Jess, Tess, And The Stick

Have any of you ever tried to teach a teenager to drive a stick? Take some advice from me. Don’t. It’s not pretty. Believe me. Jess is nineteen. Just like every other teenager on the planet she thinks she knows everything. And when you tell her that, she simply says, “Well, yeah I do.”

I don’t like arguing with Jess. Not just because I don’t want to argue, but because she is loud and WILL NOT shut the eff up. You can prove she is wrong and still she’ll be right. She will flat out deny she is EVER wrong. Wonder where she got that? (Don’t answer that.)

So Jess got it in her head she wanted a Mustang. That was okay. I could handle that. She found one in her price range and subsequently fell in love—with the color first, of course. The salesman asked, “Do you know how to drive a stick?” To which Jess replied, “What’s a stick?” He then turned to me and I said, “Yes.” I should have kept it a secret because that’s about where the argument began.

So I told Jess that she should look at other cars on the lot.

The beginning to my end. No salvation in sight. Her mouth started moving at 90 mph. And I tried to keep up my end of the argument. I could have saved all those words and all that stress and just given in right there on the spot and been home an hour earlier. No, we didn’t exactly argue for an entire hour, but instead, looked at other cars on the lot—while Jess’ bottom lip sagged all the way to the ground, of course, and the argument continued.

“If you learned how to drive a stick, what makes you think I can’t?”

Well, I have to admit that was a good question because it took all the fight out of my FINAL NO. I really wasn’t ready for it. I was tired, had other things on my mind, and wanted her to buy a freaking HONDA!

“You wouldn’t let me go to race car driving school,” she said. “So why not at least let me enjoy driving a stick?” (Yeah, race car driving school---but that’s a whole other blog, and I’m sooo not going there today.)

“Jess, you have issues with driving that simply tell me you’re not ready for anything more than a four-cylinder car and no stick at all.” That was kind of stupid of me to say, wasn’t it? Just opened up the door, didn’t I?

“Issues? I’m a good driver. What’re you talking about?” Hand on hip, nose screwed up into her eyebrows.

The salesman backed up.

“You have this thing about your middle finger and other drivers.” Yeah, I was in the thick of it now.

“When somebody cuts me off I shoot them the bird.”

“And when someone turns right when you think they should have turned left. When someone drives the speed limit in front of you and you want to drive over the speed limit. And when someone brakes in front of you, forcing you to brake and…”

“I’m a good driver.”

“You have road rage. Your frontal lobe is not fully developed—won’t be until you’re in your mid-twenties and that is a scientific fact.”

“I. DO. NOT. HAVE. ROAD. RAGE.” Face now purple, steam coming out of her ears.

Salesman excused himself to make a phone call—but I could see him standing in the window watching us. To make a long story short, Jess got the Mustang. I wrote my congressman the next day informing him as to why I thought “legal” age should be raised to 35. Yep, she played the I’m-An-Adult card with me. Marched her skinny ass right into the dealership and informed the salesman she was getting the ‘Stang.

But I had the last laugh—at least for a while—because she couldn’t get the damn car out of the dealership lot. SHE COULDN’T DRIVE A STICK! So I got to drive it the forty-five minutes home as she drove my sensible car. AND SHE WAS FUMING. Thought she could be taught to drive a stick just like that. Even the salesman laughed at her.

So we get home and I am inside the house for five minutes and she’s standing there, dangling the 'Stang keys, looking at me doing this number: “Can we go now, can we, huh, can we go?”

“Go where?”

“You promised you’d teach me how to drive it. “

“Oh. That. Well, yeah, some time.”

“SOME TIME!”

“Honey, I’m a bit tired, I-“

“You promised. What am I supposed to do just let the car sit?”

Okay, so off we went. I let her drive right out of the yard, jerking-stalling-jerking-stalling-jerking-stalling, etc. etc. etc. We get to the end of the driveway and it’s time to get out ON the actual road and I’m looking up and down the road waiting until there is NO traffic in sight so she can try. Okay, so off we went…jerking-stalling-jerking-stalling-jerking-stalling, etc. etc. etc.

So we finally get out of first and into second—sighhhh—and I have her turn off on a side road which took us to yet another side road which took us to yet another side road which took us down a country road which took us down a back road which landed us on the outer limits of civilization where I thought we might just be safe. I had her stop in the middle of the road about twenty-five or thirty times to practice letting off the clutch. Once she’d mastered that, I then had her stop at the bottom of a hill and try to get up it while letting off the clutch. OH LORD. That was a horrible experience. She ranted and raved and swore like a sailor. Finally, she was able to do it and did it several times. So we drove around for a while then went back home. A total of two hours in driving lessons—so far.

About an hour later she announces she’s going into town. Well, I was on the computer and busy and only half-listening. But thankfully, her announcement made it into my actual consciousness and I jumped from my chair.

“You’re not ready to drive in traffic,” I said.

“What do you mean? You just got through teaching me. What did you leave out?”

“I didn’t leave out anything, really. But managing a stick while in heavy traffic is a lot different than on a deserted stretch of road, hon.”

So we’re about to cross into the city limits (There really was no need to transition to this part of the story, was there? It was obvious I’d be heading into town, wasn’t it?) and I start frantically talking to her about how she can’t forget to push in the clutch when she brakes. And she’s asking me this and that and her biggest question is always WHY. Why? Because that’s the freaking way it’s done---that’s WHY!

I have her turn on a side street—busy but not as busy as the four lanes of traffic on the other road through town. But eventually, just like the chicken, we did have to cross that road. We get to THE stoplight—and no, I don’t mean there is only one stoplight in our town, lol, but this particular stoplight is the busiest, hardest, fastest, most screwed up light in town because the timing is off on it and traffic at that intersection is beyond crazy and because the traffic patterns can be so dangerous.

Whoa…why in the hell did I let her pull up to THIS stoplight. Okay, so the light turns green and…she stalls. I say, “That’s okay, take your time, push in the clutch and start it again. Let out slowly. You’ll feel the pull and then pop it!” STALL. STALL. STALL. TEARS, SCREAMING.

AND SHE GETS OUT OF THE CAR AND RUNS INTO THE WAL-GREEN PARKING LOT.

I was left sitting in the ‘STANG—on the freaking passenger side, of course. Traffic is backed up, horns are blowing. She’s over in the Wal-Green parking lot with her hands over her face. I get out of the car, put a big big big smile on my face, toss my hands up in the air and shrug to any of those MAD-AS-HELL drivers who are planning on mowing me down—and round the car to jump into the driver’s seat. At which time I start the car, finish waiting on the light that had turned red, of course, and then roll on out and across the street so I could turn around in the MacDonald’s parking lot just to get back to the stoplight so I could—like the chicken—cross the road to pick up the CRAZY CHICK WHO JUST JUMPED OUT OF HER OWN CAR AND RAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The child gets into the car, snotty nose, tears literally leaping from her eyes like they do in cartoons and she’s screaming to the top of her lungs, “I’LL NEVER DRIVE THIS CAR AGAIN. JUST TAKE IT BACK. TAKE IT BACK!”

So I drive to the old abandoned K-Mart parking lot/building area, get out and get her at the wheel again. She drives from one end to the other changing gears, going up inclines, really getting the hang of it and more comfortable with the whole shifting thing. Before we go back home, I let her drive up to that same intersection where she begins to cry again and THIS TIME, I yelled at her.

I said—“WOMAN UP!” She got through the stoplight and grinned like a fool. So we then ride all over town and she’s just as happy as a clam. So, with three more hours invested in all of this we return home. Her dad is there waiting to see her car and the two of them take off. I go inside and have a glass of wine.

In they walk about thirty minutes later and her father announces, “I think she’s got the hang of it. Didn’t take that long to teach her either. I thought it would, but she caught on pretty quick.”

I got up from my chair, walked into the kitchen, set my glass on the counter and grabbed the wine bottle from the fridge. Who needs a freaking glass?

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Also posting this week will be male erotic romance author, Brindle Chase, who is going to let all us women ask him about men. Yep--that should be a real eye-opening post.

And Lucy Felthouse joins us to share a new anthology she edited and a nice little rant about taxes, too.

So keep checking back in with Four Strong Women all week. It's shaping up to be pretty interesting to say the least.