Rules of the Road

Last night I was driving my daughter home from gym.

"I had blood drawn today," I said.

"Did they give it back?" she said.

I looked at her. I shouldn't have. I couldn't help it. These days I take my life in my hands if I so much as glance in her direction. But she seemed unaware of my blatant disregard of etiquette. Meanwhile the wipers slapped maniacally through the rainy dark.

"It's your blood," she said. "They should give it back."

I checked the Sass-O-Meter. Nothing. The kid was serious. I snuck another look. How could something so lovely be so...unlovely? So clueless? I must be an even worse mother than we both agree I am.

A week ago we were in the midst of The Plague, despite which the bad grades and the bad attitude just kept on coming. When my temperature came back down and I could finally hear again, I'd had it.

"You're grounded," I said. Make that hollered.

Problem was, she didn't know what "grounded" meant. She thought it meant she was supposed to stay in one spot and not move until the time was up. So she sat in her room at her computer for eleven hours and watched reruns of "Zach and Cody." It was the quietest Saturday I'd spent in over a decade. She only ventured out when her ass fell asleep. And I slept like a baby til morning.

But you wanna know what drives me absofuckinglutely insane? Mothers who get along with their teenage daughters. I'm like sitting here trying to figure out how to score a busload of crack so as to make it through the next five to thirty years, and some happy little mother is texting me about some happy little shopping trip. Not only is this vagina texting me (I'm still trying to figure out the Xerox machine), turns out she went on this little retail hegira with her fucking fifteen-year-old daughter! And they had fucking lattes at Barnes and Fucking Noble afterward!

I don't know about you, but there's something downright unnatural about that.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I finally saw my daughter's school photos. For some time I'd been afraid she'd had a stroke or something and her mouth would be permanently frozen in a grimace. Turns out her face is normal. Even pretty. Who knew?

I used to be pretty. Now I'm pretty spent. Which is why I decided to get the once-over down at the corner Medical Center. Last time I went in for a lube job Bill and Hil were still running the lot.

"It's like my 'Check Engine' light is always on," I told the doc.

She immediately scheduled me for the whole enchilada, which included the aforementioned blood-letting.

Good news is I have blood. Bad news is it's 180 proof. But what's a mutha to do? Go shopping? Not on this little roadtrip, baby. It's all I can do to keep my hands on the wheel. Ten and two, baby, ten and two. Which, contrary to what my daughter thinks, has nothing to do with the number of times I looked at her without permission on the way home from gym last night. I'll be paying for that little breach for the next hundred miles or so. Or until we run out of gas, whichever comes first.