Close up Hands Tea x

Sit a bit and hear some observational stories I’ve been steeping.

Driving in SoCal. Enough to make you flipping angry.

To the lady who rode my bumper, screaming and gesturing for me to “hurry up” (at least, that’s what I think she said) the last 25 feet to the red light — I wrote down your license plate number and what I consider to be a pretty accurate description of you (although I’m sure your eyes are probably blue or green and not the molten hot lava red you displayed this morning).  But, don’t worry.  I’m not turning you in to the authorities.  I’ve put an all points bulletin out to our local coffeehouses here in Santa Clarita, informing them that you are no longer allowed to purchase any caffeinated beverages larger than 16 ounces after 8am.

 

 Yeah, that there is just one of my little fantasies I’d really like to fulfill.

 

 Driving around Southern California is lot like the driving done in most video games.  It is fast and reckless, with only the sound effects missing.  And that’s only because you can’t hear the people screaming in their hermetically sealed vehicles.   Believe you me, they are screaming.  I’ve seen them.  And I may or may not have also been them.  But my screaming is mostly done in terror, not anger.

 

My louse of an ex-spouse (it’s not slander when you’ve had two of ‘em.  So, good luck trying to pin any future comments on which one I’m talkin’ about) had a habit of constantly issuing a universal hand gesture at practically every driver of every vehicle that ever upset him (If ever carpel tunnel was diagnosed, it wasn’t the hand that led the mouse. I’m just sayin’).  As for me, I could never do that.  It’s not just an issue of morality either.  I have never been worked up enough to even consider giving any sort of hand signal, as one must release their death-grip from the steering wheel to do so.  For me, that has never been an option.  “10 & 2!” they told us in the Drivers Education Simulator… 10. And. 2. [Except when I’m driving with my knees to reach into the glovebox/retrieve an awol cd case/adjust the burger wrapper, etc.  You know.  Important stuff.]

 

Living in a small community can teach a person a thing or two about driving etiquette.  16 years ago I know someone who drove out of our local shopping center parking lot in a bit of a snit and flipped off another driver who he thought was flipping him off – oh, you mean our daughter’s preschool teacher, the one WAVING at you?  Nice.  That didn’t make circle time awkward at all the next morning.  No cookies and juice for me, gentle caregiver of my most precious possession.  Just a small serving of someone else’s crow, by proxy, thank you.

 

Lady who rode my car’s fanny this morning?  If I do see you in line purchasing that high-octane, cup-as-big-as-your-head coffee (and chances are, in this small community, I will) I believe I’m going to cozy up to you and totally invade your personal space.  Kiss your bumper, so to speak.  But, I won’t scream and gesture you at you the way you did this morning.  Because that would just make our next encounter at the elementary school awkward (it’s not character assassination if I don’t use your name. Even if I do know who you are and what you drive).

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