard; more often than not, it is other vehicles that drive me to distraction (haha! drive, get it?). Just this morning on my way to work, I saw an Alhambra water delivery truck. It was so pretty! Bright green and on the back - you'll never guess! - they had a shiny, sparkly, reflective sequin sign that was blue and had their name written on it. I stared at the sign, trying to resist its pull, but blue is my favorite color and between that and the sequins, I just had to give in. I slowly began drifting across the lanes so I could be right behind the truck.

Bang! Screech! Crash! Yeah, I forgot to check before changing lanes. Now I'd crashed into three other cars and the sparkly truck was disappearing down the highway. If only I hadn't been so intent on reaching the sparkly sequins! But it isn't my fault; shiny objects really shouldn't be allowed on vehicles.

Does anyone know a good lawyer?

That Joe Nichols song about Tequila...

Chester is often considered the baby in the social groups in which he runs. He is the youngest person (and the only guy) in his upper division French literature class (be ye jealous!). His face has more fuzz than a Flavorcrest and his cheeks have so little gristle that some meanies have taken to calling him Princess Peach. Chester takes this all in stride, knowing that when his friend's skin looks like like partially masticated teriyaki jerky and they lose control over basic motor functions, Chester will have Nivea skin and be able to choose when and where he...eh...functions.
[Switching to past tense for narrative reasons]

It was Erin's 21st birthday. She was stoked to be a legal drinking-permissible adult and wanted to go test the limits of her new freedom. The baby Chester was chosen to be the designated driver. Actually, Erin and Chester were going together and exclusively to a drinking establishment. No one else would be accompanying them. It was to be a date. A date where Erin would drink and Chester would watch, while holding the keys and wondering just how tipsy Erin would get.

To clarify, Erin was really pretty. She was attractive in that pleasing and graceful way that only certain girls can manage. She was also normally very responsible and not the sort of person who orders two piña coladas (one for each hand). Chester really liked her; that was one of the reasons he agreed to go in the first place. Chester was also really curious about what might happen after Erin consumed a few adult beverages. He felt like a scientist: he'd formulated a hypothesis (things would get more fun) and was ready to put it to the test.

The server arrived and heard Erin's first drink order: a fruity margarita that was sure to make the hairy, manly man in me scream. It was not the kind of drink guys ordered and Chester didn't understand its allure, but Erin ordered it with the sort of prepared confidence that suggested she had premeditated her drink order. I made a mental note to consider my own first drink order for my 21st birthday.

The drink arrived and I noted immediately that it was quite large. The margarita container (for it can hardly be called a cup) looked like it held several gulps full of sugary adult beverage, almost enough that I would have to take a breath if I wanted to "throw it back" like a shot. I quickly realized that this was one drink that was not meant to be "thrown back."

To complete a mental picture of this situation, it's important to know that there isn't much to Erin. Some people are built like freight trains and can take a lot of alcohol before showing signs of excess. Others are built like a Schwinn bicycle: A little wind is all it takes to knock them over. Erin is closer toward the Schwinn. And she wasn't ready for the immense size of this liquid assault.

It was just like that Joe Nichols song about tequila: Erin drank a few sips, excused herself to the restroom and came back without her scarf. It was a nice scarf too: turquoise with blue polka dots. Then she started playing with her earing and it fell off in her adult beverage. Chester thought that it was kinda awkward to sit around while she fished around for it, first with her fork, knife and spoon and finally, as a last resort, with her fingers. He wanted to help, but it didn't seem appropriate. It was her drink; she should do the fishing.

Chester figured this was a normal part of consuming alcohol and wasn't concerned until Erin returned from the restroom for a second time. She had her scarf again, but her socks and belt were missing. Something was very strange about that restroom!

Chester drove Erin home at a slow pace. She asked to drive, but he turned her down. She asked to stop by BevMo's to purchase a quick drink, but he kept driving. She asked to stop at In N' Out for a cheeseburger - despite the fact that she had just eaten a birthday dinner and complimentary cake. Chester assented to this request because Animal Style fries sounded really tasty.

And that was the date. Chester returned Erin to her place and drove away. Very confused. He gave the evening a B minus, because Erin had told him she really liked him just before going into the house. That was really nice of her!

Incidentally, Chester's twenty-first birthday is seven short months away. He is willing to entertain suggestions as to what his first drink should be. Leave your advice in the comment section...

A Long Drive

There are drives and there are drives. More specifically, there are short drives and long drives. Webster defines them thus:

Short Drive n. short•drive [ple⸍ zhər] An interesting, profitable trip, usually made in an awesome motor vehicle, for the purposes of leisure, necessity, or vanity.

Examples: “I really need to take a short drive to a burger place.” “I just might make the short drive to class today.” “I was only on a short drive—it must be Mom who used up all the gas.”

Long Drive n. long•drive [payn⸍] An excruciatingly tedious trip down a boring interstate in the middle of a barren American desert, in vain pursuit of some elusive goal such as a vacation or conference. People who take long drives often die of heat, bladder expansion, or an overload of junk food and portable movies, although the leader of a long drive, called the driver, frequently survives.

Examples: “When is our long drive going to be finished?” “Why did we even decide to go on this long drive?” “Wow, you really meant a long drive.” You think you took a long drive?” “This is nothing like the long drives we took in my day, son.” “You should hear about the lovely long drive we took last summer.” (The last example demonstrates a curious fact about long drives: they are very enjoyable when the driving is more memory than reality.)

The latter definition appears almost calculated to arouse curiosity. Why do drivers survive more frequently than passengers? The answer is in a third entry, which I generously plagiarize here for your benefit:

Driver ⁴ n. driv•er [ov⸍ərlord] A skilled but overindulged participant in a long drive (see entry). He/she bears responsibility for the safe navigation of the vehicle, but in return has command of the air conditioner, volume and subject matter of the radio, and the size of the interval between rest stops. Passengers (see entry) generally display a deep respect for the driver, in order to conceal their jealousy and boredom.

Examples: “Don’t ask me when we’re going to be there; ask the driver.”

Of course, such definitions cannot really communicate the full meaning of the words. To actually know a thing, you have to experience it in its unveiled, unstinted reality. Or, you have to hear about it from a person who has experienced that reality. With that in mind, I offer for your information a concise, four-part exposition of the average long drive.

1. The Beginning
A long drive is a real drive, the sort of drive that makes all other drives seem cheap and trifling, and so it must begin early in the morning, when the sun is just rising, the birds are beginning to come out, and the highway is empty of traffic. That is the ideal, anyway. A real long drive usually begins when the sun is up enough to wake would-be pilgrims from their sleep and send them frantically scurrying to the car with a neck ache, ruffled hair, and no coffee, to push for hours through early rush-hour traffic. The lucky passengers wearily try to find a tolerable position for their pillows so they can snatch another hour of sleep and the driver slaps himself to stay awake, counting down minutes until the end of his shift.

2. The Middle
The long drive continues when someone finds that there is no ice in the ice chest, and the travelers descend upon a gas station to buy some. There is generally no ice at the station, but they stretch their legs and use the restroom before driving to another. After a few more stops, the ice is found, and it is time for lunch. Lunch is then eaten in the car to save time. Crumbs litter the seats, and every time a passenger sits down, they roll around beneath him. If there are small children on the long drive, they get hungry between meals and eat snacks, populating the seats with yet another batch of crumbs.

Near the front of the car, meanwhile, there is a debate over the radio. The small children want to listen to their favorite CD for the twenty-ninth time. The driver wants to listen to something energetic and fascinating to alleviate his tedious task. And the other passengers want some peace and quiet for a few minutes. The small children always win battles of this kind.

3. The Interlude
With meal, snacks, and music all tended to, the long drive enters its most peaceful stage. The passengers doze in their seats, the small children gaze listlessly out of the window at the passing prairie (or city), and the driver relaxes at eighty or so miles per hour. The sun shines down on the asphalt, spotting the road with an occasional mirage. The driver relaxes a bit too much, and jolts up as his tires hit the grating on the side of the highway, which was been placed there to vibrate him back to his senses. He shoves his shoulders back and peels his eyes, but soon they glaze over again. Another jolt. One of the passengers gets worried and has all of them, especially the small children, chip in to help the driver stay awake. They succeed. The peaceful stage is over.

4. The End
It is followed by the stressful stage. Night is approaching, a destination must be reached, and everyone is for some mysterious reason crossing their legs. The sun sets fast, and little orange lights appear all over the city, forming words: No Vacancy. The driver and the head passenger (see entry) wrangle over a map, trying to figure out how far the next city is and which way they should go anyway, all without raising their voices so the passenger calling ahead for reservations and prices can hear the receptionist’s voice. The small children are restless and would like to cry, so they are kept busy crunching on snacks that raise the crumb population on the seats as if there were an illegal immigrant problem. Semi-trucks whiz by, making the car sway, the passengers gasp, and the driver stops arguing to look at the road ahead for a few minutes. When he does, an open hotel is finally found at an exorbitant price, and everyone prays it has free wi-fi, clean sheets, and a free breakfast to help start the next day of the long drive.

Dating Disaster

"Everyone has these days." That's what I told myself during a sixteen hour period when everything went wrong before even considering going right. You know what I'm talking about: Nothing works out as it should. Regularly taken gambles and risks are rewarded with the sort of destitution normally reserved for the risk addicted, things that should go up go down and vice versa, polite comments are interpreted as premeditated insults and even friends begin to question your sanity.

You've probably had these kinds of days - you may have even had a day as bad as mine - but it is unlikely that you shared that experience with a beautiful woman.

We'll call her "Alexis" because I don't want to spend a great deal of time agonizing over a name for a woman who probably detests me and wouldn't read my writing for all the orange juice in Florida. But I'm getting ahead of myself. I met Alexis at a nondescript social function through school, the kind of affair that the politically and socially savvy frequent and that neck ties enjoy because they provide a vacation from their wrinkled and lonely closet existence. One look at Alexis revealed she was out of my league. Blond and attractive, she had radiant features and a captivating smile that every guy in the room noticed.

When I first saw her, I was mid sentence with a group of jocks talking about n'importe quoi. I stopped and my jaw must have gone slack since the whole group turned to follow my gaze. As one they answered my unstated question: "She's out of your league, man."

With my friends' statement as encouragement, I grabbed a couple of the cheesy fondue pieces that passed as "refreshments" at the shing-ding and moseyed in her general direction. When we met I was pleasantly surprised that she was able to overlook my many social faux pas and general lack of grace. We had a conversation (she was more than just a pretty face) and, by the end of the evening, a scheduled date. Take that, jealous jocks.

To get to the distant amusement park for which I'd bummed tickets in time to enjoy an entire day of nauseating fun, Alexis and I had to leave at an ungodly early hour. For a derelict like me, any hour before noon is early, but when the alarm rings much before twelve it's easy to ignore the noise as irritation and sleep on. That's exactly what I did. When I rolled out of bed, groggy eyed and rested, I glanced at my clock radio with the curious expression of a six year-old. The green numbers were not what I expected to see when I'd prepared myself for an early departure the night before. Nor, for that matter, did they represent a time at all close to the rendez-vous time Alexis and I had set for our trip.

It's always a tad embarrassing to stand a girl up. There was that time my senior year in High School when I accidentally scheduled two dates at once and took the "where are you?" call from one girl while dining with another. My "thanks for the call, mom" hang up line managed to further infuriate the girl I'd stood up and was unconvincing to the young woman I was with. If you're reading this, Liz, I'm sorry. And you deserve better, too, Becky. Then there was the time I decided to stop for pizza on the way to pick up my date for a dinner and dance. She smelled the pepperoni on my breath when I got to her house thirty minutes late and my flat tire excuse deflated quickly. There was also the time I plumb forgot about a lunch obligation and was halfway through my break and on the other side of town when the young woman called with a reminder.

These "Great Moments in Stand Up History" pale in comparison to my half-dressed, 45 minute late arrival. As soon as I remembered my date, I determined I didn't have time to shower, shave or shine, the three Ss of my morning routine. So I grabbed Lysol from under the bathroom sink and gave my entire body a quick application. The smell was overpowering, so I dug around for the Febreze and gave the strategic locations a few squirts. Still dissatisfied, I turned a bottle of aftershave upside down over my head and toweled my hair dry. In retrospect, a little cologne might have added some musk to my potpourri of scents, but I didn't think to reach for my room mate's bottle of Stetson.

I actually entered my car wearing only underwear but managed to dress while averaging over ninety miles per hour on the freeway. Did I mention I was driving a manual transmission? Or that my super efficient economy car is on the opposite end of the spacious spectrum from Loretta Lynn's Lincoln. I pulled into the parking lot where we were to meet, having been awake only 45 minutes, but smelling, I'm sure, like I'd just gotten out of the soap factory. When Alexis sat down in the passenger seat, she wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze. I pointed to my car's frame, which was home to more dirt than the underside of a horse's hoof, and said I'd just had it waxed. Alexis' nonpulsed answer revealed my lie's ineffectiveness and I noticed her glancing furtively at my hair which I admit had a sort of Vegas air.

At that moment, sitting next to a young woman who really did justice to the term "beautiful" in her chic green jacket and white blouse, my day was not going badly. In fact, had it ended right then with some kind of meteoric disaster, I'd have few regrets.

But it didn't end there. Alexis has the political views of a slightly demented Maoist minion and, after a few minutes of listening to her compare Dennis Kucinich to Mike Gravel, two men who have the combined political clout of my deceased dog, I told her as much. Some people watch Crossfire for entertainment, but few want to experience that level of argumentative intensity on a first date. I was no exception. It took the restraint of a Gregorian Monk to keep from pulling to the side of the interstate and leaving her to walk back to her communal abode.

I was just starting to warm up to Alexis when we stopped for breakfast. For some reason Alexis wanted to take a walk, so we hoofed around for twenty minutes before selecting an eatery. With the words of Avril Lavigne ringing in my ears ("I have to pull my money out and that looks bad"), I insisted on paying for the meal. Only the restaurant didn't take credit. And I didn't have any cash on me. I turned glumly to my date. "Alexis?" Like me, Alexis was a plastic aficionado who had about as much of the green stuff as the hairy guy with the shopping cart on Fourth and Vine. In fact, the richest entity between us was my car, which likes to keep some money in the ashtray.

From car to eatery and back was a little over three miles, but I ran it in less than twenty minutes, a pretty good time for an out of shape derelict. I also ran it in jeans and shirt, both of which lost their soapy smell by the end of the ordeal. Alexis enjoyed her meal while my body recovered from the run.

After rinsing out my shirt (Alexis' idea), we got back in the car and continued toward our destination. That's when the unthinkable happened.

I was on a sparsely trafficked freeway, going at about the speed of the other cars, maybe a little faster. I'd stopped sweating and Alexis wasn't talking politics. Things were looking up. Then, in one moment, my biggest claim to driving fame evaporated and, with it, I lost my tax rebate. That's right, I got ticketed. I did everything right. I told the officer I was late for work at In N' Out burger (an establishment that gives uniformed police officers a discount), that my new shoes had a bigger sole than I was used to and that my friend was in labor and that I was driving her to the hospital. When I mentioned my date, the officer took a closer look. His reaction was as unpredictable as it was crushing.

"Alexis?"

"Dad?"

That's right, I got pulled over by my date's cop dad. He wrote me up for the maximum and confiscated his daughter, telling her that she shouldn't be "keeping the company of such..." while gesturing toward me to emphasize his unfinished sentence. He also told me Alexis was out of my league. I drove home alone and went to bed as quickly as possible. I wanted that date to be over.

The next day, I called Alexis twice and left imploring messages. I emailed her, too. A few days later I blocked my number and called, but she hung up as soon as I identified myself. Her meaning could not have been more clear: another dating disaster.

American Drivers

Chelsea has a problem.

Chelsea has a tooth ache.
Chelsea goes to the dentist.
The dentist tells Chelsea that her wisdom teeth will have to go.
Chelsea schedules an appointment.
The next week, Chelsea goes in for her surgery.
A nurse puts Chelsea in a special chair.
The doctor puts a needle into Chelsea's arm.
Chelsea falls asleep.
Chelsea wakes up a little later.
Four of her teeth are missing.
Chelsea is very, very groggy.
Chelsea stumbles back to her car.
After several failed attempts, Chelsea puts the key in the ignition and drives away.
Five minutes later, Chelsea feels a terrible pain in her jaw.
Chelsea tries to open her mouth.
Chelsea can't.
The pain gets worse.
Chelsea can't take it anymore.
Chelsea pulls over at a local pub.
Chelsea knocks back several shots of Jack Daniel's.
Chelsea can't remember how many.
Chelsea feels better.
Chelsea resumes the drive home.
Chelsea is too drunk to notice that she is in the wrong vehicle.
Chelsea doesn't realize she has exploited a set of keys that were left in the ignition of an old van.
Chelsea feels weak and happy.
Chelsea's foot slowly descends on the gas pedal.
Chelsea's stolen vehicle goes faster and faster.
Soon, Chelsea is rocketing down the road at a hundred miles an hour.
A police car signals for Chelsea to pull over.
Chelsea doesn't notice.
Chelsea drives faster.
Chelsea's van drifts into oncoming traffic.
Then Chelsea gets a phone call.
Chelsea fumbles for her cell phone.
Chelsea opens the phone and asks who is calling.
Seconds later, Chelsea's van slams into another car.
Chelsea is unhurt.
The other driver spends six months in therapy.
The other driver's insurance company refuses to pay.
Chelsea's insurance company refuses to pay.
Chelsea was driving under the influence of alcohol and general anesthesia.
Chelsea was resisting arrest.
Chelsea was manning a stolen vehicle.
Chelsea was speeding.
Chelsea was driving in the wrong lane.
Chelsea does doing what any red-blooded American would do.
Chelsea sues her dentist and is awarded six million dollars by a sympathetic jury.

Twenty foot Screeeeeeeeech mark

Me alone. An empty car and an open road. Me and God in a three door. No police cars or emergency vehicles behind. Only traffic ahead. Blake Shelton in the speakers. New shopping mall on the left, older shopping mall on the right. Thinking about elasticity of demand for lead-based Chinese toys. Trying not to think about a test I just took on the same subject. Worried about the upcoming workday at General Mills. Wondering whether my mother will notice my unfinished chores. Watching the traffic. Glazing just a bit.

The track on the stereo changed. Ain't Easy Bein' Me, also by Blake Shelton. Shelton has the same initials as Britney Spears. I wonder if he gets that a lot. I wonder if he's ever made the connection. Would Britney Spears have made it in country music? Maybe she should try that genre as a comeback strategy. She could be the un-Dixie Chicks.

Traffic in my lane is slowing. It's faster in the left lane. I am in the left lane. The car ahead of me has a "Baby on Board" bumper sticker. Is that supposed to keep you safe from the unsafe driver? I tap my breaks. Maybe I should get a sticker like that. Might keep me safer. I wonder how many people lie on their bumper stickers. Statement not a question.

Red light. Durn. Baby on Board made it through. I'm the first car in my lane. I like the feeling of control. Dominance. I can set my own takeoff. I can test my car's zero to sixty. I smile then think. Who is in the first car in my lane in my life? Is my life at a stoplight? I frown. Green light. Ten seconds. Dang. Should have wrapped it up more in third gear. Maybe I shouldn't be pushing my car like this.

Back under the speed limit. Sure a pretty sky this time of year. Eyes back to road. Green light turns to yellow. Ain't Easy Bein' Me. I calculate quickly. I can't make it. I shift down and floor the accelerator pedal. Jump ahead. 50,55,60 miles per hour. I'm within fifty feet. I'll make it. Yellow turns red.

Right foot leaves the gas. Left foot engages clutch. Right hand disengages and leaves shift. Left hand clenches. Right foot smashes brakes hard. Left foot braces against clutch. Right hand pulls on parking brake. Hard. Left hand is strained.

Tires lose traction. I feel the drift before I hear it. SCREEECH. I fishtale some but retain control. SCREEECH. The stop is sudden and, legally, just before the write line. Lady in car to my right looks at me. Scared and surprised. More surprised. Very motherly. I look sheepish. I feel sheepish. She admonishes with only her face. Nobody else seems to notice.

A screech mark stretches twenty feet behind my car. A long screech mark. Maybe you will see it the next time you go to the intersection. When the light turns green, I look around at the other traffic to gage their reaction. No other cars are in sight. I am all alone. I drive on, with more caution and less rubber. Me alone. An empty car and an open road. Me and God in a three door.

Green SUV

Environmentalist extremists are hypocrites. It seems that that's the message sent by every major "green" political figure from Al Gore III to Paris Hilton. I don't want to believe that, though; I want to think that every conservationist who puts plants and animals before human beings has the purist of intentions and a consistent heart. I want to believe that environmentalist extremists put the same fervor behind their convictions as Tookie Williams. I really really do.

In fact, I put myself to sleep every night not by counting sheep, but by saying over and over again "Greens are people too, Greens are people too, Greens are people too..." My room mate says he wants me to find help.

Anyway, that's the overly elaborate setup for my trip to work from school the other day that had me zipping (siren sounds) along the interstate listening to Emerson Drive's rendition of Devil Went Down to Georgia. I really think the Campbell Creek Gang has a better version, but regardless the devil was just getting his fiddle licks in when I noticed a Chevrolet Suburban up ahead of me. The Suburban was guzzling along at the speed limit so I quickly gained the distance to its bumper and had to tap the brakes to keep from tailgating.

That's when I noticed that the car was adorned with several bumper stickers. Seven to be exact. They covered the back window and bumper like a poorly applied wallpaper and left small gaps where I could see the car's original color.

The bumper stickers were, as you may have anticipated, strongly from a Green persuasion. "Vote Green," "TREEHUGGER," "Treehugging Dirt Worshipper," "Plant Seeds and Sing Songs," and "Love Your MOTHER" with a small avatar of the globe are the only five I remember, but you get the idea. The driver of the car had obviously bought out the campaign offices of Ralph Nader and done a number on her vehicle immediately thereafter. I didn't even want to think about resale value.

The obvious question in my mind is why in the wold a Greenie would be driving a Guzzler. A little research reveals that the 2006 Suburban gets a meager 15 miles per gallon in the city. Each additional gallon burned, according to the propagandists who write those bumper stickers, is more environmental pollution and further propels our nation toward global warming or cooling, whichever doomsday scenario is in vogue.

It was plain hypocrisy and a laughable inconsistency to see an environmentally unfriendly vehicle with Greenie stickers.

But FCN isn't a blog that just sit backs and snipes. No! We offer solutions and find ways around hypocrisy. What the driver of this vehicle (a female, in case you just had to know) should do is purchase a bike or SMART car (0 to 60 in sixty seconds!) and paste all her messages onto this green form of transportation. Or, if she were really environmentally conscious, she could just walk everywhere and save the manufacturers of the bike the pollution of corrugating the steel and place her favorite bumpersticker on her back. (Notice I didn't say backside, because that would have been inappropriate).

I consulted a friend in search of the reasons that might drive (note the pun!) a young woman to such ironic hypocrisy, and my friend pointed out that maybe she is a new driver, put-putting around in her parent's vehicle. If so, maybe she felt the need to express her individuality without shelling out the big bucks for a ride of her own. Or, and this is my idea, someone vandalized her vehicle with the stickers and she has yet to notice.

This episode does present a rule of thumb that you, the faithful FCN few, can draw from: whatever you are driving, make sure your bumper stickers match the make and model. If you are driving a hybrid (Prius, Camry), you can roll with the greenie tags. If your whip is a slick sports car (Porsche, Mustang), you can ride with an arogant and speedster sticker. If you ride around in a truck or beater sedan (S-10, F-150), a military pride message or something having to do with beers after work works well. Expensive cars that send a message on their own (Beamers, Escalades) should generally leave their bumpers with their factory installed shine; they should be clear of anything that would block the natural beauty of the car.

And, as always, FCN readers should consider the FCN bumpersticker collection for their cars. OK, terribly sorry for ending an otherwise solid post with a shameless stub, but, well, that's the kind of car I drive.

"And the fear of you and the dread of you shall be on every beast of the earth, on every bird of the air, on all that move on the earth, and on all the fish of the sea. They are given into your hand. Every moving thing that lives shall be food for you. I have given you all things, even as the green herbs."
~ Genesis 9:4

25 Things not to say during your Driver's Test

1) Before we start, I want to say that I had a pretty crazy night so please cut me some slack.
2) LOVE that clicking sound!
3) Diesel was cheaper. Now I see why.
4) Chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga ...
5) So, you come here often?
6) Train tracks! I think we can make it.
7) Some day, they'll have movie screens that fold down all the way in front so everyone can see them.
8) Yellow light, beep-beep!
9) Sometimes I pretend I'm an allied tank driver on World War II, and all those cars in the other lane are panzers.
10) There's that trucker again!
11) So how am I doing?
12) Come on. Quit giving me these tame orders. Let's open this baby up and see what she can really do!
13) Wow. I am so relaxed right now.
14) Police car! Keep your head down!
15) Look, it's my ex-girlfriend coming out of that store. If I swerve, would you mind taking her out with the door?
16) Sure is bright out here today.
17) I've been driving this road for years now.
18) Can't wait until I get enough money to buy a real car. I mean, look at this hunk of junk. It's a death trap.
19) Can we hurry this up a bit? I'm late for my online support group.
20) You wanna swing by my place on the way back?
21) I love the effect of all those yellow dots coming at you. So mesmerizing. Gets me every time.
22) Ahhh! No brakes! No brakes! Ha! Just kidding. You should have seen the look on your face. Hahaha!
23) Vroom, vroom!
24) That's where we crashed right there on the left. Nobody was hurt though. I don't think.
25) I wish we could always be in this car, driving down the road side by side. You and me. Forever.

Close Call

The other day I was driving the roughly twelve mile stretch between school and work. It was shortly after 12:30 and the lunch hour traffic was lighter than usual. I was singing along with Jason Aldean on a freshly burned disk of assorted country music and generally trying to look cool, calm and collected as I bobbed my head to the tune and adjusted my sunglasses. The road seemed to come to me and I really didn't notice much other than the white lines to my left and the base boosted sound from the speaker on my right.

I didn't care too much about my speed, but was going about five miles per hour above the speed of traffic (roughly sixty) and, if my memory serves me correctly, the zone was listed for 45. The town where I go to school has a large police presence and the road I was traveling is such a transit artery that regular patrolling is a guarantee. Still, I thought little of the authorities when I noticed a gap in the traffic ahead of me and accelerated to pass a car and settle in.

Never glancing at my speedometer, I grinned as I heard the first notes of a new Josh Turner single and started singing along with Firecracker.

Ahead of me was an intersection that is arguably the largest and most traveled in all town. It's on a road between two large higher education institutions and the cross street is a major east west route (Pacific and March, for those of you in the know). When I was no closer than three hundred feet from the light, it switched from green to yellow.

I calculated quickly and determined I could make it. Then I down-shifted and gunned the engine, leaping forward with less caution than the yellow light demanded. To my left, I noticed a red Isuzu Rodeo, making a similar attempt.

(I've always wondered about the wisdom of naming a car "Rodeo;" it doesn't speak much to the smoothness of the ride).

Just before crossing the white line and entering the large square of the intersection, I happened to glance at my speed and noticed I was almost thirty over the limit. I'd started out a tad fast, speed up to pass a car and then severely violated the applicable traffic laws during my approach to the light.

But as fast as I was going, the Rodeo was going faster. Without a radar gun, I can't be entirely accurate as it its speed, but I would wager an honest nickel that it was going on the high side of 85. Maybe even 90.

As we breezed through the intersection, two geese on a flight south, I noticed the distinctive white and black markings of a CHP officer out of the corner of my right eye. You know the type: reinforced bumper, light rack and overweight driver. I instinctively engaged the clutch and tapped the breaks to slow down, but the officer's lights were blinking and he had pulled out of his perch before I could slow below the posted limit.

Embarrassment and disappointment are the only two emotions I remember as I carefully pulled my car to the side of the road and engaged my emergency blinkers.

My first ticket.

I had been driving - seriously driving - nine months and now I would have a point on my license, my insurance costs would skyrocket and I would have to sit through a class on traffic safety - as if I didn't know all the rules I'd violated. I sighed and leaned back, waiting for the prefect to come to my door.

But the officer never came. In fact, the cop car chased down the Rodeo and a uniformed officer was knocking at the door of the red SUV when I drove by a fraction of a minute later.

I don't know how much weight I lost in those few moments when I thought I was going to be ticketed, but it must have been measurable. My heart was beating like I'd just drunk three Red Bulls while watching Mission Impossible and my palms were sweatier than T.D. Jakes after a hard sermon. As if to reinforce my feelings, my stereo was playing Keith Urban's Stupid Boy.

The rest of my ride to General Mills was about as slow as I can remember. I don't believe I ever came within five miles of the speed limit and I spent the entire time in the slow lane.