Baby You Can't Drive My Car
by Karen Williams | May 12, 2005
Today marks the introduction of a new columnist at the Seminole Chronicle, Winter Springs resident and humorist Karen Williams. Expect to see her column, Funny Side Up, here every other week.
First it was potty-training. Then there was that obsession with Barney the Dinosaur, followed by a scarier obsession with the Backstreet Boys. When my daughter recently turned 15, I knew we were overdue for another rite-of-passage.
Bingo! Time to get her driver's permit. She informed me that all of her friends have their permits, and she's about to crawl into a hole and not even come out to brush her teeth if she doesn't get her permit immediately, if not sooner.
It seemed a crucial time for a mother-teen chat. At worst, it would bore her silly. At best, it would probably also bore her silly, but I decided to plow ahead.
"Emily, driving a car is a right, not a privilege," I began, just as I was admonished when I learned to drive.
"What's the difference, Mom?" she asked. I realized I had no idea, so I moved on to the next point.
"Driving isn't as easy as it looks," I continued.
"I know," she responded. "You prove that every time you run over the curbs at McDonald's drive-through."
Breathing deeply, I decided to share my own dramatic experience:
It was 1965, my first day in driver's ed at high school. It was raining torrentially when I got my first chance at driving the Ford Fairlane with the giant orange "WARNING: STUDENT DRIVER" sign on the back.
I had dreamt of this moment for weeks. Soon I would be cruising the highways and by-ways with cute Mr. Stafford. I envisioned my Cher hair streaming from the open window, as Steve and Leroy, two of the school hunks, sat in the backseat admiring my finesse and awaiting their turn at the wheel.
But right off the bat, things went wrong. I had trouble adjusting the seat. I had trouble getting the key to turn in the ignition. The windshield wipers also fought me, as did the automatic shift lever. Once I finally got the car in motion, it somehow lurched into a giant mud puddle in the school parking lot. And refused to move.
"If you've gotten us stuck, you're going to push us out!" Mr. Stafford snarled, his face red and quickly shedding its cuteness.
Steve, Leroy and I spent the next few minutes extricating the car from the puddle via an intense rock-the-boat procedure, but I left school that day feeling embarrassed and disappointed. Driving wasn't nearly as fun as I'd anticipated.
"So you see, Emily," I concluded, "driving isn't all it's cracked up to be. Why don't you quit while you're ahead and I'll buy you a new bike with a fancy water bottle holder and a rearview mirror?"
She gave me a look that seemed to say, "Oh, you poor, pitiful, deranged creature" and then took my arm, talking slowly: "C'mon, Mom, let's-go-to-the-DMV-and-schedule-my-written-test-now."
"OK," I sighed, and brought out the heavy artillery: "Has anyone explained to you about parallel parking?" I asked casually.
She stopped, utterly horror-stricken. "No ... no ... you don't mean I'd have to do ... that?"
I nodded smugly. It appeared my work here was done and there was only one thing left for me to say: "Huffy or Schwinn?"
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Copyright 2005, Karen Williams
