This is the last in the “Denied Driver’s License/Learning to Drive” series. I hope you’ve been more entertained by it than I was at the time (grumble, grumble – do you ever lose that feeling of being 16 and totally hosebagged by your parents?)

I had to wait until I turned 18 to get my license. And then? There was no Judy (mom) or Rick (dad) to dare say stop. They couldn’t. It was my Iowa-God-Given Right at that point. For some crazy reason, though, I didn’t get my license until the middle of winter. (My birthday’s in July. Shop early, shop often!) Probably because I didn’t have a car, or access to one. But then I found out I could be a student driver, and I would HAVE to have a license to do my independent internship in Des Moines the following semester. Being a student driver meant going to pick up visitors at the airport for my college. It paid pretty well, and it meant you could DRIVE to stores along the way instead of, say, riding your bike. So, I ended up borrowing my friend Jon’s car, and my friend Ellen accompanied me to the testing station (because you had to have a licensed driver with you, in case you FAILED.)
We’d had a small-ish ice storm the night before. Fab-u. We get inside, and there’s a handful of people waiting for the driving test. Some dickwad stands up in front of us all like a drill sergeant and proceeds to shout out the rules and pitfalls of the driving test. “YOU WILL FAIL IF AT ANY TIME – BLAH BLAH BLAH -” but what broke through my fogbank of nervousness was “WE HAVE ICE ON THE ROADS BUT YOU WILL BE TESTED AS THOUGH THE STREETS ARE CLEAR AND IF YOU SLIDE THROUGH AN INTERSECTION THAT WILL CONSTITUTE FAILURE TO HAVE CONTROL OF THE VEHICLE AND YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY FAIL.”
eep! wild eep!
So I get paired up with a pink-cheeked corn-fed tester named Penny. Penny’s wearing a full body snowsuit. We go out to my borrowed car, and I am petrified of everything, it’s not my car, there’s ice everywhere, holy crapcakes batman, this is what I’ve spent years in battle with my parents over, and it could all swirl the drain over a little ice storm.
We commence with the driving test. I kept my hands on the wheel in such a way that my left thumb and index finger constantly formed the letter “L”, so I wouldn’t have a complete break with reality if she told me “turn left” and I errantly turned right. I did slide a little on one hill, and lost some points, but it wasn’t enough for immediate failure, I thought, as we continued driving around town, signalling, turning, doo-de-doo. I was dreading the three-point turn test, or parallel parking, having heard some horror stories from classmates about their experiences. Ten minutes into my driving test, I notice that Penny is shifting about in her seat. Two minutes after that, she says, “That’s enough. Let’s go back to the testing station.” I’m all “holy fuck, I’ve totally failed, that slip through the four-way stop doomed me.” We get back. Get out. She says, “You scored a 97. I took 3 points off for sliding a little at the stop sign. You passed. Take this in and get your picture taken.”
I’m ecstatic! YIPPEE! No parallel parking! And I passed! Awesome! I collect my license and go back to the car, with my friend. I’m chirping and chattering, so very excited. We start to drive back to campus.
Ellen says, “Can you turn the heat down? I’m boilin’ up in here.”

It was like a crack of lightening on my forehead. Move over, Harry Potter. I’d had the heat blasting the entire way over, because it was cold and we’d scraped & it was quite chilly. I was so nervous and worried, I didn’t touch a single thing when we got back in for the test. I thought my own warmth was nerves. Everything fell into logical place. Corn-fed Penny. In her snowsuit. Bright red cheeks. Trickle of sweat when we got out of the car. Cutting the test short. Passing me with flying colors.

BRILLIANT!

I’d baked her into submission.

However, lest you think I am lacking in parallel-parking skills? I can parallel park like a mo-fo. Spots that look like you’d have to pick the car UP and lower it in with a crane? No problem. Might take me a second attempt, but I can get it in. It’s really almost dazzling, if I may be so egotistical. Many a co-worker has emerged from my car, stunned and amazed I fit the car where I did. So. I’m jus’ sayin’. I may hit a lot of potholes (I do live in Missouri) because I’m short and can’t see ’em comin’, but I would relish a parallel parking Olympics. Winter or Summer, baby, I’d bring home the gold.

Yarn porn & seed porn. We’re just that crazy.

And, it doesn’t even arrive discreetly packaged in a brown wrapper.

My Porn 

James’ Porn 

James has pointed out, several times this week, that last year he planted a big ol’ bed of asparagus, FOR ME, and it was the hardest thing he put in the garden, because the holes had to be really deep. (and of course you can’t even get asparagus the first year you plant it.) So despite it not being HIS favorite veggie, he planted me a great big bunch, because he loves me and he loves to garden.

He is also developing an overwhelming obsession with growing giant pumpkins. He is currently germinating seeds from parent pumpkins that weighed 200#-750#. Perhaps we’ll get one big enough to build into a car, and we’ll drive that until it starts to sag on the sides! (How do you get insurance on that vehicle? Collision would be a bitch. “Hi, uh, American Family? I just drove my pumpkin to work and got broadsided by a Ford Festiva, and uh, it’s all in pieces on the road. Can we salvage for pies? Yes, I’ll hold. No, I’m not Cinderella.”)

File this under “Tourism Information.” I’m only going to tell you, Internet World, that if you like strawberry margaritas (frozen) and you have grown used to the idea that they are foo-foo and not terribly strong? Then you need to salsa dance your Sir Mix-A-Lot ass down to Rudy’s Tenampa Taqueria on Westport Road in Kansas City, and get yo’ ass one of their ‘ritas. Because you, my dear internet friend, will re-write your definition of “foo-foo”. And you will eat a lot of chips.

Let’s all sing the Tequila song now, shall we?

da dot dadadada da da.
da dot dadadada da.
da dot dadadada da da.
dadada dadada
TEQUILA!

In honor of Martha Stewart’s release from prison, my friend Cindy & I are going to have “Martharitas” & Mexican food for lunch today.

Raise your glass & toast our domestic diva’s impending freedom!

Yes, she’s a bit wonkers. And no, it’s not realistic, like, how she decorates those damned cookies, or makes an entire Christmas village out of paper, balsa and boar bristles. But seeing those unrealistic things is still part of the fun, and there are some things worth doing/making/baking/crafting.

I will say that even though I think she was persecuted more because she’s a woman, this whole experience has hopefully given her a greater sense of humility and an appreciation for how the “other 92%” live. When I went to see her introduce her new furniture line at NE Furniture Mart last year, I got her “Weddings” book signed, and I put my hand on her shoulder and said, “We’re behind you 100%.” And the look she gave me really showed the person inside, I think she was honestly grateful. She said “Thank you,” and just looked really hard at me, but hard with appreciation. At least that’s how I saw it. Maybe I was just drunk on being in her atmosphere. Drunk on Martharitas!

Today in Kansas City, we will hit close to 70 degrees. This means a gorgeous, warm, Spring-IS-Coming kind of day. Of course we’ll have at least one more grisly cold spell before Spring is really here, and we know that, but it doesn’t stop us from reveling in the warm sunny joy.

The one thing that can stop the joy? Motorcycle cops. I expect them to be out in droves. Whenever the weather gets really, really nice, for the first time? They are everywhere. Hiding behind trees, parked off side streets, wielding their bulky radar guns like Ghostbuster blasters. It’s like Agent Smith in the Matrix, they just keep coming from everywhere. Just the sight of them pisses me off. Yes, yes, I know. Speed limits are there for a reason. BLAH BLAH BLAH. There are never motorcycle cops when some nutjob is barrelling down Ward Parkway at 55 mph, weaving in and out of the lanes, which to me is Behavior Begging For A Ticket. Instead, say you are boxed in and trying to get around some old man who is waiting for God to punch his ticket and bring him Home, and you accellerate to do so, and then HO NO, there’s one of those damned little scooter cops. And you negotiate for a living, so you say, “Is there any way you can work with me on this?” And Vespa Squad Member #814 says, “This is my job. I write tickets.” And you ALMOST say, “Your mother must be SO PROUD” but you don’t, because anyone who has the authority to arrest you cannot be screwed with directly.

Did you think this was hypothetical? Well, it happened to me, several years ago, my SECOND ticket in my LIFE. And I have yet to forgive him. I did get pulled over in Prairie Village last year (again for the speeding thing…..arrrgh) by the most gorgeous cop ever and he was in a CAR and the fact he was so HOT, I could have sucked that ticket up, but nooooo, I only got a warning, my first ever WARNING in my life. And if he’d been on a scooter? He would have been UGLY UGLY UGLY.

Midday Update!
A co-worker sent me this email, she was out this morning & lives in my area:

Jennifer – I just got back in and they are EVERYWHERE! On Wornall they are sitting just South of Loose Park as well as right after the school around 63rd Street. Then, further down, just across the street from the school at 85th.

Y’all been warned. They are EVERYWHERE. And they’re not pretty.

(Thinking to self…. Now, George Michael in a cop uniform on a motorcycle? THAT could convert me. Maybe.)

Actually, because of the big hooters, I’ve gotten “Ma’am” for longer than I should have, in my opinion. People think big boobs & being bigger-sized means you’re old. Whatever. I don’t worry too much about age and all that, but I confess I still don’t always feel like a “grown-up”.

I had one of those “WHOA, NELLY” moments though, two Christmases ago. James’ bratty cousin is one of those boys you just want to whack upside the head. Sometimes, he’s ok. But he has too many other things going on that bring out the whack factor. And there he went, into the kitchen, got the entire HUGE tin of homemade chex mix out (and Gramma D. makes awesome stuff – cheetos and mixed nuts in addition to the standard mix!) and the little fucker starting picking out the cashews.

Just. The. Cashews.
And eating them!

Now, I am not one to do a lot of overt nose-sticking-into in my husband’s family. When you’re an in-law, you always keep one eye on the foul lines, because you don’t want to even get a toe across that line. That’s how I am, you might be different. So I don’t usually get involved with “the kids”. But this blatant selfish nut-snacker hit my last patience button.

“J.R.!” I shouted.

“Wha?” He vacantly looks up for a milisecond and resumes picking out cashews.

When I get really mad, I feel the hair on the back of my head start to stand up and things get kind of white-hot around my eyes. This was happening. I yelled,

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. YOU STOP PICKING OUT THOSE CASHEWS RIGHT THIS SECOND. IT’S RUDE AND YOU ARE GOING TO STOP IT RIGHT NOW.”

And he did.

I was amazed. I commanded authority and obedience like a bona fide grown-up. Whoa. Nelly.

I am listening (with headphones) to “Patience” by George Michael, and I want to be his friend. I have earned ENOUGH faghag points that I should be able to redeem them by now on a really big prize, and I choose you, George Michael.

I mean, think about how fun that would be. I’m just imagining getting all tipsy on mojitos with him, and after he’s had enough to drink, convincing him to put on those really short shorts he always wore in the Wham videos. And the laughing – OH the laughing we would have at those silly old days. And then, I would confess how foolish I was as young girl, believing he could someday love me like that, before my gaydar became more finely-tuned, and how I look back now and wonder, WHY, HOW I never saw it, because it is so crystal clear, but nevermind, even after I knew you were gay, George Michael, you had to go and do that Fast Love video and then you made it into the sacred circle, of gay men I’d actually sleep with just out lust and affection.

Have a seat right over there, next to Ricky Martin.

Did you know that some foods are inherently “girly”? I made James a salad long ago that involved mandarin oranges and he was non-plussed, to say the least. We were only dating at the time, and he was polite about it, but explained that “fruit in salad is more a girl thing.”

Then, tonight, I was sauteeing asparagus with garlic, olive oil & lemon. James stated that it wasn’t his favorite vegetable, as he considers it more a “girl’s vegetable.” WE-HE-ELL. I was not aware there was a machismo/feminine nature in the world of veggies. More asparagus for me! (After all, I am a girl!)

The ultimate in “feminine” consumables came when I brought home a new tea. “Can I have a cup of your new tea?” he asked. It was fancy lookin’. Here’s a picture:

Lavender & Chamomile Tea (in the blue tin) 

He took a couple sips and looked at me. “This is really girly tea. Flowery. I mean, REALLY girly. Like, ULTRA-GAY GIRLY.”

And this is all coming from a man who only drank Zima and Boone’s Farm when we first met. Mmmhmm. MANLY drinks.

Good thing I don’t make a mandarin orange-asparagus salad, he’d probably grow boobs and get mad for no reason halfway through dinner. ;)

I have been informed my secret pal who has MY name does not live in the U.S. Therefore they could have sent me something and it’s just taking a while to get here. My apologies to my new secret pal, who is probably already internet-mail-ordering me some dog poo and crackers to go with my vintage whine.

However, I still stand by my earlier statements regarding how these things can blow. Blow and burn. And at least now everyone knows not to buy me RESIN FIGURINES.