Not long ago, I taught myself to drive. Yes, I've been driving automatics for a couple of decades. THIS was a stick shift.
I know, I know--I should have learned this years ago, when I was young. But, well, I didn't. And I know I'm not alone. My family didn't have a stick shift at that time, and my high school class didn't cover it. I figured it was a non-issue. If I had made it past my dad and first husband without having to learn to drive a stick shift, why would I ever have to? I'm old enough to make my own decisions, buy my own cars, etc. And I would never BUY a stick shift. Case closed.
That's what I thought, until I was expecting my last baby. He wasn't going to fit in my husband's car along with the children we already had. My husband is the one who takes the kids to school. So, the obvious solution was to buy a new car--an automatic that I could drive to work. Hubby could take the van.
The only problem with making plans is. . .they don't work out. One day, while in the shower--where I do my best thinking, it dawned on me that we were not going to be able to buy a car that year. Not even a used one. The next thought was the killer. I was going to have to let my husband drive the van, so I was going to have to learn to drive his stick shift. Ouch.
Men, don't read this paragraph. Women: name one of the worst things you've ever been through. I have no doubt every one of you came up with having your dad/husband/big brother/grandpa/driver's ed teacher (pick one) sit next to you telling you how to drive. Well, I was for sure too old for that. I might have to learn to drive a stick, but I wasn't going to be bossed. Getting this past my husband wasn't too hard. Someone had to tend the kids while I practiced.
"We'll put them in the back seat while I teach you," he protested.
"Only three will fit," I reminded him.
I did ask him to keep his cell phone on. Which came in handy the time I called and slobbered into the phone for fifteen minutes that I did NOT want to do this. Just in case he'd missed that. Fortunately, my husband had more faith in my ability to learn this than I did. And more patience.
For the first step, I reviewed in my mind what I already knew about the clutch and gears and asked a few questions. Then, I pretended to be shifting gears as I drove my van. Every time I stopped. What a pain. "Why would anyone go back to using a wringer washing machine?" I asked my husband. "Our technology is beyond this."
"You have more control with a stick shift," he said, wisely. I soon found, to my great irritation, that everyone said that. Control of what? Not my emotions. I'd never lacked control of a car I was driving. In the absence of black ice, that is.
Then, I sat in his car in the driveway and got familiar with the pedals, switches, and gears. That was enough for the first session--I had to do Lamaze breathing to keep from panicking even though I didn't turn the car on. I'd tried, but it didn't work. I'd been out there about ten minutes when I amused my husband by calling on the cell phone to ask him, "How do you turn the car on?" He told me the clutch had to be all the way down. The clutch. Of course. The mysterious clutch.
The next time, I backed out of the driveway and made it all the way to the middle of the street before I had to be rescued. A few days later, I was driving through the church parking lot and the one across the street. I became an expert on first to second. I wasn't going fast enough to deal with third yet.
A sympathetic friend drove me to work for three or four weeks. She had no intention of ever learning to drive a stick shift, either, and could understand. Finally, though, I had to bite the bullet. It occurred to me that stopping and starting for 16 lights on the way to work wasn't that much more than a good practice. It's only 15 minutes of hell, I told myself. That became a good chant to get me through it. Sports experts tell you to pick a mantra.
I killed the engine only five times on that first run to work, and ground the gears once. Pretty good, I thought. I needed a shower and it took my hands a half hour to stop trembling, but I'd done it.
The first month, I had a lot of tricky moments. My main goal was to hit the lights green, so, to time that right, I was often either doing 90 or 5 mph. I stalled on the big hill on the way home from work a few times. People would pass me; some would honk. I knew that they were looking in the window at me, wondering why a woman my age couldn't drive her car. I was old enough to be the mother of some of them. I know, I know, I thought, but I'm just learning. Give me a break.
I also learned an important life lesson. You never know what's going to happen until you get there. You could be heading for a red light sure as anything, and it could change in the nick of time. So there is no point in panicking about what might happen. It also might not.
I still prefer to drive an automatic, but I did what I had to do. I did it! And learning a new life skill in your forties is something to be proud of. It gives you more control.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Comeback Wit Disorder
I have a problem. All my life, I have suffered from not-quick-enough-comeback wit. See? I can't even coin a decent phrase for it off the top of my head.
You know how when someone says something unexpected--especially if it's offensive--you just cannot think of the right comeback? Until you're driving away, or at 2:00 in the morning. Then, when it's too late, I am a genius.
The other day, I went into a gas station to put a few dollars of gas into the tank so I could make it to a doctor's appointment without getting stranded. I knew my husband would fill up the tank at our favorite cheap place later in the day. I would have gotten a few bucks' worth, but the cashier attacked me as she saw me approach. "Is that a personal check?" You would think I had had it personalized with pictures of cooties. "We don't take personal checks," she smirked.
"Then give me two dollars' worth of gas," I said, laying a $20 on the counter.
"You have a nice DAY!" she screamed at me. (Apparently, she has the same disorder.)
I remained silent.
"You have a nice DAY," she said again, slamming the cash register door and throwing my change onto the counter. And again as I turned away, "You have a nice day!"
Long story short, we've got to get a better gas-trip schedule. I found myself in the same position a week later--needing to get a bit of gas in order to make it home from work. I stopped at the corner market next to my office. The cashier said, "You just gave me a check for ten dollars," as though that was the most foolish thing anyone had ever done.
My mind whirled. Yes, he was standing behind the counter at a store that sells gasoline. Yes, he should be representing that store and thereby authorized to take my check and provide gas in return.
"I can't read your mind," he continued.
"Oh," I said. "Sorry. It's for gas."
Enough gas stories. Recently, at the gym, a woman I'd just met told me as I dried my hair that she had gotten "smart" and figured out to wash her hair the night before. Then, in the morning, she could just put on a shower cap and not have to bother washing her hair at the gym before work.
"I get too sweaty," I said.
"I guess I just don't sweat much," she said, glibly. Two slams ought to have been enough to get my brain into gear, but, as usual, the moment passed before I thought of the right thing to say.
So, to the first cashier--"I'm certainly not going to let you ruin it."
To the second cashier--"The check did say, 'Gas' on the 'For' line."
To the girl at the gym, "You would if you burned 900 calories."
There. I feel much better.
Whew. I need better writers.
You know how when someone says something unexpected--especially if it's offensive--you just cannot think of the right comeback? Until you're driving away, or at 2:00 in the morning. Then, when it's too late, I am a genius.
The other day, I went into a gas station to put a few dollars of gas into the tank so I could make it to a doctor's appointment without getting stranded. I knew my husband would fill up the tank at our favorite cheap place later in the day. I would have gotten a few bucks' worth, but the cashier attacked me as she saw me approach. "Is that a personal check?" You would think I had had it personalized with pictures of cooties. "We don't take personal checks," she smirked.
"Then give me two dollars' worth of gas," I said, laying a $20 on the counter.
"You have a nice DAY!" she screamed at me. (Apparently, she has the same disorder.)
I remained silent.
"You have a nice DAY," she said again, slamming the cash register door and throwing my change onto the counter. And again as I turned away, "You have a nice day!"
Long story short, we've got to get a better gas-trip schedule. I found myself in the same position a week later--needing to get a bit of gas in order to make it home from work. I stopped at the corner market next to my office. The cashier said, "You just gave me a check for ten dollars," as though that was the most foolish thing anyone had ever done.
My mind whirled. Yes, he was standing behind the counter at a store that sells gasoline. Yes, he should be representing that store and thereby authorized to take my check and provide gas in return.
"I can't read your mind," he continued.
"Oh," I said. "Sorry. It's for gas."
Enough gas stories. Recently, at the gym, a woman I'd just met told me as I dried my hair that she had gotten "smart" and figured out to wash her hair the night before. Then, in the morning, she could just put on a shower cap and not have to bother washing her hair at the gym before work.
"I get too sweaty," I said.
"I guess I just don't sweat much," she said, glibly. Two slams ought to have been enough to get my brain into gear, but, as usual, the moment passed before I thought of the right thing to say.
So, to the first cashier--"I'm certainly not going to let you ruin it."
To the second cashier--"The check did say, 'Gas' on the 'For' line."
To the girl at the gym, "You would if you burned 900 calories."
There. I feel much better.
Whew. I need better writers.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Cooking Is Love
This time, it started when my husband pulled sausage patties out of the freezer. Okay. Fry up a little sausage, scramble some eggs. That's not too bad. Twelve minutes, right? I went to read the Sunday paper, then took a shower.
An hour later, the remains of two dozen oranges were in the sink. Juice glasses had been located from some archived cupboard, rinsed, and set on the table. Peppers, ham, and onions had been diced and sauteed and were awaiting their next assignment. The sausage patties were keeping up their tans in the oven. No egg had yet been cracked. My husband was busy--focused. He's a great cook, but sometimes I want him for something else.
Nevertheless, it is sick and wrong to be mad at a husband for cooking too much. I know that. I haven't checked with Miss Manners, but it is probably also rude. So, I tried a light touch. "You just want to make sure we have one good meal this week, right?" I asked. I could say this because he was catching a plane, right after church, for a week-long business trip.
I was also poking fun at my own cooking, which never seemed necessary until I found out why he turned up his nose at my white-rice-and-meat-sauce-made-with-canned-soup dinners.
Paul knows every herb and all their family members. He tosses cinnamon into Mexican food and adorns perfectly good casseroles with things with shells and legs. And all one-hundred-percent correctly. When Paul says, "Dinner's ready--I just have to do vegetables," it does NOT mean we will be eating in five minutes. Paul cooks vegetables I never realized weren't weeds. There has to be at least one cruciferous and one deeply-colored at every meal. If we're eating frozen peas or beans, you can be sure they were just an afterthought, added because it seemed something green was still needed.
And no vegetable comes without a sauce, complement, seasoning, or twist. Or combination of the above. No meat is ever just browned with salt and pepper. No pan is left behind. Every meal has several dishes. Every dish has several ingredients. Every ingredient has been through several processes. Kits, cats, sacks, and wives--how long until we eat?
Many meals are served after the children are weeping or sleeping. When one of my birthday dinners was ready, Paul had to come into the bedroom and wake me up for it. He seldom repeats a meal unless I specifically mention I like it. The man hungers for variety. If he cooked chicken using seven steps and ten ingredients, he will be sure to use eight different steps and twelve new ingredients next time. Frequently, I beg him: let's do something simple. He nods, then proceeds with pumpkin soup with chilled, marinated, seasoned pears, anyway. And that's just the appetizer.
I can tell that the food he cooks tastes better than most food. He can chop spinach so small we don't recognize it in the creamy bacon-flavored dish he serves. Frankly, though, I don't fret when the butter didn't brown exactly right. Paul's taste buds, I believe, have their own little taste buds.
To be fair, I benefit. When I wanted to try a diet that forbade most of the things I commonly ate--such as potatoes, corn, carrots, and sugar, Paul found five hundred ways to cook the items left ON the list to cut down on the boredom. I like chocolate? My birthday cake is made with the most expensive, richest chocolate available, and not from any store I ever heard of. I like pepper? Pepper steak with the biggest chunks of pepper and salt I ever saw, like pepper and salt ore. My mom makes the world's best pies? He learns to replicate her crust. Whole grains are better for us? Soon, he is making our own more nutritious pasta.
So I made my little, rather clever comment, and he turned to me. His half-smile meant I wasn't exactly right, and he actually had been aware of my presence in the house the whole time. Then I got it. What he had carried out--and always extends as far as he can--his cooking--is his supreme act of love.
An hour later, the remains of two dozen oranges were in the sink. Juice glasses had been located from some archived cupboard, rinsed, and set on the table. Peppers, ham, and onions had been diced and sauteed and were awaiting their next assignment. The sausage patties were keeping up their tans in the oven. No egg had yet been cracked. My husband was busy--focused. He's a great cook, but sometimes I want him for something else.
Nevertheless, it is sick and wrong to be mad at a husband for cooking too much. I know that. I haven't checked with Miss Manners, but it is probably also rude. So, I tried a light touch. "You just want to make sure we have one good meal this week, right?" I asked. I could say this because he was catching a plane, right after church, for a week-long business trip.
I was also poking fun at my own cooking, which never seemed necessary until I found out why he turned up his nose at my white-rice-and-meat-sauce-made-with-canned-soup dinners.
Paul knows every herb and all their family members. He tosses cinnamon into Mexican food and adorns perfectly good casseroles with things with shells and legs. And all one-hundred-percent correctly. When Paul says, "Dinner's ready--I just have to do vegetables," it does NOT mean we will be eating in five minutes. Paul cooks vegetables I never realized weren't weeds. There has to be at least one cruciferous and one deeply-colored at every meal. If we're eating frozen peas or beans, you can be sure they were just an afterthought, added because it seemed something green was still needed.
And no vegetable comes without a sauce, complement, seasoning, or twist. Or combination of the above. No meat is ever just browned with salt and pepper. No pan is left behind. Every meal has several dishes. Every dish has several ingredients. Every ingredient has been through several processes. Kits, cats, sacks, and wives--how long until we eat?
Many meals are served after the children are weeping or sleeping. When one of my birthday dinners was ready, Paul had to come into the bedroom and wake me up for it. He seldom repeats a meal unless I specifically mention I like it. The man hungers for variety. If he cooked chicken using seven steps and ten ingredients, he will be sure to use eight different steps and twelve new ingredients next time. Frequently, I beg him: let's do something simple. He nods, then proceeds with pumpkin soup with chilled, marinated, seasoned pears, anyway. And that's just the appetizer.
I can tell that the food he cooks tastes better than most food. He can chop spinach so small we don't recognize it in the creamy bacon-flavored dish he serves. Frankly, though, I don't fret when the butter didn't brown exactly right. Paul's taste buds, I believe, have their own little taste buds.
To be fair, I benefit. When I wanted to try a diet that forbade most of the things I commonly ate--such as potatoes, corn, carrots, and sugar, Paul found five hundred ways to cook the items left ON the list to cut down on the boredom. I like chocolate? My birthday cake is made with the most expensive, richest chocolate available, and not from any store I ever heard of. I like pepper? Pepper steak with the biggest chunks of pepper and salt I ever saw, like pepper and salt ore. My mom makes the world's best pies? He learns to replicate her crust. Whole grains are better for us? Soon, he is making our own more nutritious pasta.
So I made my little, rather clever comment, and he turned to me. His half-smile meant I wasn't exactly right, and he actually had been aware of my presence in the house the whole time. Then I got it. What he had carried out--and always extends as far as he can--his cooking--is his supreme act of love.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
My Opinion as a Nobody
It seems that in order for a woman to get a column in a Salt Lake paper, it helps to have a famous male relative. I won't name names, but think about it. I could be wrong, but. . .evidence supports my theory. As I regularly have something to say, I've hoped to get a column. I do actually have a well-known male relative, but I have been holding out, thinking that the two things can be mutually exclusive. Call me an idealist.
But the realist in me says to start a blog. My male relatives, while thoroughly decent, likeable guys, are not sports heroes and such. I really like reading most of the published columnists, though one, in particular, seems not to have much to say other than to brag about her Famous Male Relative. I've published a few things, but have fallen short of my goal. I'm not a doctor or other kind of certified specialist. No one is officially seeking me out for my expertise. I am just a woman with some thoughts of her own and a frequently-tickled funny bone. I feel good about my qualifications, but, basically, I'm a nobody. And that suits me fine.
If the thoughts and opinions of someone who is a nobody suit you fine, too, read on.
But the realist in me says to start a blog. My male relatives, while thoroughly decent, likeable guys, are not sports heroes and such. I really like reading most of the published columnists, though one, in particular, seems not to have much to say other than to brag about her Famous Male Relative. I've published a few things, but have fallen short of my goal. I'm not a doctor or other kind of certified specialist. No one is officially seeking me out for my expertise. I am just a woman with some thoughts of her own and a frequently-tickled funny bone. I feel good about my qualifications, but, basically, I'm a nobody. And that suits me fine.
If the thoughts and opinions of someone who is a nobody suit you fine, too, read on.
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