Drivin' Like a Big Shot

In today's edition of Small Town Driver In The Big City, I am pleased to report that I did not get lost in Minneapolis.

Suburban Waterloo/Cedar Falls, Iowa, however, was another story.

But first: What, you might ask, could possibly prompt me to drive – by myself – in downtown Minneapolis? The answer is simple, and is the same reason I took on the streets of Chicago: Billy Joel. And so, now I must digress a little further for a mini concert review that isn't really a review at all.

** SQUEEE!!**

Billy Joel. Sigh. He was wonderful. I mean the concert was wonderful. Although I'll admit I'm not very objective when it comes to Billy Joel (SQUEEE), or the talented group of musicians performing with him. Mike DelGuidice and Crystal Taliefero singing “Nessun Dorma” and “Heatwave” – A. Maze. Ing! Instrumental solos by Mark Rivera, Tommy Byrnes, Carl Fisher and David Rosenthal – Swoony! Andy Cichon and Chuck Burgi – the bassist and drummer never get enough appreciation (and I'm not just saying that because The Little Prince is a drummer.)

The only drawback was the drunken fans in front of me. There's a not too fine line between singing along, and shut the flock up and sit down because if you flail about one more time and hit me things are gonna get ugly. Er.

So yes, while the concert was the highlight of the trip (or maybe it was meeting up with my high school pal for breakfast/gabfest), Driving through downtown Minneapolis without getting lost was a close second (or third).

And I will admit I was more than a little nervous after my last (solo) trip up North – also for a Billy Joel concert – although I did not get lost then, either. Technically, that is.

I did, however, try to check in to the wrong hotel. What can I say? It was dark, it was late, it was raining, there was traffic (there is always traffic). It was not my finest driving hour.

Determined not to make the same mis-adventure a second time, I pored over the maps and directions before I left home and planned my arrival for non-rush hour. In fact, I was so surprised by the easy route, minimal road construction and non-rush hour traffic, that I had to make up reasons to hyperventilate.

Google directions through the Twin Cities were surprisingly simple: “Keep Left,” “Use Left Lanes,” “The Other Left, Dummy.” There was no actual exiting. (Unlike that final “Keep Right/Exit” north of Waterloo, which the truck behind me almost missed, too. Dear God, I hope they weren't following my navigation!)

Since all the downtown Minneapolis traffic was in the right lanes, I hugged the leftest-left lane (after a brief moment of flop sweat when I couldn't remember which was left and which was right), and accelerated to Big City Speeds, meaning I passed almost as many people as passed me. It was glorious.

Until I realized I was driving solo in the car pool lane. And I was going too fast to read the hours for the car pool lane, but not too fast to read the part that said “Do NOT cross white line.” A quick check of the mirror, however, revealed that people obeyed the “Do NOT cross white line” sign about as much as they observed the “Speed Limit” suggestion.

I was just beginning think that perhaps I was not equipped to drive, read directions, seek out road signs, and PANIC at the same time, and hoping that somehow MN-65 would miraculously turn into a quiet-ish 3-lane, one-way, city street from a mega-lane, concrete pretzel when . . . it did.

And I was downtown and I was just a turn and a turn away from the hotel, and I was feeling like a Grizzled, Big City Driving Veteran.

I was feeling so much like a Grizzled, Big City Driver that I wasn't even rattled (much) by the occasional, random honking. Because obviously that car wasn't honking at me when I was stopped at a red light. And obviously they weren't honking at me when I was waiting my turn to zip around the double-parked car and glare at the empty driver's seat.

The car (which came out of no where and) honked at the Small Town Girl walking across the Big City Street despite the flashing “Don't Walk” sign?

They might have been honking at me.

Fake It Till You Make It (Down the One-Way Street)

I learned something the other day, while in the People's Republic of Iowa City:

If you find yourself driving down a one-way street going the wrong way, you should look surprised – nay, irritated – to see another car coming at you in “your lane.”

If you look irritated enough, the driver of the other car – the car going the right way on the one-way street – may question whether or not they are actually driving the right way on the one-way street.

At least, they will if that driver is me.

There I was, driving in the left lane of the 2-lane, one-way street (Clinton St.) where it swoops around the back of the Johnson County Administration Building, cursing my luck for being in the left lane, which becomes a turn-only lane at the stop light at South Gilbert and wondering which of the nice people in the long line of cars zipping along in the right lane would be so kind as to let me merge in front of them when I looked up and . . .

Saw a car ahead of me. In my lane. Coming at me.

At that moment I discovered that when a crash seems imminent time slows, and your senses are enhanced so that you can take in a plethora of information.

What I thought: “Oh my! That car is going the wrong way on this one-way street. Surely they will pull into that driveway up ahead so as to avoid a head-on collision.”

What I actually said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the oncoming car: “I refuse to let my driving be restrained by the arbitrary assignment of directions to streets. Maybe this street has self-identified as a two-way! How dare you impose your bourgeoisie ideas about 'way-ness' on this street. Get out of my lane, you capitalist, sexist, 'way-ist' pig! (And don't call me Shirley.)”

What I thought: “Crap. That driver looks pretty confident. Maybe I am going the wrong way. Maybe I should try to get over.”

What I actually said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the car beside me in the right lane after I pulled as close to the center line as I could and they honked at me: “What the X@! do you think you're doing? Oh, hey, look at that! You are about to have a head-on collision with someone who is going the wrong way on this one-way street. Sucks to be you.”

What I thought when I turned my attention back to the oncoming car: “Oh crap! They aren't pulling into that driveway!”

What I said: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

What I could plainly read on the face of the driver of the next car to zoom past me in the right lane: “Hey, look at that! You're about to have a head-on collision with someone going the wrong way on this one-way street. Sucks to be you. But I'm not going to let you merge in front of me because I have an old clunker of a car and you would be doing me a favor if you would crash into me.”

Me: “Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.”

Driver of the third car in the right lane: “Hey! Look at that. Someone is going the wrong way on this one-way street and they are about to run head-on into this car which has come to a complete stop and is trying desperately to merge into my lane. Sucks to be them. But it would suck even more if they ran into my nice, new, shiny car, or if debris from their head-on collision were to dent my nice, new, shiny car, so I suppose I will let them merge in front of me. But I will scowl at them menacingly, so they will realize how put out I am by them driving down a one-way street the right way and their narrow-minded insistence that everyone pay attention to and follow road signs.”

Me, as I pull into the right lane seconds before the car going down the one-way street the wrong way hit me head-on: “Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Driver of the car going down the one-way street the wrong way, who still has not pulled over or slowed down, as they pass me: “Idiot. I scorn you and your weak, lane-changing, bourgeoisie avoidance of a head-on collision. Question road-sign authority! Viva la Revolution!”

My take away from the whole situation? Fake it till you make it. Or until you make someone else get out of your way.

Billy Joel (Traffic) Drives Me Crazy

That I totally enjoyed the Billy Joel concert in Chicago Friday (August 26) goes without saying. He is an incredible entertainer – as are all the musicians in his band. Of course, I have such a huge crush on him that it would take something truly horrendous to dampen my enthusiasm.

That I totally hated driving (by myself) through Chicago traffic to get to the concert also goes without saying. You know that “something truly horrendous” I mentioned earlier? The drive from West Branch to downtown Chicago nearly did me in.

I thought maybe getting lost cruising past the Quad Cities (again), a construction-zone traffic standstill, AND a closed exit to the last rest stop for 30 miles (!!!) might have used up my bad traffic karma before I even got close to the Windy City.

I was wrong.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the residents of the greater Chicago area, and anyone else hindered by my poor traffic-coping skills. Again.

After the potty/exit closed emergency, the drive was pretty uneventful until I reached the outskirts of Aurora, Illinois. (Although I did cuss myself for not purchasing an I-Pass. Frickin' tollway.) Traffic had just started to pick up, and I had just started to practice my deep breathing exercises, when I realized that in Chicago, 5 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 4, and 4 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 3:30, and it was currently 3:20. I began to wonder if delaying my departure in order to clean the kitchen counter had really been worth it.

My deep breathing turned to deep cursing when I noticed an Escalade riding my tail. I glared as he finally passed me, then realized that I was riding the tail of the Lexus ahead of me. Ooops.

Remember my love of frickin' tollways? I had just traveled across three lanes of traffic to reach the far left lane, when I had to make my way back to the extreme right lane to prepare for yet another cash-only transaction.

But wait! Six successful lane changes later I realized the toll was only for the exit. Which I was not taking. I decided to stick to the middle lanes from then on, just in case.

Up ahead, an electronic sign offered a helpful traffic update: Downtown 37 min. Really? Already? That long?

Yeah, no. Not so much. After another toll booth – for reals this time – and a good 20 minutes, the next electronic sign announced Downtown 30 min. Time. Had stood. Still.

Eventually I reached the I-290 exit, keeping to the left, as my Googlemap directions said. But I was the only one. After being in 4 lanes of heavy traffic, it was a little eerie suddenly seeing empty lanes. Had I made a wrong turn?

Then traffic stopped. Obviously I was right where I was supposed to be.

Good news! According to the next electronic sign, it would only be 10 more minutes to what I thought was my exit.

Ten minutes? On Venus maybe. I could have read War and Peace in the time it took me to get to the next exit. Heck, I could have written War and Peace.

I decided this was good news! As slow as we were going, I shouldn't be able to miss my exit. Then the traffic clog broke free and we were flying! Or going 25 mph, whichever.

Then we were stopping. Again.

This was still good news, because I had finally reached the exit to Lower Wacker Drive. And – get this! – “lower” doesn't refer to north or south, but “lower” than street level! (Who knew?) Suddenly I was driving through a narrow, 4-lane tunnel, which was really cool, but it was kind of dark and there were stoplights and traffic and I couldn't find the cross streets and I didn't know where I was and then WOW! A boat! I was next to the Chicago River and now I was turning onto Lower Michigan Ave (also lower than street level) and the next thing I knew I was turning onto Grand and I was at street level and then I was pulling into the parking garage and checking in to the hotel and getting ready and walking to the corner to catch the red line L-train to . . . .

Trust me. We shared a moment.

OH CRAP! I couldn't remember where Wrigley Field was!

Officer Posey of the Chicago Police Department very patiently explained how to buy my train tickets (return trip, too), and which train to get on and I practiced more deep breathing as I waited in line for 30 minutes to buy my tickets and then I was on the train, and chatting with all these other nice, middle-aged women, and we all got off the train at Addison and we were at Wrigley Field!

The lights went down, the lights went up and there he was! Billy Joel, center stage, sitting at his piano, hands flying across the keyboard, singing and joking. And that grin! Oh gosh! I swooned because I'm pretty sure I made I contact with him. And gee, isn't he just adorable?

And all that anxiety about traffic and getting lost and Lower Wacker was forgotten, because, wow, what a great show!

Sigh.

Then it was time to head home, and I headed out of Chicago for Iowa.

Via Milwaukee.

Driver's (dr)Ed

The Little Prince has turned 14, so the kingdom is all in an uproar as we wrestle with the most important of questions:

Who is going to teach him how to drive?

In theory, none of us can officially teach him how to drive, because the state has mandated that only licensed professionals (who have paid the state for their license) can teach driving.

In reality, no one wants their kid to be the one who hops in the driver's ed car and doesn't know where the key goes.

In practicality, this is kind of like cleaning your house before the cleaning service comes. Except in this case the state says it is illegal for you to clean your own house. (Now there's a law I could get behind.)

I'm not saying that parents should be solely responsible for teaching their kids to drive. I know – and regularly rant – about all the morons out there with a driver's license who: A. Shouldn't have a license; B. Shouldn't be allowed to drive; 3. Shouldn't be allowed to teach anyone else how to drive; and D. Should stay out of my way.

And I'm not saying that I'm a perfect driver, because while I'm closer than most, none of us are perfect.

And that's the cause of the civil disturbance in the castle. Each of the licensed drivers in our household has their own set of … disqualifiers.

So I asked The Little Prince who he wanted to teach him to drive.

The Princess answered for him (as is the right of the older sister): “Not Dad, because he yells.”

“I DON'T YELL!” The King yelled from the other room. “I INSTRUCT.”

“LOUDLY,” The Princess added. “It made me nervous.”

I do not speak loudly or sharply. I use my calm, “inside” voice, so as not to unnerve the driver. I've watched the wildlife videos. I know what happens when you startle the animals. Nothing good can come from startling a twitchy teenage driver.

I do, however, press both feet firmly against an imaginary brake pedal as well as stiff-arming the dashboard and/or ceiling to brace for potential impact. Apparently this is not considered reassuring or calming behavior.

“And you run red lights,” The Prince said looking pointedly at me.

In my defense, I really, really thought I saw the light turn green. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the intersection and noticed no one else was moving. But hey! There was no cross traffic, and we'd been sitting there For. Ev. Er. And the light was going to turn green... eventually.

Speaking of which, it totally does NOT count as running a red light if it was yellow when you entered the intersection. Or when you intended to enter the intersection. Or when you didn't realize there was a stop light there.

So now we've narrowed the potential teacher list down to The Princess. Both she and The Prince (in a rare instance of agreement) think she is the most qualified. I have to admit that despite having just over two years of driving experience herself – or maybe because of it – she probably is the most law-abiding, technically accurate driver in the family.

Which also makes her the most annoying driver.

Like when she comes to a complete stop at a stop sign for the recommended three seconds.

Three. Whole. Seconds.

One Miss-ahhhh-sipp-i.

Two Miss-ahhhh-sipp-i.

Three Miss-ahhain't nobody got time for thi-sipp-i!

So in the end, The Little Prince will probably learn to drive the way he learned to play drums and guitar, and to skateboard: the internet and video games.

He's already aced Grand Theft Auto.

How much different can real driving be?

Life's A Ditch

Things I Learned From Putting My Car In The Ditch This Morning:

1. A light skiff of snow on top of ice may make the roads may be a bit slippery. Duh.

2. Anti-lock brakes do not guarantee an anti-slide car.

3. Swearing will not make your tires suddenly gain traction. It doesn't matter if you are slowly sliding toward the back end of someone's van, slowly sliding the passenger-side tires of your car into the ditch, or slowly trying to drive out of the half-ditch position (in low gear). Swearing will not change any of this. No matter how creative it is. Trust me.

4. On the other hand, swearing as you walk 0.3 miles into a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind will keep you warm. (Thank you, kind Samaritan for giving me a ride the rest of the way home!)

5. It's not enough to merely think "Gee, I really need to make sure I put my cell phone in my purse before I leave." You need to actually put your cell phone into your purse.

6. Mom was right: you should always take along a hat, gloves and boots when driving in winter. Even if you are only going a mile and a half into town. Not even going to speculate on the clean underwear advice.

7. Wow. I am really out of shape.

8. It's much easier to walk 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back, as you swear and stomp back to meet the tow truck.

9. Wow. I am really out of shape. Wheeze, gasp, wheeze.

10. Swearing and stomping 0.8 miles with a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind at your back will give you time to calm down (a little) and put things into perspective. You will think deep thoughts such as: "I would have never know this was a 0.8 mile walk if it weren't for Googlemaps directions and navigational systems"; "Who knew pheasants made that funny sound when they fly"; "Whenever I vow to stick to a schedule and be less flexible crap like this happens"; And, "Dang, I could have made an easy buck if I'd brought a trash bag with me to collect cans".

11. The air is really, really fresh and invigorating when driven by a "there's a blizzard comin'-"force wind.

12. I may have to stop using the cold weather as an excuse not to exercise. Wearing snow boots, snow pants, a sweat shirt, coat, mittens, scarf, and a mad bomber-style hat -- and swearing -- will keep you surprisingly warm.

13. There is a good reason why I give up swearing for Lent. Every friggin' year.

14. If you put your car in the ditch before the blizzard hits, the tow truck response time is really quick!

15. Someone in the legal department at tow truck headquarters has a good sense of humor. I know this because the waiver I signed said "I acknowledge that I have put my vehicle in a situation not intended by the manufacturer." Ya think?

16. Seeing that the fateful, slippery intersection has been freshly sanded three hours after you've been pulled out of the ditch will not make you feel any better.

16. Neither will reading your horoscope three and a half hours after being pulled out of the ditch, only to find the stars recommend (honest!) "It's a good time to stay home."

Now they tell me.

Driving Queen Daisy

Sometimes I figure if I don't laugh, I'll cry. And I get all blotchy when I cry, so that is to be avoided at all costs. With that in mind, here's a little story from last week:

My "I'm a bad daughter" guilt was nearing bone-crushing proportions, so I borrowed a lower-riding chariot to take the Queen Mother for a ride. The QM has always enjoyed getting out to observe the kingdom, but her current lack of "up" motion and limited ability to stand once "up" has made it impossible for her to get into either of our vehicles.

It was a combination errand/lunch/sightseeing trip and the first two went pretty well. I managed to get QM into, out of, and back into the chariot without mishap and, most importantly, the coffee shop would still be open when we finished up. I was feeling a little smug.

We drove into West Branch from the west and had nearly reached the center of town, when she asked me to drive by the bank.

After I drove by the driveway, of course.

I continued on to the corner by the post office so I could go around the block and head back the way we came. She said she wanted to see the new bank, so we retraced our seven-block route out to the western edge of town. After driving out to and around the new bank, she decided that wasn't what she was looking for.

Back into town (seven blocks) and around the "old bank." Nope, this wasn't what she was looking for either. By now we were back at the corner by the post office, which I pointed out again.

We turned south toward West Liberty, and increasingly more important, toward my stress-relieving latte.

"That new building is out this way," QM said. Nope, nothing new out this way, I said. "Yes, the new post office," she said. "It's just out this way a little bit."

I "nope, no new post office"-ed and she "yes, a little bit further"-ed the entire 3.5 miles to Downey, at which point she conceded there was no new post office out that way. To erase any doubts, we retraced our route, returning to West Branch.

Back into town. Back past the Hoover Museum. Back past the post office. Around the block one more time, bringing us full circle to the post office. We turned south to head out of town once again.

I was starting to wonder if I could take my latte to the bar two doors down for a little extra stress relief.

This time we made it 1.5 miles before she asked where the Hoover Museum was.

Back into town, past the museum, past the post office, around the block, back in front of the post office. The only one we have.

Hoping the third time would be a charm, we headed out of town to the east. While she didn't say anything, I had the feeling she thought maybe the elusive new post office was out that way. However, we made it through Springdale and all the way back to West Liberty without another mention of the you-know-what.

As we entered WL from the north, she asked me to turn west. The guilty feeling returned, and I figured a short drive around town was a small penance.

"This road goes to Iowa City, doesn't it?" she asked. Yes, I replied.

"Well, maybe that new post office is out this way."

I decided to skip the latte and head straight for the bar.

When I told the Little Princess about our drive -- with my usual understated delivery -- she was overcome by the giggles.

"Keep laughing," I said. "In about 40 years, I'll be asking you to show me the new post office."

It's good to have something to look forward to.

Catch the Wave

Hot Snot on a Silver Platter! I have a guar-an-teeeed ba-zillion dollar invention idea. We're talking multi-million dollar lottery jackpot, load up the truck and head to Beverleee amounts of money.

You are all hereby sworn to secrecy or something very near like it until I can apply for a patent, registered trademark, and copyright. I just can't decide which to do first, fill out those forms or call Billy Mays and tell him to box up all that Might Putty 'cause we're goin' big time, baby! I tell you this idea will make my name synonymous with Ron Popeil and the Ronco Pocket Fisherman. It's not just the best thing since sliced bread its..., well, it's way better.

Anyhoo, about the new idea. The mind-numbing brilliance of this invention can best be appreciated when you start with the inspiration. Get ready, 'cause you are going to bruise your butt kicking yourself for not thinking of this first. But you didn't. I did. And the title of "World's Best Inventor" is not plural.

There I was, making my leisurely commute (8-minutes in heavy traffic) from the 'burbs into the thriving metropolis for another morning of church secretary-ing. Heaven knows I am typically a model driver. I sit up straight in my seat, hands at 10 and 2 on the steering wheel, attention focused entirely on my surroundings, radio and cell phone set to mute so as not to distract.

But that day I was slouched in my seat, left hand pointer finger curled around the steering wheel at approximately the 7:43 position, right hand cradling my travel mug of coffee which was balanced on my right leg. As I crested a hill I met a friendly Iowan, giving me a neighborly wave. By the time I adjusted my grip on my mug and raised it in a half-assed wave/toast, they were just a speck in my rear view mirror. There is no way they could have seen my friendly reply.

Unfortunately, this has happened before. There are probably tens of people, maybe even less, out there wondering who is that snotty beyatch in the black Honda and why didn't she return my wave? This is Iowa, after all, where most people drive around with one hand on top of the steering wheel in a perpetual half-wave.

I am not a beyatch. Ok, maybe I am. But I am not a non-waving beyatch. It's just the coffee, and the holding, and the timing, and the potential for spilling. It's complicated.

Oh sure, some might suggest that I stop drinking coffee while I'm driving. Hellooo, this is me we're talking about. Why not just suggest that I stop breathing while driving? Obviously another solution is needed.

Something like (drum roll) the Auto-Auto Wave. (Applause, "Ohhs" and "Ahhs" are all appropriate at this time). You'll never again fail to return a friendly greeting when you use the Automatic-Automobile Waver (patent pending, all rights reserved).

Just attach the fake hand and cleverly disguised hinge to the top of your steering wheel. A rod made of space age polymers connects the stub end of the (fake) hand to an comfortable and stylish harness on the driver's (real) knee. All it takes is a gentle wiggle of the leg to cause the hand to raise up off the steering wheel in... a friendly wave!

Never again be thought of as inconsiderate. Show the world what a friendly person you are. Make someone's day with a cheerful greeting.

But wait! Call now and we'll include the Auto-Naughto Wave for those times when you don't need to use all five fingers to get the message across.

Because one good turn deserves another, but cutting me off in traffic deserves it more.