Slowly being Driven Insane or Fear and Loathing in the Car

Learning to drive has been the most difficult task in my life thus far. I am more relieved than proud to say I drove by myself yesterday. It has taken me over four years to get to this point and now that I am here it's sort of anti-climatic. I wrongly assumed I'd get a cash prize or the heavens were going to sing when I finally learned to do something millions of people do everyday. I drove to a grocery store 15 minutes away, one tiny town over, to get bottled green tea (our super-close local store does not sell it). It wasn't the best I have ever driven but I didn't have to pull over and call David to come get me because I was having a breakdown of the nervous kind not automotive. I might have been screaming, "ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod"in my head but when I looked in the mirror I appeared calm. I was calm because I woke up, got in the car and said, "Fuck it, now or never," and I really needed that tea.

It's no secret that I fear and hate driving. I was issued a driver license and the how and why is still a mystery to me. I remember very little about my driving test except for pain, crying and then becoming very ill. This led a friend to comment that I talk about my driving test the way most women describe giving birth.

I hate driving for several reasons, some rational but most of them irrational. The irrational reasons are where my fear comes from. The number one reason: Driving is dangerous. Driving is a series of maneuvers that need to be executed with caution and precision at somewhat high speeds in a heavy machine quickly while the outside world moves around you at various speeds. Driving is like running with scissors. But even with scissors you get a safety pair in Kindergarten first. You learn how to use the tool properly long before you'll ever be given the "teacher's scissors" - those shiny blades with the cracked black handles. There is no "safety scissor" equivalent with cars and driving. Even in a car issued by a driving school with dual controls and a teacher the potential to have an accident is present. Accidents can be deadly and costly. Why would I want to put myself under that type of strain everyday? So I never did. I opted to be driven around by patient and kind friends and family or just walk whenever I could.


After I moved I no longer had those options. I spent a year watching the world from a window. There was hardly any place worth walking to and the weather was sometimes too bad to walk in. I relied solely on David to drive me around on the weekends. The time had come for me to learn to drive. Seriously learn. No crying and no false start, except that I cried a lot, much to David's annoyance. I had to face the fear of failure and accidents. I pushed myself from the nest and forced myself to fly. And every time I backed away from the car shaking, refusing to get behind the wheel, David pushed. We worked on driving until we got to this point: where I can drive by myself. Now, I don't drive very well. My turns are hesitant and shaky. I have trouble with going in reverse and thus parking. I still have a long way to go, but it's a start.


My other problem is with everyone else, other drivers. I don't like them because they make me nervous. Since I'm an unskilled driver I tend to drive the speed limit and brake sooner than necessary as precautions. Combine that with being in a new area and not always sure where I am going and that just angers other drivers. They swerve around me and honk. I can see them in the rear view mirror screaming at me. David tells me to not worry about them just worry about me. I wish I could just worry about me but driving means paying attention to yourself and the other drivers. What David really means is don't worry about what other people are feeling worry about how they are driving. This is a fixable problem. I just have to teach myself to be unapologetic about my driving.

This is difficult because four years spent in retail has beaten some of the apathy (not all) out of me. I wasn't always the nicest sales person but I had moments and now those moments and the training have messed with my head. I'm constantly wondering if the humans around me are happy and taken care of even if they aren't central to my being. If you talk to my parents they would say that wasn't the way I was raised. They raised me to worry about me and my well-being. But eighteen years of parenting can be undone in four years if there are screams, threats and a paycheck attached.

Another solution I considered was putting a sign in my rear window that said something like "New Driver". Hoping that people would see the sign and back off, slow down or just stop screaming at me. Everyone is so concerned with where they need to go and what they need to do that they forgot that there might be some drivers that aren't very skilled. In short, most drivers just need to chill the fuck out. It's not a race. I think the DMV should offer a "New Driver" license plate to any new driver for 1-3 years. That will never happen though because no driver wants to be outed as "new" or "unskilled". It's much easier for everyone to go around pretending they are good drivers than admitting that they are mistake-making humans. People will admit to being lousy cooks or not having rhythm before they admit to being a "bad" driver. Me? I don't care. I'm telling the world right now, "I am a bad driver. I'm not reckless, I just don't know what the hell I'm doing half the time."

Most drivers, at any skill level, don't like certain aspects of driving. Three-point turns, parallel parking, free-way driving, mountain roads or bridges are a few. Maybe because they aren't good at them, never really learned how, or are scared so they avoid those things. With the exception of going straight and sitting in the car there is no aspect of driving I am good at. Have I made that abundantly clear yet? From almost backing into our house to mixing up the gas and brake my driving just screams "accident waiting to happen". So I'll see you on the road, folks! I'll be the girl swigging green tea and driving the speed limit!

When in Rome

Yesterday I did something extremely stupid. Quite possibly even more stupid than getting on an Ohio-bound plane with no one but David over a year ago. I got on the back of a motorcycle without a helmet. I know! I know! I don't plan on ever doing it again so you can breathe now Mom and Dad and assorted friends and family who just read that.

So I was sitting in my lakeside cottage poking around the Internet, avoiding the sink of dishes, when I heard the unmistakable roar of bike engines in the driveway. "$#@$*%," I thought, "that's Jim and Rhonda. The house is a mess and more cussing!" Looking out the window, I see Rhonda on the sidewalk and Jim in the driveway. I greet them in the front yard and Rhonda says, "Get some shoes on! We're kidnapping you!" "I haven't brushed my teeth," I squeal. Jim says, "Well brush 'em, kiddo! Do you have some sunglasses? We're going for a ride down to the AMVETS for a burger". (So if you're keeping track Jim is a bike-riding, board-gaming veteran. I don't get it either.) I say, "Of course I have sunglasses. You don't have a helmet though? David would kill me if he found out I rode without one." Jim rides without one because there are no helmet laws in Ohio, a fact that David and I never cease to comment on when we see people on bikes not only without helmets but also no shirts, no shoes, no sleeves.

"Are these people crazy?" we ask. You can be the safest rider in the world but nothing is going to stop a deer from jumping in front of you or a driver pulling out into traffic and right into you. "These people are out of their minds and they certainly will be when they are lying on the pavement under a coroner's sheet," we "tsk-tsk", "What kind of person gets on a bike without a helmet?"

And then here I am minutes away from doing just that. Retreating into the house to brush my teeth and get shoes so the pipes of Jim's bike don't burn my feet. He'll let me on the back of his bike without a helmet but not without shoes and jeans that's where he draws the line. As I am shuffling around I hear the bikes start up and leave. I peek out the window and see that Rhonda's red bike is gone. "Phew," I think, "dodged a bullet there. They were playing a joke on me." I start to wash the dishes and then hear Jim's voice, "Hey are you coming or not? It's roasting out here!" I tell him I thought they were joking with me and he says, "No, why would we do that?" As if any of us know why Jim does what he does. Rhonda had ridden over to the store to pick up some groceries. That was the bike I heard leaving.

At this point I'm like, "When in Ohio ride without a helmet like the Ohioans do. Jim, you have to call David if I fall off and die. How do I get on this thing?" Turns out it's just like getting on a horse. Step on and up and then swing. We meet Rhonda at the store then on down the road for a burger. I was on the bike ten minutes round-trip down the highway against Lake Erie. I didn't die, or flail causing Jim to have an accident and was rewarded with a burger topped with provolone. It was pretty cool and less scary then I thought. Of course, it was just a quick uneventful ride so if something had spooked me I probably wouldn't be writing that.

Then we rode home and I waited for David to get home so I could say, "You'll never guess what I did today."

"Filed your paperwork with mine in our new file cabinet?"
"Nope."
"Became gainfully employed?"
"Nope."
"Drove a car by yourself?"
"Nope. You'll never guess."

He never did guess so I told him and he shook his head,"No way, well right on I suppose." The scariest thing about the whole situation is that if I can get on the back of a bike without a helmet and put my life in a fearless veteran's gloved hands. I should be able to do anything. I should be able to drive a car knowing I used up one of my nine lives and have at least eight to spare.

A War Game Widow goes to Columbus

Downtown Columbus from a hotel window.

For more than ten years the city of Columbus, Ohio has hosted the Origins Game Fair at the Greater Columbus Convention Center. Origins is the second largest gaming convention, or con as it's known colloquially, in the country. It is the premier convention by gamers for gamers. All types of board games, miniatures, live action role playing (LARP), collectible card games and game accessories are demoed, bought, sold and played at this convention. On the nerd scale, from one to ten, this convention is about an eight. It does not, I repeat, does not get much nerdier than Origins. How do I know this? I went. I have seen Origins with my own two eyes.

The board gamers are on the fringes of nerd society. They are cut from the same cloak cloth as the basement-dwelling D&Ders. Gamers spend inordinate amounts of time in their own heads so they often lack the social skills comic book nerds have cultivated. Even the comic book nerds need to whine about book-to-screen adaptations of their heroes which causes them to seek more nerds. Hero worship is an integral part of the Comic-Con nerd personality, while the gaming nerd needs only need to e-mail the game designer to clear up any confusing rules. This lack of real human interaction stunts the gamer even more. There is no hero worship in board gaming. There is no paragon to strive for just winning a monotonous game so you can play again...and again...and again.

One might argue that the nature of board gaming would mean the gaming nerd is more socially apt than the comic nerd. The social skills required to sit with a group of individuals and play a 1-4 hour game are essential for a good gaming experience. But with the advances in video games and computer games the traditional gaming nerd is practically extinct. He or she has become a video gamer who spends their time by themselves and only dabbles in board games when pressed by traditional board gamers.


David was born into a family of gamers. His father taught him and his brothers to play games like Advanced Civilization and Panzer Blitz (Avalon Hill). Games that looked like Risk to the lay-person. But if you likened Advanced Civ to Risk they would laugh and say, "Risk is a game for children. It is a toy. This," they would say sweeping their hand over the board like a king over their land, "is a game of skill and strategy. This is not a war game. This is not a game for the weak." And it's not. I learned how to play Advanced Civ. It's an ordeal that can take a whole weekend if you're playing with the max amount of players (7). If you are playing with an experienced set of players, like I was, turns can happen quickly and it's easy to get lost and never ever want to play again.

We would have never gone to a gaming convention had we been living in California. Gaming is just not as popular there as it is here. I think it has to do with the long winters and lack of anything better to do. David has met more gamers here than he ever would have back home. Including our good friends Jim and Rhonda. They have been to Origins numerous times and encouraged David and I to join them for a portion of the weekend. We said "Why not?" and made the two and a half hour drive to the capital.

I'm a city girl. When I am told it's a long drive I expect to drive a little ways out of town and immediately onto a freeway. Then take that freeway all the way to our destination. Our GPS took us out of our county into the neighboring county and then back through our county a few miles from our house. We went in a circle and then through teeny-tiny towns. Towns so small they didn't even have an official USPS mail truck. Just some dude in his beat-up old station wagon with a US MAIL thingamabob on the roof of his car. I kept asking David if he was sure we were on our way to Columbus because nothing about this route seemed right. A little ways down the road I turned to my left and out the window I saw a man in a blue shirt, black suspenders and a straw hat operating a rusty, ancient farm machine. "OMFG, we are in Amish Country!" Except I didn't say O-M-F-G. I cussed in God's Amish Country. "David, David I just saw an Amish dude! OMG, slow down! They drive buggies out here with real horses if you run into them it is so not fair." David just said, "See how awesome this trip is? Would you have ever seen an Amish person back in So-Cal or ever imagined you'd be on your way to Columbus?" "No," I replied, "and I certainly don't want to stop at Grandpa's Cheesebarn so keep driving."

We got to Columbus at about 2 o'clock in the afternoon. I was already tired and we still hadn't even arrived at the convention center yet. A long day was still ahead. When we arrived at the center I split from David to take a few laps around the vendor/exhibit hall and then out and from one end of the center to the other. I caught a glimpse of Brian O'Halloran AKA Dante of Kevin Smith's Clerks fame. He was a special guest at this year's con. I called David to see where he was and he told me he had forgotten to put on deodorant that morning and had gone in search of some. The stench of BO was so strong in the hall, whether from unwashed nerds or just because it was hot outside, it wouldn't have mattered if he was wearing deodorant or not.

Shouldn't my day pass bracelet have 12-sided dice instead of regular dice?

As far as cons go this one was pleasant. There weren't so many people that you couldn't get to see everyone or everything. (San Diego's Comic-Con comes to mind and now that the Twi-hards have taken over it's even worse.) The people were polite and there were very few dressed in costumes. People who dress up and go to conventions are often dragged into pictures with strangers. They want inordinate amounts of attention and I refuse to give them any. Rhonda wanted to gossip about the girl dressed as Catwoman and the half-naked Steampunk girls. Who cares if that girl is wearing a bikini top and chain mail skirt? Ignore them. I am more concerned about the people who can't dress themselves in normal everyday clothes. The guy with pants belted and pulled up to his ears or the girl who looks like she fell into a 90's time warp.

David bought a few games and I bought some Lego earrings. I took a look at the Geek Chic booth. Purveyors of the finest board game/dining tables. I helped Rhonda pick out a pair of earrings. We had dinner and drinks with Jim and Rhonda. It was a good time even if I didn't want to game and was foot-stamping angry and wanted to go home every five seconds. When we finally did decide to go home the sky opened up and poured rain in what is proving to be typical Ohio fashion. We had just made it to the car before we could get soaked. I was upset at this point. I was disoriented, cranky and sure we were going to hydroplane off the highway. We made it home by about 1 AM which really isn't that late. I don't know if we will go next year. I feel like we should. Like this was our "toe in the water" testing of Origins. The water may not be the finest but its definitely the nerdiest.

Nerd Accessories

Tales of the Domestically Challenged: Rice

The great comedian Mitch Hedberg once said,"I like rice. Rice is great when you're hungry and want 2,000 of something." David is often hungry for 2,000 of something and he likes rice. David knows how to cook Shrimp Fried Rice and I have mastered Spanish Rice but have yet to cook a successful pot of white rice.

Every time I try to cook white rice I burn a quarter of it making it stick to the bottom of the pan. I hate ruining food. I feel like a failure every time I cook white rice. David often comes home to find me in front of the stove angry and near tears. A barely salvageable pot of rice on the stove. He is always very nice about my failure. "I have trouble with rice, too," he says scraping the contents of the pan into a dish, adding lots of water to make it edible by nuking the rice in the microwave for a few minutes. I relinquish the kitchen at this point stomping to the bedroom where I attempt to slam the pocket door and crawl into bed to mutter to myself about the injustices of life and not having a rice cooker. I am convinced the pot we are using is not good for cooking rice. It's not a non-stick pan and I think it might be made from some cheap metal material. Boiling water is just about the only thing I can accomplish in that pan.

When I finally drag myself to the dinner table David continues to reassure me. He always wants to know why I am so upset over some burnt rice. "Rice is cheap," he shrugs. My response is the same no matter what culinary disaster I have wrought. "I have one job. My job is to make dinner and I can't even do that right. I've been sitting in this house for a year trying to learn how to be an adult and I suck at it. I suck at life. Do you understand what it's like to consistently fail at the one thing you are suppose to do?"

David thinks my problem has more to do with not handling failure rather than burnt rice. He may be right. I do seem to have trouble admitting wrong or making mistakes. I become frustrated when unable to complete a task efficiently and perfectly. Even tasks I've never done before. If I don't do something right the first time and every time, I stop doing whatever it is entirely. So I admit it right here right now. I've got some hang-ups. Some issues left over from whatever dark recesses of my childhood. Maybe I should revisit my childhood at least the rice was always cooked properly then.