I Almost Died Driving To Canton, Ohio

Normally, I am not overly nervous while driving. I remain calm in snowy conditions, I don't freak out if it's raining like hell and visibility is nearly zero. I like to think of myself as a pretty good driver, as a matter of fact (which is why I really think that I should be allowed to pull over dumbass drivers- sort of like citizen's arrest except I'd be issuing tickets for stupidity behind the wheel). I have spun out on the expressway and ended up facing the opposite way and not freaked out (NOT my fault, naturally).

Then I drove to Canton, Ohio in an ice storm last Sunday and all my confidence in myself as a driver went flying out the window.

I started out so bravely. In fact, I wouldn't even say I was being brave because the weather really seemed like no big deal. I hit the road at about 3:30 p.m. It was snowing pretty heavily but I had no qualms about it. I called my mom to chat. I called my grandma to chat. I dismissed their concerns about my journey two and a half hours south in inclement weather and jammed out to my favorite mix CD, swilled my Sugar Free Rockstar Energy drink and mentally got myself super psyched about the fact that I would be seeing UnBoyfriend* in less than three hours.

About halfway there, things started to get a little tricky. The roads turned to absolute shit. I felt like I was driving on a road slicked with cooking oil. If I even strayed half an inch from the tire tracks made by cars ahead of me, my car would start to fishtail out of control. Suddenly the ditches started looking deeper than they had before... and much, much closer.

It is important to note that when I dared to remove one hand from the death grip I had on the steering wheel, I would quickly take a swig of my energy drink. In hindsight, WHAT THE FUCK, AMANDA?? This was NOT conducive to remaining calm in a life or death situation. This actually produces the OPPOSITE effect of remaining calm in a life or death situation. It's like giving a line of coke to a junkie and then telling them to walk on a tightrope over a pool filled with jellyfish, piranhas and that annoying little Justin Bieber. It's just not possible.

Anyway. Every few miles or so, I'd either spot a car that had spun out of control off the road or I would actually WITNESS a car go flying off the road. I started talking to myself, lecturing myself for not leaving earlier... or not waiting till the next morning to leave. I was driving about 30 miles an hour. Elderly drivers in Kias were actually passing me.

I promised to be a good person if I made it to Canton without totaling my car and getting my decent looking face all mangled after slamming into a guardrail. However, I think I blew that deal with God when I screamed, "THIS IS A FUCKING ICE STORM, YOU LIMPDICK FUCK!" at a truck behind me that kept riding uber close to my bumper in an attempt to bully me into driving faster (as well as peeling one hand off the wheel to lean over and give him the middle finger when he finally passed me).

Basically, I wanted my Mommy.

I truly did not think I'd make it. I started wondering things I'd never thought about before- if I died, who would take care of Joe? Would the undertaker make my makeup all whorish looking? Would he know to use an anti-frizz product on my hair? Would my mother be the one to find my vibrator hidden under my bed? How embarassing it would probably be for her that her eldest daughter was a masturbator who couldn't drive. But could she really fault me for it? Studies have shown that 85% of people admit to jerking off and the other 15% are either liars or don't have arms and therefore CAN'T jerk off... I made a mental note to find a better hiding place for it in the event I survived my voyage through this hellscape of ice and sleet.

The exits seemed to go on forever. I didn't think mine would ever come. I started to get really, really paranoid that I'd missed it altogether (taurine from an energy drink will do that to a girl). When I finally reached it four stressful, nightmarish hours after leaving my house, I literally drove down the ramp at fifteen miles per hour, as I was certain that my car would slide right through the red light at the end of the exit if I gained any more momentum than that. That would be my luck, too- to die in a fiery crash mere miles from UnBoyfriend's house.

I pulled into the mall parking lot where he had met me the first time I went to see him. I turned the car off and laid my forehead on the steering wheel. I considered getting out and kissing the ground but my legs were rigid with tension and anxiety so that was out of the question. I called UnBoyfriend and, I admit, I was a little crabby as I listened to him tell me the simple directions to get the rest of the way to his house (I'm really, really bad with finding places even if I've been there before. I'm surprised I can find my way to my parents house half the time). A small, stubborn part of me wanted to blatantly refuse to drive any further and make him come get me but the logical part of me that wanted UnBoyfriend to keep liking me prevailed and I made myself drive the 1.5 miles to his house.

I took great satisfaction in describing my harrowing trip to UnBoyfriend. I may even have embellished a little for dramatic effect. But then I noticed how good he smelled and how nice he was being- he'd even gotten the shower ready for me (probably because he thought perhaps I'd peed my pants during the horrific drive) and said we'd go have dinner when I got out... and he told me to TAKE MY TIME GETTING READY. What guy EVER says that? (Foolish man.)

I love the newness of an UnRelationship**. But I HATE winter.

*UnBoyfriend- I'm calling Sean "UnBoyfriend" because of my general resistance to labeling us due to my belief that the second you slap a label on something, it turns to shit. UnBoyfriend thinks I'm crazy (and also doesn't know this is his nickname on my blog yet- Hi, Sean! Look how funny I am!) but I'd rather have him think I'm crazy and still be dating me than start buying shirts that say things like "I Love My Boyfriend" or "Taken!" only to have to burn them a week later while drinking a shit ton of wine.

**UnRelationship- this is what I have decided to call what UnBoyfriend and I have. It's lovely. We call, we text, we snuggle on the couch and giggle like kids till his roommate stands up and informs us how much we disgust him and that he can't leave the room fast enough, we lay in bed till ridiculously late in the day... bet you wish YOU were in an UnRelationship. It's ok to be jealous, all you smug people in your "Relationship" with your "Boyfriend" or "Girlfriend." Have fun arguing about things like where your "Relationship" is going or what color to paint the bathroom while we sit in our tower in our UnRelationship and eat ice cream and laugh at you. Fools.

I'll Crush Your Sandcastle

"Hello, my name is Amanda and I wreck shit."

This is going to be my "About Me" if I ever join one of those dating websites. Signing up on a dating website will be an indicator that there is almost nothing standing between me and a life as a cat lady.

Admitting I like to wreck shit is me being forthcoming about my personality. My first attempt at an "About Me" in the event that I place my romantic fate in the hands of a website went a little something like this:

Hi! My name is Amanda and I love long walks on the beach, romantic movies and cooking elaborate meals! I like old people, spending quiet nights at home and knitting sweaters for dogs. My ideal man likes to scream at the TV while watching football and simultaneously chugging beer and scratching himself while I slave away in the kitchen making appetizers for him! IM me!

This is about the time I decided maybe I should be a little MORE forthcoming and a little less of a liar in my non-existent dating website membership profile. So I rewrote it:

Hi. I'm Amanda. I've been married twice and I'm not really all that into taking shit from men (hence, two divorces). If you plan to forget my birthday, announce that you don't believe in Valentine's Day and therefore won't be sending me flowers or getting me a card or if you'd rather travel the world in a small boat than settle down and have a family, please go fuck yourself and/or find some bimbo in the 18-24 or 42-48 age category. Also, if you have a problem with women who get "emotional drunk" on occasion please continue perusing for a mate because I'm REALLY not the one for you. Oh, and my biological clock has been ticking like a son of a bitch lately. IM me!

You can see why I finally decided on, "Hi, my name is Amanda and I wreck shit." It's less intimidating and ultimately, it's me in a nutshell. I don't necessarily need to join a dating website to find a man. However, I have single-handedly wrecked quite a few opportunities at being with a nice guy the past couple months so I'm sort of running out of options (well, there's always being a cat lady but today my cat Kenni bit me super hard for no good reason and I really had to take a good hard look at the lifestyle of a cat lady and now I'm not entirely sure it's for me).

Anyway.

The problem is almost always me. I admit this. Either the guy is too nice or too aloof. Too short. Too tall. Talks too much. Doesn't talk enough. Texts me too much. Doesn't text enough. Hates my dog. Smokes. Chews with his mouth open. Wears tighty whities. Won't watch Twilight with me. Can't handle that I take an hour to get ready. Even worse... HE takes an hour to get ready.

Or, most recently, he refuses to put a label on what we are even though things are progressing JUST FUCKING FINE WITHOUT A GODDAMN LABEL and I end up in tears and things are forever ruined because I'm a stupid, stupid girl who wrecks shit.

I'm like that asshole kid on the beach who runs up and stomps the shit out of the pretty sandcastle that you spent lots of time building. Then, depending on his mood, he either laughs maniacally as he stands over you then eventually runs off to destroy something else or bursts into tears and goes and sits by himself on the water's edge wishing the waves would sweep him off to a deserted island where wine bottles grow on trees,people never age and vibrators don't need batteries.

Wait. That's doesn't seem like the correct train of thought in the mind of an asshole kid on a beach...

Oh well. It's my blog and if I wanna wreck it with bad analogies and self-deprecating humor, I will. And unfortunately, I will probably continue to crush the metaphoric sandcastles of the men who cross my path till there's nothing left but me, a box of wine and 75 cats.