I have never claimed to be a good driver. When I'm divvying up driving duties with friends of friends, or coworkers, or other benign near-strangers, I always issue the following caveat: "Okay, sure, I'll drive. But I'm a terrible driver. I mean just rotten. And speaking of rotten, I can't vouch for the state of my car. I think I might've left a sandwich in the trunk like a month ago, but I'm sure as hell not going in after it now."
I may have to sell my car, come to that. It seriously reeks in there. Anyway.
My point is that anyone who gets into my car has been warned. Thoroughly. So I can't be held responsible for my behavior, once they strap themselves into the passenger seat and say their Hail Marys.
How am I a bad driver? Well, I'll tell you. I don't drive particularly fast, but I careen. I have no sense of direction -- none -- and I'm absentminded. It's not at all rare for me to wake up at a traffic light in the wrong part of town and have no idea, at first, how I got there. Then I'll realize: I meant to drive to Isaac and Cathy's, but I set out for Meredith's. Or: I meant to go to work, but I drove to the gym. It's a nightmare.
I also curse, but not like other people do. My sister loves this about me, which is only one of many reasons why I love her. She likes to tell people the story of how I once invited a fellow motorist, in the most conversational of tones, to go right on home and fuck his mother some more. It was the "some more" that got her, I think.
So anyway. I'll drive. But you've been warned.
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