Hazard Sign

Teenagers are probably most famous for their reckless decisions, know-it-all-attitude, and for being the new hazard on the road.  Today, I was the last of the three.   I had driven in parking lots about three times and that was the extent of my behind-the-wheel experience.  For driver’s ed., you have to complete five observations of other student’s driving.  I watched my friend flawlessly dance through her second drive in the harbor while I was clammed up in the back seat, dreading the closing window of time when my instructor would tell me to release the parking break and “proceed when safe.”  Something about that turn signal click and the supposedly calming words of the instructor always stress me out! We drove through Downtown and I managed to scurry around the farmer’s market scramble.   I glided by parked cars on the side of the road without running something or someone over.  (I always thought it was funny how the phrase is “run something over” instead of “drove something over.”  I guess it goes back to the horse and buggy.)  Well, after the drive, my parents picked me up and I had the pleasure of driving home.   They needed to go to the bank.  This route meant I had to try and master the bank’s drive-thru.  At the first bank, I hit the curb, but successfully pulled up to the window and deposited a check for my parents.  At the second bank, I pre-aimed my car.  I slid in carefully to the window and glided to a stop.  I did it!  I proved my mother wrong and almost got away with a recognizably average drive-thru-pull-in.  And then, my problem arose.

     I went to place the check in the electric deposit box, when I realized my arm couldn’t reach far enough.  I had the sudden desire to be elastigirl.  I unbuckled my seatbelt to reach a little other the window.  No, I had to open the door and practically stick my foot out of the car just to drop the check in.  The lady at the booth took it and asked the amount because the handwriting was so unreadable.  So, back into the box it went and out of the seat I squirmed.  After clarification, I returned the check and collected the receipt, requiring more awkward dangling out the car door.  This situation would not have been that bad, except for the fact that the lady at the booth, I suspected, had no care for teenagers of any type, especially those teens at her bank window behind the wheel.

     There I was, driving down Harborview Dr., looking like a crazy driver, navigating an oversized SUV and humiliated that the following idea had not hit me sooner: There was not a “STUDENT DRIVER” sign on the end of my car.  In the driver’s ed. Car, with the blaring “STUDENT DRIVER” sign, other roadsters wouldn’t get road rage if I was a little jerky or if I was a hesitant through intersections.  People would know I was just learning with my permit.  However, in this car, no one knew that!  This observation is very obvious.  But, there it went, over my head.

     Luckily, I proudly arrived home with both the car and myself in one piece, to the shock of my mother.  Most teenagers cannot help speeding a little bit or forgetting a turn signal.  I will not stand up for all teens, but for the average group of us, we are just learning and want to get from point A to point B unharmed.

A Captive Gardener

There are three things my mother likes to do in the summer. One: watch tennis matches in the morning. Two: make some sort of easy family size dish that we can eat at any point in time. In the past popular dishes have been pasta salad, bean salad, and chili. The third thing is to garden. This isn’t just planting new flowers and watering the lawn like most people. This is massive weeding. Our yard just happens to be the place where tap-root weeds want to reproduce. Since this is Washington, the summer is the only time when it would be appropriate to sit outside for a day, so the weeds blanket the dirt for the other ten months of the year.

     The first spot of sun my mother saw this year, she decided to start the laborious work, and I just happened to be available. Usually I can find a way to dance around the chore by going to a friend’s home or by finishing a book I’m “almost done with”. But today I was as free as a bird and my mother wanted to place me in a cage. Once I was roped into it by pity and boredom, I found myself at the worst job in the joint. Yes, she assigned me the work of trimming the fern. This might not sound too bad, but this fern, this one fern at the edge of the driveway...was not a fern. It was a monster waiting to pounce and swallow you whole at any second. Secrets filled it’s crevices and I was in no mood to find out what they were. Through massive snipping in multiple and random directions I managed to make a dent. Two hours later I had slayed the beast. I stripped off my gloves and emptied my bucket of remnants proud to finish victorious. I was almost to the garage door, just about to untie the laces of my scuffed shoes when I heard the worst question any one could ask someone; she blurted out the words innocently, as I was captured in the corner of her eye…

“What are you doing?”

     I was doomed. Not only do you have to answer the question, but it’s obvious what you are doing so there is no weaseling out of it. You can’t shrug it off like a silly comment, you can’t keep walking, and if you do you might as well just sign the contract to your imprisonment for the rest of eternity. I scuffled back into the yard and picked a spot that was reasonable enough to finish quickly but had just the right amount of crowded weeds to look like I made a difference. My mother spoke a short speech about how a garden is a responsibility to a homeowner. In my head all I could think was, “This isn’t my house! You didn’t have to buy it! These aren’t my plants, I only picked out about five plants on this property!” But of course I sat there willingly pulling and piling until a fine amount of time went by and I was granted permission to leave the property.

     After the day the garden did look better and I still had energy to stay up to watch a movie. I guess it’s best to keep your mouth shut sometimes, otherwise I think I might still be weeding.