Recently, it seems I have created a whole blogging brigade of friends and family. Fabulous. However, there's been some story tellin' goin' on that needs some clarification - in other words, it did NOT happen like that!!!
First of which is a blog about my mother's impeccable driving skills. Somehow her definition of wonderful driving translates into me ruining a brand new pair of Calvin's every time I get in the car with her. She can offer you a religious experience and a bowel movement with her driving all in the course of one city block. The story in question (one amongst many) involves us returning home one day after a harrowing trip into town - in my opinion, most - if not all - trips in the Mama Mobile are harrowing, but that's neither here nor there.
I digress... Since we had been in town most of the day, I was not nearly as drunk or medicated as one needs to be to enjoy a leisurely ride into town with this woman. I was quite sober, and even more terrified. Now my mother likes to talk - a lot - almost as much as she likes to drive at Mach 10 and not pay attention to where she is going until we are either there, passing it, or have already passed it 17 times whilst taking what she likes to call "the scenic route." On this day, we were just about home. You could almost smell the fish fryin', so I thought I was good. I had managed to get an actual breath or two in... I could see the exit. Moms, however, was NOT seeing the exit. She was talking. And NOT slowing down. I am thinking to myself, "Exit, Ma! EXIT!" Just as we are IN LINE with the exit, she realizes that perhaps that might be where we were planning on going.
No worries (to her at least).
At 97 miles an hour here we go!!! YEE-HAW!!!
Missed the exit! NO WORRIES!
Missed the City Titties! NO WORRIES!
I half expected her to shout "TOWANDA!!!" at the top of her lungs like Evelyn Crouch in the book Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. I had always expected to die young, but never by Dukes of Hazzarding across an access road and landing on a cow on the side of the road outside of Bubbaville.
Everyone has their time, I guess.
Anyway, across the median we go. Grass and dirt is flying up everywhere!!! We miss the big ass sign that says "This is your exit, Crazy Lady" by mere inches. Had I not been frozen in fear I could have reached out and touched it. I still have whiplash to this day and a lazy eye that now rotates in an orgasm of fear every time I hear an ignition start up from this ordeal.
We land on the access road like a giant metal turd shit from the Mothership - screeching and skidding up to the intersection to turn home.
We finally did in fact make it home. I fell out of the car and laid in the driveway licking the gravel and weeping in uncontained joy that my life had, in fact, not ended in a dried out patch of grass on Highway 6.
What's that smell??? I think I need to change my britches...
It reminds you what to be thankful for.
Stay tuned for Tales of the Flying Fishstick. It's a good 'un!