AHA! I caught you!

Ok, you've all seen her: the elusive but drunk soccer mom. Easily distinguished by her harried appearance, dirty "kid hauler" vehicle, shouts of curse words, rampant blinkering (that's when you drive down the road, going straight with your blinker on for no reason), herky-jerky lurching forward every time she accelerates and detrimental careening in and out of her lane. You find yourself marveling and praying for her soul, "Please don't let that drunk woman have actually have children in the car with her..."

Don't worry. She doesn't. How do I know this? It's me. I'm her. Wait. I was driving that minivan! No, no...I wasn't drunk. I hadn't even been drinking, although in hindsight, this may have all played out better if I had been. You see, the problem with the "Drunk Soccer Mom", I've discovered - IT'S NOT HER CAR! Oh, you heard me.

Normally, I drive the vehicular love of my life: Fenway - The Green Monster. A four door Jeep Wrangler Unlimited. Manual. 4x4. I was meant to plow over everything in my pathway, both figuratively and literally in my life...so I got the car to accommodate this. The problem lies in the fact that the dork I married recently bought a minivan. I've driven it precisely 4 times. Each time, I somehow; arrive at my destination only to get out of his car, whoop and holler as if I just won the lottery, proceed to call his car a bitch...then I usually kick it.

Tonight was no exception. I went grocery shopping. The store is about three miles away. Three miles in which: I veered in and out of my lane, I forgot I wasn't driving a stick shift and mashed on the gas, stopped so short I now have a seatbelt bruise on my collarbone, and ended up pulling into 3 different spots in the parking lot - each further and further away from the store...only to leave the ass end of "The Silver Bullet of Death" [don't tell my husband I named his car that] precariously sticking into the lane about 2 feet.

I got out. I stood there. I stared at that horror of transportation. It was staring back at me. Noooo...I left the headlights on. How did I do that? I don't even know how to turn them on to begin with! I get back in. I attempt to turn them off. The wipers come on. I end up beeping the particularly gay sounding horn. I sigh. I get out again. I stand there. I stare some more. I yell, "Oh, fuhk it!" and figure that one hour in a grocery store isn't going to kill his battery, and if it does...Oh well, I have AAA.

As I am angrily stomping through the parking lot, I hear the couple behind me: "That woman must be inebriated. Thank god she doesn't have any kids with her..."