I am too lazy to get my plug so I'm gonna to try to write this all "reserve battery styles" ie; no spell-check.

Okay okay.. I am going to get the plug. I wish a bag of chips would magically appear next to the plug - but it won't.

Righty-oh here we go. This is another one of those entries where I entertain my seven readers with a humorous story told through gritted teeth.

My spleen really does seem to be aching slightly, or my liver - if it's the liver it's probably a result of the 1:1 ratio of wine bottles to dinner guests last night, and the fact that this morning I didn't get a sufficient amount of time between "wakey-wakey little flaky" and drinking a coffee, before I had to get my sorry ass out to "nadir-of-your-life-up-to-this-point" driving school. Where Claude, resplendent in his black driving jacket and yellow golf shirt, was waiting to take me on a whirl to the parking lots of the south shore.

Rule #1/ If you are already shaking don't get behind the wheel of the filthy rust bucket that I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD is not in alignment, and go out on the Jacques Cartier bridge. Just don't do it, pay the fucking 36 dollars or whatever and stay in bed.

However, some of us are just born rule-breakers so aching spleen, Claude and I hit the road at 11:00am.

You know what the worst part of the whole thing is - worse then my head-ache, short temper, hungry belly sitting in a tiny ball under the seatbelt and growling ever so slightly. It's the fact that in Montreal no-one drives according to the law, except us poor suck-bag student drivers. "50" means "60" and this can even be "70" if you're say, on a bridge or turning some waving sexy curves on a downslope. So, if everyone else is hellbent for leather, and you're sitting in a car so dirty it's giving you scabies, staying steady at "50" while delerium tremens has it's way with your kneecap. How do you think that feels?? Especially when the people passing you on all sides are not only honking, but also giving you the finger and Claude's only advice is. "It's not for you to take it personally - if they don't want to follow the rules that's their problem." Be that as it may Claude, I would prefer also to not follow the rules I think.

Once safely off the bridge we hit the parking lots of the Longueil shopping centre which is where the real fun begins. It's also where my coffee hits my bladder and I not only feel hungry/headachey I have to pee like the racehorse I am not imitating.

Apparently the way one is meant to drive in parking lots is by keeping the foot hovering over the brake , nowhere near the accelerator. By keeping the car moving through sheer force of will alone, the driver can cruise at a speed that is only slightly slower than an octagenarian with a loaded bundle buggie. Again you ask, is that how other drivers traverse the mall parking lot? Oh no! Do you feel your spleen working, you should. The other drivers are bombing around willy-nilly as we inch along, again getting passed on all sides, this time by PEDESTRIANS, I saw a fucking guy napping and he was going faster than us.

Sample dialogue from the parking lot workshop;

"See that guy there, he has the right of way you should yell."

"What should I yell?"

"Just yell, that's all you have to do."

"Why do you want me to do that I don't understand?"

"Yell just yell!"

"Claude! what do you want me to yell at him?"

"Yield Miriam I said yield!"

Of course by this point we are stock still at the centre of the parking lot intersection my spleen is hitching a ride on someone else's back for the moment and the dude I was supposed to be 'yelling' to, well he's slowly making a left around us and giving me the look of "you crazy bitch" I hate that look it makes me feel so misunderstood.

"Claude, I am starving, I have to pee, and I need to get out of this car for just a minute." My hands are shaking and the knuckles are white, if I look sideways for even a second, laser beams will shoot from my eyes like migraine-bringers and leave Claude a tiny pile of ashes and probably one stubborn surviving nose hair in the bucket seat beside me. On his part, Claude is looking a little shocked that I almost managed to crash while going 2 miles an hour.

I hang a left and park at Timmy's where I mash a bagel and cream cheese into my whining maw while Claude mumbles cursewords at me from the passenger seat.

Unfortunately for us both we are still in Longueil and there's an entire body of water between us and our separate ways.

The trip back was no better than the trip out and replete with the old chestnut of a game called "look far". That's where Claude repeats the words "Look far" to me ad infinitum while I say; "Claude I don't know what that means, what does that mean? Can you please stop saying that to me, it really means nothing. I'm doing fine here Claude, see how straight I am going, if you say that one more time I swear to GOD I AM GOING TO LOSE MY SHIT AND DRIVE INTO THAT POLE THERE SO HELP ME!"

these lessons always end with us literally running in different directions. I don't know if Claude is ever teary-eyed, I know I am.