FDS: Female Driver's Syndrome

When my friends are in need of a ride, the one person they DON'T call is me. Trust me, they have good reason.

I drive a little white Ford Taurus that's almost as old as I am. It clearly belongs to me, if you know my personality - "ISNICE" is the license plate – a Borat reference -  "MAKE LOVE, NOT WAR" is the bumper sticker. There's an "I ran into my ex - then put it in reverse and hit him again" air freshener hanging from my mirror, and if you look closely (okay, it's obvious), you'll notice that the entire right side of my car is scratched up, and the right rear-view mirror is dangling by a little cord - the mirror itself is missing.

I could make up a dramatic story involving moose (a common cause of accidents in Alaska), a child in the road (whom I would heroically dodge, sacrificing my car in the process), or another car (which came out of NOWHERE). Alas, truth is dumber than fiction.

I hit a fucking couch.

Someone thought it would be funny to leave an 8-person couch in the middle of the road to my neighborhood. I would have assumed it had just fallen out of the back of someone's truck by accident, if it hadn't been for the lamp, rug, and strategically placed throw pillows around the couch. It's as if someone decided to move their living room into traffic as a joke.

Well played, stranger, well played. If it had been on Jackass, and it didn't involve me, and it wasn't at 11:30 pm, I might have been amused... but, being Rachel, all of the above were the case.

Something you should know.... when people say "woman driver," they mean me. I will fully admit that I am probably the worst driver on the face of the planet. I'm not a hazard to anyone but myself, really.... I try to pay attention, but the second I see a shiny object, or a stray dog, or an attractive jogger...especially attractive joggers, my defensive driving certificate (which I received with flying colors, mind you) flies out the window.

But, back to the couch -

I almost hit it straight on, which would have spelled disaster for my car and myself, as I was going 70 miles an hour (because I’m a dumbass), but I dodged it in time to where it only hit the right side of my car.

What really sucked the most about this entire situation was explaining it to my mom.

"Hey, mom... I got in an accident," I cringed.

"Oh my God! Are you okay? Is anyone else hurt? What happened?" Mom turned off the romantic comedy she was watching. When it requires her to stop romantic comedy night, I know I’ll really be in trouble.

"I'm fine, nobody's hurt. I didn't hit anyone or any cars."

"You hit a moose?"

"Um... no."

"Well then, what happened?!"

I paused for a moment... there really is no good way to explain an epic fail to your mother.

"I...uhmm.... I hit a couch."

She stared at me for what seemed like ages. Her mouth hung open slightly, and I could almost hear the flies buzzing around inside.

"It came out of nowhere, I swear."

"You really are special, Rachel,” she finally sighed. “Well, I'll tell you one thing, you didn't get it from me."

I have diagnosed myself with FDS (Female Driver's Syndrome). It is not genetic, nor is it restricted to females. I have met numerous male sufferers of the disease. If you meet someone who is suffering from FDS, you might follow one of these suggested courses of action:

1. Step out of the car. Back away slowly.

2. Slap them on the forehead, scream "you should have had a V8," get out of the car, and run for cover.

3. Teach them to “feel the road” by blindfolding them and placing a live cougar in the backseat, as the film Talladega Nights: The Ballad Of Ricky Bobby demonstrates.

4. Tease them about being a Woman Driver (this is especially effective if the sufferer is male).

5. Go along with them, and play "hit the pedestrian." This is a useful and amusing activity, and improves one's steering abilities immensely.

6. Grab the steering wheel. Don't give it back until they stop the car.

7. Duct-tape the drivers' hands to the wheel. I wouldn't suggest taping her foot to the gas pedal, as this spells disaster. Trust me. I know.

8. Don’t ask Rachel Novae for a ride – your couch may be in danger.