You’re going to have to accept my apologies for today’s post. It was going to be all about my triumphant return to Match.com (which, in truth, hasn’t been so triumphant after all) but then my brother came to visit and I was forced to spend the majority of my evening driving around in circles behind the Ikea on Columbus Boulevard.
Why? Well, my brother does love DIY furniture (we’ve gone the last two times he’s come to visit; if I had a therapist he or she would probably tell me that I need to stop trying to redecorate my brother’s apartment and find myself an eligible bachelor with a pad of his own—one to whom I’m not related—in which to indulge my Extreme Home Makeover tendencies) but that wasn’t why we went to Ikea.
We went to Ikea because my dad got a new car. And because my dad refuses to embrace modern technology (Facebook, Twitter, Netflix-on-Demand, etc.) he couldn’t buy a car with an automatic transmission. Oh no. He had to buy a stick shift.
Guess who doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift?
That would be me.
There were tears involved— before we even left the house. My parents are under the impression that “encouraging” comments like, “Come on, Kat. Even your grandmother can drive stick” should give me the necessary confidence to go zipping around the Ikea parking lot (and, presumably, other places at some point in time) but here’s where they’re wrong.
Comments like “Come on, Kat. Even your grandmother can drive stick” reduce me to weepy mess of runny mascara, which is why I’ve been avoiding learning to drive stick ever since my dad first tried to teach me when I was sixteen.
(There were tears involved then too.)
I won’t drive with my dad anymore, and I’m not even all that keen on driving with my mom. My brother is the one and only creature on the face of this earth with whom I will even attempt to establish the difference between my clutch and my break.
And so it was that I was press-ganged into spending valuable blogging time driving laps around the Ikea parking lot (during which I stalled the car—no joke—at least two dozen times). I could mention that my mom spent the entire afternoon glue gunning sequins onto costumes for my students (who have their first competition coming up next weekend) and that my inability to drive stick wouldn’t matter if my dad wasn’t forcing me to borrow his car but that would defeat the purpose of complaining, now wouldn’t it?
I’d rather just be angry (and remind you that tomorrow I’ll be unveiling the new and improved “After I Quit My Day Job” so get ready!)