Driving in Reverse

I won’t tell you how old I am but let me just say this: back in my kidhood days, there were no SUVs. There were these things called station wagons: they had a front seat, a back seat and the “way back”, which is where you put your groceries, luggage, coolers and whatnot. There were also pop up/uncomfortable seats that could seat two young children if your mom was doing carpool duty which also is where you sat when you and your sibling were bickering to the point where your mother’s threats of, “I’m going to pull this car over!!!” were no longer effective.

So, while the car was in motion, you or your sibling was ordered to crawl over the back into the way back so you didn’t cause your mother to, “run away as soon as we get home!”, which is frankly not the sort of guilt you want hanging over your head the rest of your life.

While the wagon was chugging along, you would have to scale the back seat (and you always bumped your head in the mad dash to the way back) and you were left, banished to think about your behavior (plot revenge, more like), until you got home. No a/c or heat vents, so you either roasted as if on the face of the sun or froze as if in the Antarctic and it’s frankly surprising more adults of a certain age don’t have long term side effects from suffering mild heat exhaustion or frostbite in their formative years as a direct result of “station wagon time out”.

We had a station wagon. Yellow, with wood paneling. It had brown leather-like seats with banana colored accents. Foxy!

My mom picked us up from school just like usual. My mom had zero issues dropping us off for school in a VERY attractive brown and yellow velour caftan like job (with a hood, she looked a tall 70s gnome) but always picked us up looking fabulous. I recall clearly the outfit she was wearing on this particular day: red dress (fitted with a strange yet cool appliqué on the top) and red espadrilles, courtesy of Anne Klein.

My brother was 6, so that would make me 9. We were on our way home. I do not know what had happened, but evidently it had not been a good day at home. We were in the middle back, where good children were allowed to sit. All was quiet. I asked my mom what was for dinner and she said, “meat loaf”. I will straight up tell you that as an adult, I am willing to beg desperately for just two bites of my mom’s meat loaf. It is delicious.

As a rude child, I did not appreciate it. So when she said, “meat loaf”, I groaned. Not overtly rude but audible enough that her mom ears heard it and it did NOT sit well with her. In one moment of perfect universal synchronicity, she looked over her shoulder at me, gave me “the look”, looked back at the road, said, “I cook for you people EVERY day!”, with her hand slamming onto the steering wheel in perfect time with the EVERY and also punching her espadrilled foot on the gas pedal. Marsha punched it!!

For a moment, the car was as usual. Time stood still. Lives hung in the balance. I immediately regretted my groan of mistreatment; the rudeness of being subjected to a home cooked meal.

Then the wagon leapt forward and some sort of G force knocked my brother and I flat against the seats. The road we were on was fairly long and for 45 seconds, the wagon was screaming, surely taking us to our deaths (and no dinner!). When we got to the light, the brakes screeched us to a safe halt and the three of us rode home in an uncomfortable silence – my brother, myself (remorseful) and my mom, silently giving me a piece of her mind. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to; mom thoughts can penetrate your brain without a word being said.

We arrived home and my brother escaped. My mom and I had a talk; she had cooled off to the point that it ended up being a quick rundown on manners and also a reminder that I was free to take over the responsibility of cooking dinner (something I am still unable to do; feel free to drop by if you’d like some Bagel Bites). I never asked what was for dinner again unless I was prepared to be enthusiastic about it.

Moral of this story: if someone is nice enough to cook you dinner, keep your groans to yourself unless it is yellow summer squash, in which case, you are allowed one gagging sound only, regardless of your age.

This is hard for me to admit and I hope it doesn’t make people uncomfortable…
But I HATE Saran Wrap.
In my whole life of using Saran Wrap, I have:

– never successfully torn off the correct amount

– never successfully managed to keep it from clinging it to itself, rendering it into a small and unhelpful scrap

– never NOT ended up cutting myself with that dreadful serrated edge

– never once not used every bad word I know and some I didn’t know I knew.

There have been so many instances of the roll escaping the box and then unrolling itself slowly across my kitchen floor. One time, I was running late for work.I was out of ziplocks and had to resort to Saran Wrap. I yanked it in a rage, cut my finger then watched it unroll itself across the floor. I just sat down on the floor and cried. When I did get to work (with my sandwich wrapped in a paper towel) I had to tell people my allergies were acting up because I was pink and sniffly. It was a bad day.

I know plenty of you calm and efficient types who can use Saran Wrap with the greatest of ease. You don’t even think about it as you quickly and securely wrap something the size of a guitar. You probably chat with others as you do it. I see you.

I have one box of Saran Wrap. It has to be 15 years old, possibly older; it may even date back to the late 90’s. I can’t get rid of it; we’re locked into a battle that I will never win.

I have a firm policy that if I drop three or more things while showering, it’s going to be a rotten day. I mean it; 3 strikes and my day is OUT.

I know it seems like an easy thing to avoid ( like keep only 3 or 4 things in the shower; so sensible) but I like a well stocked shower on the off chance I’m going to use that mango/mandarin sugar scrub I received as a gift 2 years ago but have never used or the oil of something or other that I used once that made the shower so slippery and slick that getting out of the shower alive was an absolute miracle; it was like naked ice capades and I had to lay on the bed and calm down a while afterward. I can start my morning in a very chirpy mood but dropping three things will unchirp me in no time flat.

It almost always starts with the shower pouf. That gets my attention but I am an optimist and press on. Whatever item #2 is puts me on alert and I am verrry careful after item 2 because honestly, who wants a rotten day? When item 3 gets knocked over or slips out of my hand, something in my brain breaks. I’m not above canceling plans after a 3 item shower event. I’m not proud of it but honestly you don’t want to be around me because I will be super testy and might even start an argument with you.

At one point in my life, I had one of those over the shower head organizers with all my supplies neatly stashed. I knocked it with my elbow and the whole thing fell off and suddenly it was a 14 item day. I rinsed off in a fury and spent the day in a terry cloth robe, sulking and thinking rude thoughts about everyone I knew and eating pretzels.

Around 7 or 8, I lived in the school library. I wasn’t picky; any book was fair game. One day I was skimming the Guinness Book of World Records. After recovering from the picture of the man with the world’s longest fingernails (a frankly horrifying sight), I came across a little blurb: the time and date of the world record for driving in reverse. As it happened, it was the exact date and time of my birth. I thought it was interesting and tucked it away in the part of your brain that will forget your address but cling relentlessly to these sorts of “useless facts”. Driving in reverse sums up my life perfectly; I get where I need to go but never in the usual way.

Before I even get started, you need to know that I am a pen thief…

If you talk to me for more than 2 minutes, you’ll know I have a thing for Sharpies. It’s more than a thing: basically an obsession. I need all the sharpies and I store them, sorted by color (top down or they dry up, that’s a free tip) in coffee mugs.

When I was teaching, there was a well stocked teacher resource room. In that resource room, there was a plastic storage container labeled “Sharpies”. Every morning, I would dip into the drawer and snag one Sharpie, no matter how many Sharpies were already in my classroom, no matter how robust my existing supply was.

One morning, I checked the drawer as usual. To my complete delight, there was an entire set of COLORED SHARPIES, including the ever elusive hot pink Sharpie.

Unfortunately, I was alone in the resource room. Something came over me and that something was greed. I grabbed a brown paper lunch bag (they’re in every teacher resource room; just ask any teacher, in fact ask one right now), collected all the colored Sharpies (even the useless yellow one), stuffed them in the lunch sack, rolled the sack and then shoved it UNDER MY SWEATER and stored it in the general area of my appendix. Then, while clutching my contraband, I walked briskly back to my classroom and shoved the bag into the dark recess of my teacher cabinet. The day started as usual.

But that day was not at all usual. In the back of my mind a seed of guilt germinated and by 10:30, that little seed was an enormous spider plant (only poisonous). I was supposed to be teaching young children the importance of sharing, doing the right thing, making good choices. But lo, their teacher was a hypocrite, a Sharpie criminal. All I could think about was the crumpled bag of deceit, the poor children who were being taught by an office supply robber.

By nap time, I couldn’t take it any longer. While my teaching partner was heating her lunch, I grabbed the bag, secured it back to my appendix region and waited. When she came back, I told her I had to make copies or something and set out on my quest to return the goods. With my hand over my sweater (to avoid the telltale crinkle of the paper bag), I did my perp walk back to the resource room, sweating nervously the entire way. I felt chased, hunted. Two teachers asked me if I had an upset stomach due to the very obvious clutching. I don’t know what I told them but I promise it didn’t make any sense.

Of course the resource room was packed with teachers, all doing legitimate teacher things, unlike me, a criminal in their midst, a wolf among sheep, a phony. I made idle chit chat, did some fake teacher work, laminated a scrap of useless paper. Finally the coast was clear. When I grabbed the bag, it had changed from the color of a lunch bag to the color of dark, brown, wet leaves and it was damp. I replaced all the Sharpies and fled the scene of the crime.

For two weeks, I kept myself on strict Sharpie restriction. I didn’t even glance at the Sharpie drawer (but I wanted to!). After my self-inflicted penalty, I ordered my own personal set of colored Sharpies, courtesy of Amazon.