Some men think some women can drive well sometime and some men think no woman can drive well anytime. This woman finds it impossible to please Boulware's driving thoughts at this time.

I think it has something to do with the fact that Boulware is forced to ride in the passenger seat these days. Due to surgery, he has orders from his physician to relinquish his driving privileges for four weeks.

To a frustrated race car driver this order compares to Elvis being forced to relinquish his guitar or the Galloping Gourmet having to give up his measuring spoons.

Woe to the chauffeur who is has to drive an egotistical wannabe driver who is puffed up with his own driving skills. Of course, it turns out I am this chauffeur.

I first got an inkling of Boulware's lack of trust in my driving skills when he chose to ride the Bootheel Area Rapid Transit van home from the hospital in St. Louis.

"I'm dismissed," he called from the hospital to announce. "Do what you need to do today. I'll take BART home."

"What a thoughtful, caring spouse," I thought as I hung up the phone.

Minnie May Marble put another slant on the story. "You don't really believe that, do you?" she asked. "He's like my husband or any other husband. He doesn't trust your driving. He thinks you'll crash or hit a pot hole that goes to China and he'll have to be stitched together again. You should know by now that a man's perceived driving skills are an extension of his ego."

Her idea began to have more validity when I informed male friends how Boulware was getting home. "Ho, Ho," they all said as they slapped me on the back. "That's just like Boulware, independent ole cuss that he is. He'll be just fine."

I interpreted this to mean, "He doesn't need any female driving him home. He'll be much safer on BART than with you driving."

BART delivered the stitched-up man to my garage door, and then the fun began. If I drive forward, I should have driven backward. If I drive to the left, I should have driven to the right.

If I am turning left and we are meeting a car, he announces, "You could have turned five times before that car got here."

The next time I am turning left and we are meeting a car, he exclaims, "What are you trying to do, kill me, turning in front of that car?"

At least 20 times on a 20-mile excursion, he must ask in his calm way, "Do you know what the speed limit is here?"

The back-seat driver's second most favorite comment is, "Did you not see that car?"

So as not to ruffle the delicate spouse's feathers, I smile sweetly and answer, "Yes, the speed limit is 35 mph," or "Yes, I saw the car." Other answers have been, "Yes, I saw the boy on the bicycle; Yes, I saw the 18-wheeler; Yes, I saw the train coming down the tracks; and Yes, I saw the yellow line."

I have one day left before Boulware Andretti can drive himself to work, the grocery store, the race track or wherever he chooses to go.

Then it's his turn. I'm good at holding a grudge. It will be a long, long time before I finish repaying him for his gracious assistance.