DON'T PANIC

Learning how to drive under the tutelage of my mother is a nasty business.
"Turn right at Northcrest, turn left onto the 101 South, come off at Forest and then go straight on Francisco Boulevard until we get to the CVYO Orchestra.* Got it?"
(Starts car) "Yeah."
(One minute later) "What're you doing!?"
"Uh..."
"I said 101 South! Which direction is the 101 South!?"
"...South?"
"You're on the right lane, which means North! Go left!"
The level of agitation of my mother is directly proportional to the volume of her voice and how tightly she holds the door of the car. Studies have shown that staying calm in tense situations helps others remain calm and collected; this logic may be applied in the other direction as well.
"Turn the wheel, turn the wheel, turn the - no not so much! You idiot what're you doing!?"
"Stop yelling I'm trying!"
"Don't go so fast in a turn! Slow down, slow - don't stop in the middle of the intersection!!!"
The seven-minute odyssey from school to my home is a grueling ordeal that must be overcome daily. Perhaps the most life-threatening challenge is the daunting, terrible, scrutinizing last five-foot stretch. Parking, not surprisingly, is one of the most challenging skills to be mastered by a wimpy sixteen-year-old who allegedly has horrible hand-eye coordination (but who is somehow also an advanced pianist), and patience must be cranked up in full gear.
Attempt #1: "You're too far to the right again. Back up, try again."
Attempt #2: "You're still too far to the right. How many times do I have to tell you!? When you come in you have to pull straight, pull straight. You're turning the wheel too much!"
Attempt #3: "Pull straight! You're not doing what I'm telling you to do! Pull straight!"
Attempt #4: "Why can't you do it right!? Pull straight!"
"Will you just shut up!? I'm trying!"
"I'm just trying to help! You're the one who isn't doing what I said! Why can't you do it right!?"
"You don't have to yell!"
"Is it because you're too scared of hitting the garage door!? You won't hit the door, alright, so stop being so scared! There's nothing to be scared of!"
Attempt #5: I come one centimeter away from ramming the front of my mother's car straight into the garage door. At the last second it occurs to me that this is probably a very bad idea in a lot of ways (namely, a large repair fee would only make my mother yell at me even more and doesn't really disprove my cowardice, anyways).
So I don't.

(Neither of us really thinks too hard about whether or not I just don't know where the hell I am in relation to the rest of this leather-seated silver-backed monster of a Lexus, and that maybe if we all just listened to some Mozart and smoked some metaphorical weed I wouldn't be tempted to kill myself at my own front door.)


*most names are made up to protect personal privacy. Not because I don't remember the real directions. Of course not.