Who Taught Her How to Drive?

"Ack! Where the hell is she going?" Mark screamed.

"For Krissakes, slow down." I yelled back at him, "Don't follow so damn close. And how do you know if that driver is a woman? I couldn't see a thing through those tinted windows."

"They are all 'she' until proven otherwise." Mark sneered.
"For god's sake, look out! This isn't a one way street Mark!"

As is the case most of the time, the driver Mark cursed wasn't doing anything particularly alarming. Just the changing of a lane or the pulling out of a side street sends Mark into a tizzy. All I had asked for was to be taken to the ghetto barber shop where I get my hair cut. What I ended up with was being kidnapped for one of Mark's shopping safaris. For three hours yesterday I was shuttled between B.J.'s shopping club, Home Depot, Aldi Super Market, and the post office, all the while clutching the arm rest in the PT Cruiser until my finger prints were embedded in it. Mark's driving scares the living shit out of me. No amount of screaming, no amount of pleading can get him to drive like a normal human being. What I cannot figure out is how the hell he hasn't killed himself or somebody else when he's out driving alone, because I am certain that is only my screaming out in terror that has saved us from certain death.