STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.