this is not a cocktail party

Female drivers resist and resent the implication that they are… well, female drivers.

I am in every possible way the most female of drivers. I accept the notion. I am working to overcome it.

I cry when I get lost (thank you GPS; you complete me; predictable, dependable and rounding out my weak points)

I sweat when I have to parallel park on busy streets.

When I am on longer trips and the conversation is deep, funny and good and my travel companion serves lovely, soft French cheeses on Mary’s crackers with Port Wine jellies and nuts and dried fruit, and the music is soothing or upbeat, I can be absolutely transported in a way that makes me think I am at a cocktail party.

HONK!

Oh yeah, I am the one driving.

After P.O.W. style interrogation of  (dinner with) first good boyfriend, we dropped him off and firstborn and I were chatting while driving  about all things deep and meaningful including things that rhyme with hex, mex and flex and we sat at the intersection through a fresh green light (which pretty much always means go, not stop and chat) which turned red then green again (which in this country almost always means go) and then red and I think you can guess what the next colour was. Man in car behind me pulled up around the side of me  maybe to see if I was dead or crazy and I rolled down the window and said  I am so sorry, this is my daughter, I miss her and we were just catching up

He smiled, winked and said lovely.

I had to stop myself from asking him to pass the shrimp dip.

 

 

 

(Thank God this was Kingston and not Toronto or I would be (shot) dead)