When you're in a rush,

And got lots to do,

It's more likely than not

You'll hit a snafu or two.

(A little dumb ditty do dumb ditty for you!)

So I'm in my plaid pajama top and jeans outfit starting the wagon with the driver's door still open. (It's a habit I just can't seem to shake.) The sweet lighting from the Sunday morning sunshine is creating a halo of highlights on my unbrushed morning mop. I turn the key in the ignition and give the dozing beast some gas. It starts and then it's engine wanes off. I pump the gas pedal lightly to keep the engine going. The engine wanes off again. But just before it goes off completely, I give it more gas. A little too much gas, and I and the rest of the neighborhood for that matter, hear the engine roar like an airplane about to take off. This is not good, I know, for the car. A woman with two Jack Russells stares curiously at the scene as she walks by. She walks on without offering any assistance. She knows her offer of help would only increase my embarrassment. Or perhaps she just doesn't care to get involved in this madcap motorized debacle? That's more like it! But unfortunately, this sideshow of shame is not over for me. Even after that, the engine dies on me. Dave comes out and asks me if I want him to back the car out for me. Defeated and more than a little irritated, I answer, "Would you?"

Dave backs the wagon out onto the road and parks it there. Its engine is off now. It lurks there on the road. A quiet latent mass of steel and rust. Yes, It mocks me as it sits there and I ponder the job that awaits me when Dave leaves with the new car. Meanwhile, Dave gets into the Acura and gives it too much gas to start it. That car doesn't actually need any gas to start it. He forgets after years of pumping the beast's pedals to get it going. It's a different car Dave. And by the way, if it's in first gear when you start it will jump through the garage wall and into our kitchen Dave. HA!

As he pulls away and off to work I wave back to him, still sitting in the quiet beast. I wonder if I'll be able to move this bulk back to its old familiar spot on our driveway. I turn the ignition key. There I sit in my pajama top (braless to boot) in that enormous monster, cursing out the car as the engine keeps dying on me. The neighbors with balconies have a perfect view of my misfortune. The other neighbors with their screen doors open are probably wondering why they are sucking in gas fumes while they try to enjoy their Sunday morning breakfast. Their French toast will have more than a coating of maple syrup on it by the time I get this car started and back into the driveway. Finally on the fourth try, the car gives way and I'm able to get it back into the spot. Relieved and embarrassed - and irritated all to hell - I slam the car door shut and make my way into the house. Am I defeated? No way! Driving lessons? I can't wait. I'm going to be a master of those two menacing!

machines. I plan to slay that scrap heap into submission. ...Perhaps that is a little harsh. The thing is alive I think, ...and may have feelings. As for the Acura, I'm going to get those gears well in hand and it better R-E-C-O-G-N-I-Z-E.