Life, so fleeting and precious

Yesterday I ventured out for basically the first time since Rackotomy Day, leaving the comfort of my mom’s home to head downtown into the big city for my follow-up appointment with Dr. Neil Fine, Plastic Surgeon to the Stars. And while I figured the day would be fraught with the usual peril that follows me whenever I, say, leave the house, it wasn’t the medical stuff or drains being pulled out or wounds inspected that almost did me in, no sirree. It was being in the same car with my mom – with her doing the driving – for an extended period of time.

There’s a reason I try to avoid letting my mom drive, and that reason is basically this: she’s a terrible driver. Sorry mom, but it’s true. She hits the brakes if there’s even the slightest possibility that someone might freakishly lurch out of a strip mall parking lot. She drives a cautious 38 mph on Lake Shore Drive. She doesn’t understand the basic rule of merging in the city, which is if there’s even the slightest window of opportunity, you take it – and I myself like to give a cheery thank-you wave when I do this – because otherwise you’ll be sitting there long enough to get a parking ticket. She putters along in the center lane on I-90, then wonders why all the “crazy drivers” are zooming past her. Yes mom, they’re crazy, but that’s why you need to get ALL the way to the right and stay there. Any changing of lanes is done with the same amount of thought given to planning the Battle of Waterloo, with numerous over-the-shoulder checks, an even further tightening of hands on the steering wheel, a turn signal for several miles, then finally, the big event, a spastic lane change.

I love my mom dearly, mind you, but driving isn’t one of her core competencies, as we’d say at Wharton.

So naturally, by the time we had gotten about 15 minutes into our drive, I was nauseated from the motion sickness you get with a lot of lurching and touching-of-brakes, and had closed my eyes so that I could just ignore it all. Please, make it stop, let me be at the doctor’s office so I can get drains yanked out, anything but this! And then…..then, we got to the parking garage. Where my mom:

a) Doesn’t pull close enough to the ticket thingie, so she has to unbuckle her seatbelt, open the door, get the ticket, etc.
b) Puts her turn signal on as we’re going around corners. In a parking garage.
c) Drives at about 2 mph.

Finally we get to my usual Barbra Streisand floor, and there are tons of spots. Millions. Enough such that my mom can pull into a spot on the right where there are NO other cars around. So what happens?

Me, looking at how my mom is parking: Mom, what are you doing?
Mom: Did I park okay?
Me: Umm, no, actually, you kind of parked like, well, like a jerk. You’re in the middle of the ocean here, at a weird angle no less.
Mom: Is this better?
Me: No, now you’re at an even weirder angle.

My mom then proceeds to back out, then in, then out, in, all at this weird angle where she’s more perpendicular rather than angled in, and she does this literally about 10 times before I can’t take it anymore.

Me: Mom! Stop! I need to get out – I….I can’t take this anymore.

I get out and watch in amazement as my mom keeps doing this little backing out and in thing, again, about 10 more times, until I escape to the refuge of the Barbra Streisand vestibule. You know things are bad when you’d rather listen to Memories warbled over and over again rather than watch someone try to park.

Finally, my mom makes it to the elevators, and I can only look at her in horror.

Me: Mom, what WAS that?? You had tons of space!
Mom: I wanted to park right!
Me: I….I…..(shaking my head)….I need a drink. 9:45AM isn’t too early for a drink, is it? Corner Bakery, do they sell cocktails?

Next up: seeing Dr. Fine and learning about the wonder of adjustable boobages….