The Crazy Suburban Mom: A positively ballular parking job...

Hobonichi Cousin Planner in my Filofax

Monday, May 4, 2009

A positively ballular parking job...

I was doing some on-the-permit driving with my boy yesterday.

He needs the practice.

He really needs the practice.

I'm so disappointed in myself because I assumed I would be such a cool mom about teaching my kid to drive.

My own father, an exceeding patient man in all things could not handle teaching his own kids to drive. The nail marks on the front passenger seat of my first car?

A testament to his horror.

It was partially my fault because I talked him into letting me get a stick shift in my first car.

I couldn't drive a standard shift and he hadn't driven one since World War II.

That was a disaster of apocalyptic proportion in the making. The first time he took me out in my brand new used car, he explained carefully what I was to do. I did a lot of nodding and eye-rolling than got in the driver's seat, somehow got into first gear and once I was moving threw the thing smack into reverse.

I don't have total recall of the entire horrifying fracas that ensued. Only vague feelings and impressions of those awful moments that followed and a weird memory of what sounded like an automobile actually sobbing.... the gears grinded, the car bucked, and finally the engine emitted an almost human-like whine.

I could see the plumes of smoke billowing out from under the hood... And from somewhere, seemingly far away, like a dream, I could hear Dad screaming all manner of awful things. And every sentence ended with... And I knew it too, damn it.

I only heard Dad swear a few times and it was always about my cars.

I would be cooler. Oh, so much cooler. But I'm not. I go with my son and I'm gelatinous ooze. All I can think of are those anti-psychotics I've been saving for a rainy day.

And how I hope they haven't expired.

So there I was the other day clutching the passenger seat a la Dad and the boy was driving to his destination. (At least there was an end planned to this madness; I couldn't have handled endless touring) When, finally, we got the the blessed end of the line, he parked, got out, surveyed his parking job and said, Oh man, that is SO ballular.

'Scuse me?

Look! See how straight I parked?

And indeed he had.

I'd forgotten he'd taken to calling all things extraordinary, ballular.

Males are so odd aren't they? Can you imagine a woman doing the equivalent of that?

I can't.

I've tried to imagine the scenario ... You know, maybe one friend is showing another the Vera Bradley purse she just got?

But I can't see a conversation where one says:

Tiffany, look at my new Villager Vera Bradley bag! I'm in love with it...Is it boobular, or what?

And Tiffany says... OH MY GOD... To die for... positively labial!

I mean.... Yuk, right?

Yet, to my son....and his friends, ballular makes perfect sense.

Testosterone. Clearly a strange and mysterious thing.

3 Comments:

Mommy24cs 5/4/09, 12:35 PM  

LOL, I let hubby be in charge of teaching Caitlyn to drive while I sat in the back seat with my hands covering my eyes and praying that we made it home safely. Driving with a teenager is the most scary, sweat inducing, anxiety filled activity a parent can do. We deserve medals!!

tracy 5/4/09, 12:37 PM  

AMEN sister... amen. But at least you have a daughter and she wont be describing her dribing as ballular!


lolol

Bonnie B 8/10/09, 3:20 PM  

This blog was totally ovarious! Thanks for sharing! LOL

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