when in rome, drive like the romans

This one is old-school tired sarcastic style. So be sure to wear the proper gloves for handling.

When in Rome, drive like the Romans.

After two hours in the smoking section of the DMV, I was shoved into my dad’s Dodge Spirit with a leprechaun policewoman to endure the on-road test. In lieu of speeding in a school zone, which I think is grounds for pistol whipping in any other state, I received a stern reprimand from my “date”(Irish-faced in the sweltering carheat) and left with state approval to drive on South Carolina roads.

Throughout seven unmemorable years on our highways, my driving skills have become a little more polished. However, I distinctly remember not having to film a remake of Duel on the way to church every Sunday. The same gold-hording gremlin who let me pinch out through the automatic doors of the DMV into the lush meadow of driving freedom, must have let every ballcap behind the wheel of a Dodge Ram pinch through as well, because they’re all two centimeters from my rear bumper now. Every last sweaty, frustrated ballcap. For the last seven years.

First thing I want to know is, why are people in a hurry to get somewhere at 9:00 on a Wednesday night. The speed novelty has to wear off sometime, it did for me in about two weeks. But seriously, I know the lady in the Mazda behind me is just going home to munch on Ginger Snaps and bounce between People magazine, TV, the couch, the phone, the patio, TV, none of these being valid reasons to thread needles through traffic and cause a seven car wreck. Or maybe I’m too judgmental, that could be an issue as well. Nah, it is an issue. She was probably on the way to the hospital to have a second child while her husband was at home bouncing between Ginger Snaps, People Magazine, TV… I digress.

Nonetheless, when I find myself, beyond the fantasy of self-preservation, benevolently driven to protect a Class Z mopedstrider from being rocked by two sunburnt mouth-breathers in pickups, who are hard pressed to go do something unworthy of killing people on the way, I’m reminded of reaping what I sow. The state should shoulder the blame somewhat.

But in those crucial carheat minutes, while the red lady was scribbling on her pad, maybe I should wrenched the checksheet from her hand, ripped it up in her face and screamed “My next seven years aren’t going to be spent sparring for imaginary first place! You can keep your filthy license, Maggie!” Maybe this would have prompted her to quit the force and take that job as a Christian schoolteacher. Her position would have then been filled by a large black man named “Officer Jazz” who would pass only those with Navy Seal perception and reflexes, and threaten everyone else with a public beating.

But I didn’t chime in and my penance is well deserved. But I’ve gotten first place many times, and have the invisible trophy case to boast in.

Author’s Note: As I skim over what I just mindlessly hammered into the computer, I realize that I’ve read similar stuff by Dave Barry and he’s pushing 70 now, I think. Is it still that humorous to mock the happenings of everyday life, to inflate each inconvenience and irony into a tub of whiny verbal goo? And then I’m reminded: a college girl may read this and laugh, so in turn, I guess you could say that’s my giving back to the community for every time I made college girls uncomfortable.

784 laughs needed before I break even.