Home for the holidays? Yes. Yes, I did go home. 

The trip was uneventful for the most part, except when I crashed my Dad's car. The driver of the offending vehicle bore a slight resemblance to Stephen King, something I noticed in the parking lot prior to the incident. Anyway, I had backed out of my spot and was in the process of both cutting the wheel and getting the car out of reverse when I saw his truck--the back of it--coming at me from the left. I had a half a second to react. Since my reflexes are in such excellent condition, I had time to say, "Ugmah," and take a (rather girly) swipe at the horn which resulted in a single innocuous chirp. 

Unfortunately, neither tactic worked. By the time I executed these maneuvers, the dude that sort of looked like Stephen King had hit me.

After we got out of our cars to survey the damage, he seemed as though he didn't know what do to. He danced around a little and said he was sorry, but that was about it. I got the impression he did not wish to involve his insurance company, but kept looking to me to be the decision maker. Now this was a ludicrous assumption on his part--that I would be capable of adeptly taking charge of the situation. While I may be 37 (but hope I only look 30), I was visiting my parents in the town where I grew up, I was driving my father's car, I was sleeping in my childhood bedroom. I don't know if this happens to you, but I'm the sort of walking cliché who becomes a twelve year old, thirteen tops, when located within a five mile proximity to my mother.

I stumbled, I muttered, I told Stephen King I was driving my Dad's car. I just wanted to run away. But, I somehow managed to get his name and number, gave him mine and I told him I'd have to see what my Dad wanted to do.

I didn't just want to get out of there, quickly, I had to.

Aside from returning my mother's book to the library, the parking lot of which was where the incident occurred, I still needed to purchase bread from one store, milk at another, and some sort of corn pads at yet another. I'm not sure what was freaking me out more--that I crashed my Dad's car, or that I suddenly wasn't sure which store the corn pads were supposed to be purchased from--I was convinced I was switching it with the milk store.

You see, a tremendous amount of research had been done before the decision upon grocery establishments had been made. According to my mother's calculations, 70 cents could be saved on the milk alone. 70 CENTS!

While determining what might cause my parents more grief, the damage to the car or the loss of upwards of two dollars in coupons and "dollar days" sales, it dawned on me. I didn't get Stephen King's license plate number--never even asked to see his driver's license. In fact, he could have written anything he wanted on that half a receipt I pulled from my purse for him to write on--I didn't even look at it. I'm a freakin' half-wit.

And you know, there's nothing more uncomfortable that enduring  post-adolescent parental angst than, well, than sharing it with the world.

In the end, the Stephen King look-a-like, who actually provided me with his real name and number, forked over about $450 towards an estimate of $600 that I think we all knew my parents weren't going to follow through on. The car's eleven years old and my Dad doesn't drive anymore.

The Weege doesn't make me buy him corn pads. 
In return, I will never crash his car.