In the nearly 14 years that I have been driving, I have been in more than my fair share of wrecks. As of Saturday, I had been in twelve accidents (one was not quite an accident, but it was close enough for blog standards). Nine in which I was the driver and then three memorable ones where I was the passenger. Of those, two have been my fault.

When I was in my most recent accident on Sunday, one would probably think that I’d be cool and collected in these stressful situations by now. I’m not…every time these things happen, I get panicky and distraught…I guess you could say I’m a wreck (da-dum-dum ching!)

So in honor of lucky number 13, I thought I would take a stroll down memory lane to recount the tales of my vehicular history:

#1 I had not had my license long, and I was still a bit naive and green behind the wheel. My parents were out of town for the weekend, and I was cruising around town in Mom’s car. I bounded over a hill towards an oncoming green-light without the experience and foresight to realize the sometimes traffic backs up, even when the light is green. I rear-ended a nice little BMW, and I ensured myself a long and worrisome weekend. The damage wasn’t too terrible, but I felt really bad about tearing up my mom’s car and cracking her vanity plate, so I tried to go out to replace the Auburn tag. I was nervous the whole time as I drove to and from the mall, and it was all for naught. They didn’t have the right style.

#2 Still a fresh driver, some friends and I had been visiting some other friends. Skip hopped in the passenger side, and I cranked up the car. I shifted into drive, released the emergency brake, and gracefully started barreling down the hill. I stomped on the brake, and tried to restart (forgetting the car was in drive). I shifted back into P (with much gear-grinding), and recranked (recrunk?) the car just in time to smash into the back of a Camaro parked in front of a house at the bottom of the hill. This one was ruled my fault — and I can understand why — but it seemed unfortunate, nonetheless.

#3 Still a new driver, I pulled out onto a highway just before another driver decided to merge into my lane. Not much to say here, except that — for the first time — it wasn’t my fault. My car had been full this time, and I was relieved that Josh’s and Skip’s stories matched my recollection well (goofy ole’ Gerry thought it was my fault, but what does he know?)

#4 Skip, Ken and I were passengers with Chad (accident-free up until this point), who was driving through our neighborhood. We went through an intersection in which the perpendicular traffic had a stop sign, but we did not. An impatient driver ran the stop sign at just the right time to T-Bone into the passenger side of the car wrapping the door around my arm. It was a hit-and-run, and this was before the big advent of cell phones (they were around, but they were reserved for the elite, and they weighed 100 lbs. or so …this was the dawning of the era of pagers. All the cool kids had them. I did not.) We walked up to a house to call the police, but the owner turned us away. She said that she was going to call the cops because she had heard the crash and knew we had just smashed her mailbox. We hadn’t been anywhere near her mailbox, but we figured the end result would be the same, so we encouraged her to make the call (that’s what we were trying to do anyway!) She didn’t like our snotty attitudes so she slammed the door in our faces. Her next-door neighbor was much more helpful.

#5 In bumper-to-bumper traffic, I had noticed the guy behind me driving awfully close for the conditions. There were several close calls, and finally one reaction that was just a little too slow. It was a minor hit, so I hopped out of the car to exchange information with the intent of bypassing police involvement. He had left his license in the car, so he stumbled and stammered out his name (which was coincidentally, two letters off from a famous designer’s), and his six digit phone number. Seeing the confusion on my face, he quickly spit out one more number and we left it at that. The damage was minor and I never heard from Mr. Kelvin Klein again.

#6 Driving through a rough part of town, I was rear-ended at a red light by a guy reeking of alcohol. He wanted to avoid police involvement (I’m not sure why?), but my faithful friends (Skip and Josh, who seemed to be offering to drive more and more) convinced me that we should call. After getting the report and the go-ahead to leave the scene, I noticed that the policeman was still talking intently to the folks in the other car when we left.

#7 Josh was going with my family down to watch Auburn play in the Outback bowl. Dad was driving through moderate interstate traffic, when we rounded the bend to a dead stop, traffic jam due to some construction. He slammed on his breaks and almost avoided the inevitable, except that, well, it was inevitable. To add insult to injury, the officer gave him a citation for “Failure to Stop”

#8 While not technically an accident, this still made for quite an adventure. I had taken my mom (who’s a teacher) to meet my dad for her school’s wrestling meet. He was coming after work, and it seemed silly to have to keep up with two cars, so I chauffeured her to the event and planned to bum around on that part of town for a bit. On my way home, via the interstate, her car shook and a small flaming mass flew by my window (I later learned that that’s what flaming distributor caps look like). The car decelerated, and no amount of lead-footedness changed the direction of the speedometer needle. I was fortunately able to guide the car to the shoulder and begin my hike towards civilization. After trudging through countless briars and brambles and falling into the Cahaba River in the dark, I finally found myself nervously approaching the door of a complete stranger. Drenched from head to toe, coming out of the woods at night with sticks and thorns in my head and face, I was uncertain of the welcome I might receive. The guy was very nice, and he drove me to the wrestling meet. I think the doorman took pity on this poor wretched being, because he let me in without paying the $3 ticket price (which was a good thing, because I have $1 to my name). I scoured the sea of faces and made a beeline to my parents, who kindly offered me a ride home.

#9 I was riding with my mom home from the mall, when a person rear-ended us at a red light (I was on the receiving end of #1).

#10 I was picking up my mom from her school to take her to the mechanic to get her freshly-fixed car (from #9), when someone rear-ended my car at the exit intersection. Her husband had Armor-All’ed the dashboard (deliberately) and the pedals (accidentally).

#11 I was driving to work the back way. At the bottom of the hill, there’s a left turn that leads down a twisty road that bypasses the hustle and/or bustle of rush hour traffic. It’s a fairly well-known route to locals, but most people still preferred to clog the main thoroughfares. A truck towing a trailer stacked with tennis court cement smashed into the back of our van when I was stopped to turn. The driver explained that this was his first time to tote tennis court cement, and that the braking distance had increased unexpectedly.

#12 On a Friday night, my family (7 month pregnant wife, our daughter, me) were heading north-bound on a divided highway, when someone to our right either got impatient or overlooked us completely. They pulled out to go south, and pulled into our path with very little time to react. The police took our entourage to the station, and we had a heck of a time finding someone to come get us. We didn’t have too many connections, and those we had, were not home. Finally, we tracked down a kind Sunday school teacher who drove out to carry us all home.

… And finally…

#13 On a typically manic Sunday morning (at this point we have three kids who run in three different directions when it comes time to get dressed) we had stopped to turn into the Church parking lot when a truck smashed into our bumper. The damage would have been (surprisingly) minimal, had we not been pushed up on a curb, through some real-estate signs and out into a grassy field (made muddy by the overnight rain). The oil pan was damaged in the process, but I managed to hobble the van to the parking lot, where it currently sits…

I’m still getting my bearings as I wander around the controls of WordPress. I moved all of my old entries over from MySpace to here sometime last week (I didn’t really write 5 entries in one day), and I am enjoying the new functionality that is available.

One interesting feature allows me to see the search engine items that have directed people to my little corner of the web. From what I can tell, it only retains two days of information, but I’m not quite sure what to make of my current stats.

I’m not sure which is more intriguing: the fact that my blog is the top entry in Google for searches for ‘virtual sofite doll’ (I just had to check) or that this particular search phrase has brought me hits for two conseutive days.

Either way, I wanted to post this entry in hopes of maintaining my status as king of the hill in Google seraches for (ahem, pay attention Google) virtual softie doll (whatever that may be).

Communication is an intriguing monster. In theory, the same set of words spoken by different mouths and heard by different ears should be interpretted in the same manner. Of course we all know that there are body-movements and vocal tones that convey much more than mere words, and communication is really much more elaborate than a series of well-placed syllables. That being said, I still believe that there are certain personal biases and shotcomings that seem to make communication efforts even more of a gamble.

My wife has terrible luck communicating with banks and financial institutions (I tell her it’s due to her beady eyes and seedy appearance), and I have similar problems with doctors and pharamacies.

I just got off the phone with our oldest daughter’s pediatrician. She is a very nice doctor; she’s quite cordial, and pleasant to deal with on the phone. She called to finally clear up some confusion that I had been having with the clinic she works with.

I needed a consent form signed for Amelia to receive PT/OT through her school. No biggie, I took the form by the clinic during my lunch break, and they assured me that I should be able to pick it up by the end of the day, but asked me to call first…just in case, you know. So I did. At 4:30, I explained my situation and my intent to pick up the form on my way home from work (which took some doing, because of my communication condition). I was told (with an exasperated sigh) that there is typically a 24-48 hour wait for forms like that. Fair enough, I guess.Today, I called back. I explained my story to the receptionist. She cut me off mid-way (I believe, because my words sounded like babble to her), and she forwarded me to a voice mail system. I got to explain my story once more to the machine, who was at least patient enough to hear me out (though I’m pretty sure it rolled its LEDs once or twice).

About two hours later, I received a call from the doctor, who vaguely remembered the form. She told me she would look into it an call me back. With her second call, she explained that no one knew that I was coming to pick the form up (I suppose I had been vague by asking if I could come by to pick it up), so they had already mailed it off to the school. Now, I know this sounds like a gripe, but it’s really not. I am convinced that there is some kind of gene (extra or missing, I’m not sure) that makes it near impossible for me to explain myself clearly in the medical realm.

Naomi has about given up on asking me to pick up prescriptions for her and the kids, because it’s always an ordeal for me, and it usually becomes an ordeal for her, as well. We figured it’s pointless to make two trips. (Though, I think she still sends me on occasion, because it’s a guaranteed way to get me out of the house for a while.)

At least twice, I have gone to pick up prescriptions which are not on file (but mysteriously reappear when my wife approaches the counter);  I have been told that the pharmacy did not have such-and-such in stock (though apparently the Such-and-Such shipment arrives just before Naomi does) on a couple of occassions; and I leave empty-handed more times than not. It’s my curse.

Naomi, on the other hand cannot deposit a check to save her life. She has had quite a bit of trouble getting her driver’s license, and those pesky ole’ terrorists have made banking difficult for the rest of us, so our account is only in my name for the time being.

When Naomi tries to deposit checks made out to her, checks made out to me, or checks made out to both of us, she almost always returns empty-handed. (Well, not exactly…actually, with a check in her hand and a scowl on her face). She has similar results at each branch she visits. No one wants to accept a check from her. I, on the other hand, very rarely run into any sort of hassle.

She tried to deposit one of our tax refund checks. After driving across town to answer the same set of questions from two separate branches, she still had the — at this point, very crumpled — check in hand. It was time for me to intervene.

I drove through the lane, and sheepishly answered “No”, when the observant teller asked if the account was a joint one. The air was heavy with suspense as I awaited the stern explanation of why I couldn’t make the deposit of the check (with both our names) to my account (with just my name). I knew my favorable lucky streak had ended, and the deposit would be a no-go. Finally, the speaker crackled, and I braced myself for the worst. “Have a nice day, Mr. Stewart,” she said with a friendly smile as the canister carrying my receipt shot through the overhead plumbing. I drove off with a sigh of relief.

Mundane activities such as depositing checks have never worried me in the past. They almost always go off without a hitch for me, but seeing Naomi’s terrible track record, I have become paranoid and anxious. Similarly, I think she never thought twice about picking up a prescription before she met me. Now, she breathes a little easier as she leaves the counter with drugs in hand (and not just because half her presciptions are for an inhaler).

Maybe it’s genetic, or maybe it’s some sort of subconsious profiling, or maybe it is some vast consipiracy conducted by a covert government agency. Whatever the case may be, I think we complement each other nicely with our mixed bag of difficulties. Now, if only one of us could learn to order a pizza…

The Thrift Store is a veritable treasure trove of wonderful finds. In high school, I found quite a few offbeat shirts, board games, and other miscellaneous knick knacks. More recently, I have found some good CDs and a matching set of Tiki mugs. I remember, back in the day, a friend finding the most wonderful and prized possession ever: a spear gun. I was quite covetous of that, and held out hope for such a great goodie every time I went. Every time, I have walked away slightly disappointed, but with a small trinket or two.

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Naomi and I have joined an on-line book discussion club. I’m not quite sure how this is going to pan out logistically, but our first book assignment is “The Pilgrim’s Progress” by John Bunyan. Yesterday, we went out to shop for the book, among other things. We were heading to Books-A-Million, but en route, we stopped at a large Thrift Store.

Unlike BAM with its nice, divided sections of alphabetized authors and an organizational system that would make Mr. Dewey at least a little proud, the Thrift Store has implemented a much more sophisticated system for arranging its books. It’s too complex for me to even begin to comprehend, so to my mind, it looks like a chaotic smattering of overstuffed shelves and overflowing cardboard boxes. I knew I had my work cut out for me, but with a mustard seed of faith in an angenda of my own creation, I prayed a little prayer that God would help me find the book, if, indeed, it was there.

My eyes skimmed a myriad of Danielle Steele masterpieces and Stephen King epics. I moved many a self-help journal aside in order to see the titles of the Harlequin romances that were hidden in the dark shadows of the shelves.

I prayed once more, and almost immediately, my eyes fell upon “Blue Like Jazz” by Donald Miller…right next to the Qu’Ran (I caught a sublte glimpse of the organization in place). Mr. Miller has raised quite a few eyebrows in my tiny sphere of influence with his controversial take on the church. I had been considering this book as an addition to my “(Might-read this one once I’ve read everything on my) Must-read” list, but the $14 price tag had been a very strong deterrent.

This wasn’t exaclty the result I had hoped for, but in its own little way, I saw this as an answer to my prayer. Or at least a bit of a sign. At $2.40, this book may or may not be a good deal, but is one I have been curious about for quite some time. We shall see how it goes.

A bit deflated, I continued browsing the aisles for Bunyan’s book. I knew I was retracing my steps several times over, but I was still determined to find the book…to no avail.

Naomi and Nathaniel rounded the bend from the clothes section to the books/toys/electronics section to come gather me up (I later found out that I had spent 25 minutes or so perusing book titles). I told her that I had searched through the books, high and low, and I showed her the soon-to-be-mine copy of Blue Like Jazz. I explained that I had looked everywhere for “The Pilgrim’s Progress” but had had no luck. I had given up on my quest to find The Pilgrim’s Progress. It wasn’t that God had failed me, or even that my faith had failed me, but I often wonder what it means to have faith. I struggle sometimes with the the differences between placing faith in God and His goodness and simply having faith that God will give me favorable circumstances.

It really was ok that we hadn’t found the book here. God never guarantees that I will find all the things I am looking for on my schedule, and besides, we were still heading to Book-A-Million, and they would surely have the book. Also, I was kind of excited that I had found Blue Like Jazz for a reasonable price. My curiosity and cheapness are often at odds, but they have found many compromises in the Thrift Store. Slightly disappointed, mostly at myself and my silly, whimsical designs, I grabbed the shopping cart, and my eyes fell…fell, as it turns out, right on to a copy of “The Pilgrim’s Progress” by John Bunyan.