Amanda O'Brien

“Could You Pass a Driving Test?” the colorful web banner taunted. Huh? Huh? Couldya? Could I pass a driving test? Pff. Please. I am a seasoned driver.

While my inner Valedictorian smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, cracked her dainty knuckles, and braced for the customary ace, I clicked over to the Web site and quickly answered all 18 official driving test questions.

And failed.

Miserably! My final score was a pitiful 56 percent.

Is it just me, or is everyone missing the point of Valentine’s Day? Year after year, I hear the same old complaints.

— Wahh, our favorite restaurant is booked.
— Wahh, I can’t believe I’m still single.
— Wahh, my husband got me carnations on closeout at Kroger.
— Wahh, I was attacked by a 200-pound chimpanzee named Travis and now I don’t have a face, Oprah.

Here are some New Year's resolutions I hope you'll consider.

If you’re going to use your turn signal (and I highly recommend that you do!), please do so in order to indicate that you are going to turn, not that you have completed a turn. It’s an indicator light. Not a memoir.

I’ve come to regard IT guys with equal parts respect and suspicion. They’re like those expensive heartworm chewables I feed my dog every month; I’m not convinced they actually do anything, but I feel better having them around.

Most recently, I asked a friend of mine in the IT department to explain why my laptop, after only four years of use, suddenly stopped working for good.

“Things break,” he said.

Things break?

MEEEEEEEP. I’m sorry. That answer is unacceptable. 

Two nights ago my laptop turned itself on, full volume, at 3 a.m. Strange, no? Considering I keep it set on mute, and the only other computer user in our household was in bed beside me sound asleep.

I looked at the digital clock on my nightstand, hoping to discover there’d been a power outage, but there had not. Which left only one rational explanation: a malign spirit was using my computer to send messages from the other side of the veil.

“Did you hear that?” I called into my husband’s sleeping face.

On the morning of my wedding I was denied a French manicure without cause. Ulla the aesthetician scowled down at my cuticles and issued the painful verdict: “Noh.”

“No?” I prompted.

Solemnly she shook her head. “Noh.”

“But it’s my wedding day, and I’ve always wanted a French manicure ... ”

“Noh, noh, noh.”

And did I take a stand? Demand an explanation? Threaten to find a salon that would honor my wedding day wishes?

Noh.

Have you ever made a purchase on Craigslist? Today was my first time. I bought my husband a brand new iPod Touch, and may I say of the experience: Kind of awkward.

Is it just me, or does shopping on Craigslist feel strangely like online dating? So nerve wracking! You scrutinize pictures, you feel suspicious of anyone who doesn’t post pictures, you see something you like, you take a chance … and then you pray it turns out as advertised.
 

There are three things I can count on in life: death, taxes and the absence of muscle tone. No matter how many miles I run, stairs I climb, ropes I jump, or 30 Days I Shred, my butt still looks like two uncooked biscuits dropped side by side on a baking sheet.

Why can’t I accept this injustice?

Because I’m a runner who’s never looked like one. I ran cross country in high school. I ran all through college. I continue to log between 20 and 35 miles per week. And yet, to look at my thighs, you would swear my blood type is clam chowder.

I’m all for trying new things, but when I first heard about the latest “innovation in feminine hygiene protection,” also known as The Diva Cup, a little voice inside me (the prissy one with the British accent) flat out told me, “there is no bloody chance.”

Billed as the “revolutionary alternative to tampons and pads,” the Diva Cup is a reusable menstrual receptacle you insert by hand and leave in place for up to 12 hours of collection.

TWELVE HOURS OF COLLECTION? Yikes.

I’ve always had a very loose affiliation with Inner Peace. It’s like we know each other well enough to say “hi” in the halls, but beyond that we have absolutely nothing in common.

Where Inner Peace is all ahh and ohm, I am more GAAAHHH! And ACK! And CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME? PLEASE.

Hrmph.