Daylight Jet Lag Time

My whole life, the men in my life have made fun of my driving.  Specifically, I mean my father, my husband, and even Alex Trebek.  (I was on Jeopardy! back in 2003, and despite the fact that I gave Alex several interesting, non-humiliating things to ask me, he chose the thing that my father picked - my refusal to make a left turn when three rights will do.) 

I'm not sure I'm willing to take this teasing any more, even though I know why they do it. I am an extremely cautious driver -- I don't change lanes just so I can get 12 feet ahead of where I am, I don't pull out of anywhere unless I am absolutely sure no one will have to even think about touching their brakes, I can't back down a driveway without driving across the lawn, and I will plan my route around the number of left turns. I am well aware that I have virtually no peripheral vision, and I act accordingly. As a result, I have never gotten a traffic ticket, and, more to the point, I've never even been pulled over. The only accidents I've ever gotten in were Not My Fault and Completely Unavoidable. The police and all relevant insurance companies have always agreed.

So last Sunday, one of those days that makes Murphy's Law as obvious as the sun rising in the morning, I decided I was Not Going to Take it Anymore. I've written about those days before, and they seem to come more and more often.

First of all, last Sunday was my Least Favorite Day of the Year, being that day where one precious leisurely sleeping hour is robbed from me for no apparent reason by the Powers that Be in a torturous ritual known as "Daylight Savings Time."

Daylight ‘Savings’ Time?  Last I checked, the Earth spun and the sun was visible on its own schedule regardless of what Congress has to say about it and we aren’t actually ‘saving’ any daylight. Why we must jet lag ourselves for this illusion is completely beyond my comprehension. So anyway, when my children woke me up to take them to Sunday School (despite the fact that the Jewish Sabbath is from sundown Friday ‘til sundown Saturday, we have religious instruction on Sunday morning. Mind you, sundown is when sundown is, regardless of what we are legislatively obligated to call the time of day the sun sets), it was extra hard to get out of bed.  Flannel sheets, while comfortable, warm, and cozy, are one of those inviting tools of the devil, in that they make the contrast between rest and the rest of the day so jarring it actually registers on the Richter Scale. 

I waited until the last possible second to get out of bed. As I was pulling on the bare minimum standard of socially acceptable clothing, my daughter asks, "Can I go to Louis' party today?"  Louis' party?  Huh?  I was unaware of Louis' party.  She brings me the invitation, which she was able to find only because of something miraculous, and I call Louis' parents, apologizing for the last minute RSVP, explaining that I was only just informed. 

After quickly ushering the children into the car, advising them to grab a granola bar if they were hungry, we got going.  My husband, Mike, was driving, because a) he likes to drive and I don't, and b) his constant barrage of instruction while I am driving makes it extremely dangerous for me to drive with him in the car because I might very well just intentionally drive directly into the back of a tractor trailer just to end the misery it causes. We are both going because it is our habit to drop the kids off and then go on a breakfast date, because that will be the only grownup time we get in any given week.

Bear this in mind: when we built our house, we discovered that it didn't actually cost much extra to make the garage twice as large as the plans called for. So we have what is referred to as the Garage Mahal, a garage with 11 foot ceilings and enough floor space to park four minivans or nine Volkswagen Beetles.  Despite this, because we are the Duff family, after all, there is so much accumulated junk laid in there that usually we can just squeeze our two cars in the garage so long as you don't expect to walk all the way around either one of them.  This week, however, Mike decided to change the oil in my car and not clean up the drained oil, jacks, and other accompanying junk, so you can only fit one car in the garage. Our luxury 12 year old mini-van is thus parked in the driveway. 

So, we all get in the car and Mike begins to back up. As I am Not In Charge, I am Not Paying Attention. Therefore, my first alert that something was amiss was the giant crunching sound. "What happened?" asks my son. "Daddy just backed into the van," says I. I can see the van, and although the hubcap is knocked off, it doesn't seem like much more than paint transfer has happened.  Mike hops out of the car to assess the damage while I sit still and practice my Deep Breathing.  When he gets back in, I say, "Is it driveable?"  He says, "Just barely." And begins to drive off, while blaming the children for the accident because they were talking while he was backing up.  

We are about ten minutes late for Sunday school. As we pull in to Temple Beth David, we wave hi at our friend Ron, who is blowing leaves off of the driveway.  As we pull in to the parking lot, however, we realize that Ron's car is the only car in the lot.  We turn around, and find that the door is locked shut.  Ron informs us that there is no Sunday School today, ha ha, should have checked the bulletin, and he's made that mistake before, too.  And hey, Ron says. What happened to your car?

I wish I could say that the day got better from there.  We ran a few errands (including picking up a present for Louis) and went home.  The battery on my car died the other day, and since we jumped it off and put it on life support until we could get a new one, the built in GPS system won't do anything but ask me for a super secret code I didn't even know existed.  So I had to use the GPS on my phone to get to Louis' party, which sent us down this frightening one lane road constructed of gravel and potholes, and had a 'bridge' over this small river that appeared to be constructed with 2x6s and mud.  Later, at the party, my son fell into that river, rendering him extremely cold and miserable and cranky. 

When all was said and done, however, I did have my nice, warm, fluffy flannel sheets to climb back into, which I did after drinking a strictly medicinal Hot Toddy.  And that's more than a lot of people can say.  So I guess I am lucky after all, despite my First World Problems.