A drive to remember – or help me remember

Printed in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Feb. 3, 2012

 Just as we finished our Thai eggplant lunch in Charlottesville, I spotted the driver whose car I had bumped while attempting to parallel park. I had had a glimmer of hope when I had read the bumper stickers on that car. I believed that the driver was a loving and forgiving being whose single greatest concern was the sanctity of life, not a minor black smear from my rear bumper.


This is why I go bumper sticker-less. I would prefer that your impression of me come directly from me, not from signage on my clothing or my car. Sometimes, people with the saintliest bumper stickers drive like hounds of hell. I wonder whether the car has been stolen or if the fanatical driver has forgotten what he or she was hoping to advertise while cutting you off.


This is like the introduction some men believe to be flattering to their mates. “And here is my beautiful wife.” Gentlemen, if your wife is good looking, others will probably notice without your announcement, unless it is for the Society for the Visually Impaired. And if she is beautiful to you because she is a loving person, we will notice that too, eventually. But we will notice.


I told the man that I had “tapped” his car. He scrunched up his face and scrutinized the front of his car and the back of mine. Too bad I didn’t have any bumper stickers.


“Look!” I cheerfully pointed to the neon green sticky note I had left on his driver’s side window. I wanted to show that even though I was a clumsy driver, I wasn’t a criminal. I omitted to mention my mental debate over leaving any note and my “military escort” (as well as military witnesses) who had helped me maneuver into the space.


I held my guilty, eggplant-laden, breath and sighed with relief after passing this driver’s inspection.


In my daughter’s dorm room, I latched on to her laptop to get online and fire off “meaningful responses” to nine of my peers’ papers for my education class. Having defeated that deadline, I rushed back to Warrenton to meet my youngest children’s bus.


The brakes kept making odd sucking actions whenever I stopped. At the stoplight I tried the old trick of parking the car, reapplying and releasing the emergency brake. Later, I pulled off and tried reversing the car as well. My approach to car maintenance is entirely medieval. If a series of steps has worked in the past, I religiously perform the ritual. No matter that the emergency brake wasn’t “stuck” this time. The car was acting weird, so I could too.


Finally, a flash of brilliance: Why didn’t I call my husband? This is specialization at its best. He took a quick history. When had I first noticed a problem? Did anything remarkable occur on the drive down?


“Oh, yeah…” my brain released its brake and shifted into gear. “Come to think of it…” I had stopped short on the way down. The anti-lock brake system had pulsed into action. I had been distracted, but not, as you might think, by my phone. I was pointing out an adult-sized motorized tricycle on a side road and failed to keep my eyes on the bumper in front of me. Truthfully, I do some stupid things while driving. If I could restrict the stupidity to behind the wheel, life would be simpler. It might be shorter too, but definitely simpler.


We ruled out everything else. My husband reminded me that the car had occasionally behaved this way once the ABS had been engaged. (Not that this happens every day, okay? That’s why I couldn’t remember this behavior.) I am in danger of incriminating myself in writing and receiving a home visit by an officer with a citation.


I got home just in time to attend to the children. My teenaged boys had already met the two youngest off the bus. I only had a few minutes at home before I needed to get to the meeting that I really wanted to attend that evening.


Once again, my husband suggested that I forgo this voluntary meeting. (I had neglected to mention the parking lot incident to him, of course.) I had promised to take a friend, I reminded him, and that was important. The kids and he could scavenge something for supper, right? Was the sum and significance of my existence to provide timely meals?


“Well,” my husband, who is more gracious than I am when faced with defeat, suggested, “why don’t you drive my car since yours has been acting up?”


Had I known then that I was infected with the Modified Midas Touch for Vehicles, the one that says you will regret whatever steering wheel you touch, I would have listened to reason, my conscience, or possibly even my husband. I should have stayed home.

But some mistakes you have to make for yourself. It’s just getting others to pay for them that is the tricky part.

How indecision and eggplant conspired against me

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Jan. 20, 2012


My second daughter, who has been vegetarian for the past few years, is very fond of the spicy eggplant dish at a Thai restaurant near her campus. Sorry. She’s at UVA, so I’m not allowed to say “campus.” It’s called “The Grounds.” I have joked that her dorm room, as labeled on the GPS, should be renamed “Spicy Eggplant.”


I had just dropped her off from Fall Break and had a busy day planned: I was backlogged on homework, and had a meeting to attend later that evening.


We unloaded her things, and the clock and our stomachs announced lunchtime. The dining hall was open. She could have her lunch there, and I would head back on the ninety-minute drive back to Warrenton. The dining halls there have a few, well-rehearsed and often repeated, options for vegetarians. (Just like home, actually!)


I hesitated to abandon her to a solo lunch. Sensing my weakness, she immediately suggested we split a dish of spicy eggplant. With an extra bowl of rice, there would be plenty and it would cost no more than fast food.


I contemplated the eggplant. Should I spend extra time in Charlottesville and another ten dollars when neither was in the plan?


Indecision – it has been a lifelong struggle. Well, that and procrastination would be my two biggest struggles. And disorganization. Don’t forget that one. Don’t ask me to choose the one that is my flagrant flaw, because indecision will get in the way.


My husband is the opposite: He can make up his mind in two seconds, and then he swiftly falls into action to “execute the plan.” I waffle. I consider the options. What if this and what if that? I spend so much time trying to make a decision that there is little time left to carry it out. At that point, I feel more like executing myself than the plan. And then I’m still not sure I might have chosen the right path.


If I had been Roberta Frost, I might have made this into a lovely poem: “The Eggplant Not Eaten.” But alas, there I stood, unable to make a quick decision and say with enthusiasm, “What a great idea! Sure, let’s go get lunch, and then I’ll be on my way.” Nor could I make a clean and guiltless get-away, giving a quick hug and driving off. Whichever I did, I would be full of self-doubt. At least that comes easily to me.


She would be eating dining hall food all semester, could it be so awful that she couldn’t go ahead and have it for lunch today too? I had granola bars to crunch on the way home. This involved no extra time or expense.


On the other hand, she would be eating dining hall food all semester anyway. What was the harm in the spicy eggplant today? Wasn’t this yet another opportunity to “create a memory”? What sort of memory would I create by rushing off? “Mom is a cheapskate. Mom is too busy with this class and her meetings.” And didn’t the granola bars have enough preservatives that they could keep for this time next year, if needed?


I looked over at her hopeful eyes. Unfortunately, all of my children have these eyes that can make you do things against your better judgment. No matter what I did, I knew I would be making the wrong choice.


We drove to the nearby shopping area. I don’t know what it is about traveling to a college campus or college “grounds,” but they always seem to be under construction. I maneuvered into the packed parking lot. Cars darted into parking spaces that I was sure I had noticed first.


Driving under the influence of the clock can bring out the evil in most drivers. Sometimes it can also bring out epithets and oaths, as well as impatient hand gestures. For me, it just brought out that familiar feeling of self-doubt. If I were doing the “right thing,” wouldn’t I have been able to glide into a spot? We snaked our way through the busy lot for the second time. Should I just forget this idea and turn back? Or would that show my inability to persevere – another flaw?


I finally found the answer: a parallel parking spot, right in front of the restaurant!


You might think a short woman driving a Suburban would hesitate to parallel park this behemoth. Not me, but only when there are two contiguous spots, so I can just drive in. There was only one spot bounded by compact cars. Squeezing into this parking space should be no more difficult than squeezing into the jeans that used to fit. The only difference between getting these two bodies into their respective restricted spaces is that jeans are somewhat flexible. Parking spaces are not. Also, there is a 1.5-ton difference in our bodies.


It would probably take me fifteen vehicular manipulations. I could barely see the car behind me, as it was low to the ground and very close. Much too close. Stay tuned for the rest of this eggplant excursion.