So now I'm a Squirrel (Also: Driving and Cars)

It's been brought to my attention over the last few months that I have a very hard time making decisions.

Okay, so we've all known this for years. I remember Mom accusing me of being "wishy-washy" when I couldn't decide which candy bar I wanted from the vending machine at the newspaper building in Lincoln. However, only recently have I been made aware of just how dangerous this habit can be.

I actually realized the seriousness of this mental condition through my driving. I hesitate a second too long, I don't respond immediately to a situation, I panic and don't respond at all. Don't worry; thus far, I've had a wise, alert parent in the car ready to scream at me when I show the slightest signs of uncertainty, and I've started to curb a lot of my bad driving tendencies. However, this issue has cropped up in all areas of my life. Especially, I've found that I second guess myself. A lot.

I could be 100% certain of something, could have double checked it twice, but at the first sign of contestation to my well-grounded opinion or determination, I question myself. Am I absolutely positive I put that away? Well, I was until someone asked. Did we deliver this house on routes? I distinctly remember because I picked up their recycled bags, but now that you mention it, I don't know.

Mom described me as a squirrel.

(That's where I intended to go with this, but my prelude was a bit longer than I'd planned.)

Turns out, when it comes to my ability to make definite, final, solid decisions...I'm a squirrel.

Mom declared this yesterday after we witnessed a squirrel so unsure of his own desire to cross the street versus his desire to live that we drove over top of him and very nearly killed him. Mom said, "That's you."

Wow. Thanks. I've always wanted to be compared to a spazzy, brainless rodent in terms of my mental soundness.

She went on to warn me that if I didn't get this terrible tendency under control, it could potentially lead to death.

Nothing like a morbid ultimatum to push something to fix their problems.

That was about the time I fully grasped just how serious this situation is. While I thought the worst that could happen was not getting the meal I wanted, it turns out that's the least of my worries.

So now whenever we drive by a dead squirrel, I get to remember Mom's sweet, encouraging advice and just say "No" when that's what my instincts tell me.

Speaking of driving.

Last week my brother was asking me when I was going to get my license. Considering the nice lady at the Secretary of State waived the 30 day waiting time and I could have got it that day if I'd been ready, it's a good question.

Between our hectic lives and lack of cars up until a few days ago, I haven't had much time to practice driving and especially parking, so not only have we not had the time for me to take my test, but I haven't been ready.

Last week Mom had decided that today I would take my test, because Dad has off and could be in the car with me so Mom didn't have to. (She's convinced she would spend the whole time yelling at me or the instructor and just cause problems, and I'm inclined to agree. Sorry, Mom.) Of course, I panicked. I haven't parallel parked since driver's ed, and there's no way I could back-in park. (And who even does that when there's a perfectly good spot to pull into, anyway?) I'm comfortable with actually driving, though I haven't practiced pretending to believe in blind spots, which would fail me instantly. So Mom suggested I do what Wes did to learn how to drive: drive on routes.

She was kind enough to just have me do a couple residential streets and the condos, but most of it was pulling in and then backing out. I've been convinced that backing out was one of my worst issues with driving, but three driveways with Mom cured me of that. Trying to gauge the distance between the side mirror and the mailbox is another issue entirely.

Turns out, however, that all my panicking was for nothing, because (at least, to the best of my knowledge) Mom never got ahold of the people who were to give me my test, so nothing was scheduled. Which is fine, because I would have had to take the test in a borrowed car due to mine having a cracked windshield and touchy brakes.

Which brings me to the last thing: cars.

I don't think someone my age who's parents are not in car sales should be this familiar with the process of buying and registering a car. We bought two this last week. Both on Friday.

The first was for my brother. Now remember, this is the guy who had decided that his preferred vehicle is a mini van. A friend found him an '83 Oldsmobile. A yacht among boats. A far cry from a minivan. In MINT condition, having formerly been a grandma car with the average annual miles being much less than what makes for a low-mileage car. And "a good deal" doesn't cover it.

Guess who now has half his facebook friends jealous of him: my brother.

Guess who is so glad the car, sweet at it may be, isn't hers: this girl.

I mean, it's a good car; it's a fantastic car. Cream with a dark brown canvas top, a spotless interior, whitewall tires.... And of course, a sound system he approves of. However, the thing is ginormous and all my close calls with my own car's long front end would be horrific accidents in that thing. (Of course, a run in with a semi wouldn't end terribly with this tank, so the Olds wins the safety factor.) His could blow mine away in a street race, and I'm fine with that. It was luxury in its day and it's too much for me now. My "gangsta car" is no longer the gangster car in the driveway, and I'm so thankful. No debating or second guessing on my part about that.

The other car is Dad's. Mom picked it up right after Wesley's, and...well, yeah. $200 clunker, and, as Dad puts it, where the rust spots on Wes's could be covered in one hand, that same hand could cover the non-rusted spots on Dad's. Where Wes's glides and purrs, Dad's clanks. I mean, Dad's happy with it. It's a standard, which is what he wanted after Mom's Kia, and it can do the job of getting him back and forth to work. (That is, until winter, when the snow will come up through the hole in the floor.) My only consolation is that when it dies, we can scrap it for $300 at least, and move on to the next clunker.

So now we have five cars in the driveway and one being worked on by friends: the Ford Expedition, my Chevy, Wes's Olds, Dad's...I don't remember what model, and a Buick we're borrowing. Eventually the car being worked on (a Pontiac sports car Heather will eventually get) and a routes car for Mom will be added. It's a good thing we have a long driveway.

The other day we were counting all of the cars that have been in our driveway since we moved here. Not the cars of people visiting or picking up or dropping off someone; the cars we've owned or borrowed. We got to 15 before I stopped. Between 8 and 10 of those are the cars we've owned.
Needless to say, our car...adventures keep life very interesting.