Being behind the wheel of a vehicle can do bizarre things to a person's character. My mother, Lori Haselden, while being a fine human being, is no exception. She goes from being a down-to-earth physician's assistant who sews costumes for the high school musical to being the self-proclaimed Napoleon Bonaparte of the road, who just so happens to be possessed by the devil.
My sister and I have witnessed this transformation of our mom for as long as we can remember. Year after year, without fail, there she'll be with Neil Diamond's "Solitary Man" playing sweetly on the radio, passing cars that are going 90 miles an hour shouting, "Oh no! Three rain drops have fallen from the sky, so we must all go 25!" and "Move it, gramps/buddy [as the case may be]!"
If the target of her aggression is talking on a cellular phone while driving, brimstone has been known to spout from her ears.
My advice to you, as a driver on the same roads on which Lori Haselden wreaks havoc daily, is this: never go the speed limit. The speed limit is not fast enough. To be going fast enough for Lori Haselden's liking, you must travel in such a way that your vehicle reaches 88 miles per hour sending you back to 1955 and thus enabling you to thwart the evil Biff and set your parents up with each other.
Lori Haselden likes this method because it gets you, as an individual, off the road, perhaps permanently, and she may travel at any speed she likes because you are not in her way.
To defend my poor, dear mother for a moment, I admit she knows how to handle her vehicle and that she is, in fact, a very good driver. It is not her fault Cracker Jack-« seems to be the primary distributor of driver's licenses.
It is not her fault everyone is absolutely terrified of ice, snow, sleet, rain, dust, and other vehicles. And it is certainly not her fault people choose the peaceful drive to work/school/psychotherapy to catch up on Ann Landers, paint their toenails or fill out their tax returns.
Indeed, people are bad drivers. There is nothing they can do. Lori Haselden already knows they exist and is lurking around every corner waiting to put them out of their unique vehicular miseries. They had better hope she is in a good mood, or she will attach a 125-foot bayonet to the front of her Ford Windstar GL and, with one exquisite stomp of her gas-pedal foot, turn them into a delectable little defensive driver kebab.
And the most disturbing news of all is this: I am becoming just like my mother.
When I went home for Spring Break, I drove the family's four-cylinder Geo Tracker to my grandmother's house. Though no one else was in the car with me, I found myself shrieking mercilessly at other cars like some sort of crazed banshee. When I reached my destination, I hung my head in shame but only briefly. After all, they are the ones who failed to use their turn signals and thereby insisted upon being the proverbial thorns in my side.
To put things in a completely trite clich+â-¬ perspective, I guess it's true what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree.
Whew. It's a good thing I'm done writing this. My exit is coming up.
Write to Aleshia at bari_girl@hotmail.com
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