It's ridiculously cold. Winter just came crashing in and down around us here in my neck of the woods. Up until last Sunday night, we'd only received about an inch of snow all winter. And rather consistently mild temps.
Until now.
Did I brag too much? Is that it? I'm getting paybacks.
Paybacks are hell.
My face is cracking. My hands are dry. My lips are chapped. My washer fluid froze up (and I didn't know it until I was on the highway headed to work). I'm eating out of pure boredom -- and a little stress ...?
And my mother-in-law has been here since last Wednesday. Stranded. She was supposed to have gone home on Monday, when the earlier forecast was calling for sunny skies. And then somebody decided to give a hearty shake to our otherwise peaceful, placid snow globe ..... and voila! Crappy, crazy-cold, snowy winter weather. And she's still here. Parked. Until Lord knows when. And talking non-stop.
I need my silence. I miss it. I forget what it sounds like.
During Duck Dynasty last night I actually hid in my bedroom so that I could watch the rest of the episode in peace. Would you not think that when people are staring straight and intensely at a TV screen that they would probably want to hear what's being said? Is that not a big enough clue?
Noooooooooooo!
Tonight the temps drop even more. Is this a good night for whiskey?
Maybe Watch the movie Eight Below?
It would be good to be an Alaskan Malamute about now.
The whole mystery bowl thing has always disgusted me. I can't do it. I pass the torch. And if no one steps up to the plate, it'll have to wait. I can't seem to get it out of my head once I look -- and the smell! Just can't bring myself to do it.
And bugs. Same way with bugs. They disgust me. And when I discover one in an unexpected place, I wig out completely. And it doesn't do to step on it or squish it with a paper towel, because then I can hear their bones break -- and that's even worse. Ewwwwww!
There was a Scwarzkopf hair color three-ring notebook in our bathroom that I was flipping through, perusing the different shades, and when I opened to the red section, there it was. A little round armor-like bug was crawling across the page. Naturally I shriek and hurl the book onto the bathroom floor. Then, breathing rapidly in panic, I slam the cover shut and jump on top of the notebook. Yes. I did. Jumped a few times. Yes, I did that too. The noise from the bulk of the notebook stifled whatever noise might have come from the bug's bones breaking. Just don't think about that, I said to myself. Seek and destroy is your mission.
What is wrong with me?
Once when I was little I was looking out the window and I saw a box turtle -- those are the kind that are black and yellow with the patterned design on their shells -- crawling VERY, VERY, VERY SLOWLY -- HARDLY-NOTICEABLE SLOWLY -- through the grass. I freaked out. Although I had wanted to go out and play, there was no way I was going out there until that fellow was long gone.
Okay. I can't dwell on those images anymore. Flipping to something pleasant...IT'S FRIDAY. YES. Already looking forward to a glass of wine (or two) after work today. And we may check out a new (fairly new, new to us) restaurant in town, The Blue Rooster. We've heard good reviews. It looks quaint and inviting. Frankly, I like the name.
I looked outside a minute ago to check the streets. No turtles. But I see that they're glistening wet in the glow of the streetlights. I had expected the temps to be colder, but when I checked my weather app, I saw that it's rather mild for a winter morning. 32? That's nothin! Oh, but not too fast. The home phone just rang and the recording just announced a two-hour delay for school this morning. That sheen I see on the streets is a foreboding sign of the treacherous surface below. And I planned on hitting the gym....! Hmmm.
I'm giving it a shot. Nice and easy. Not much traffic at this hour. I can do this. Time's a wastin. So chug-a-lug. Coffee gone. Time to get this show on the road. It's shoulders day.
My gym has a cardio movie
room, dark and dimly lit, huge screen for watching movies. I usually have my music cranked. I watch, rarely listen. Too busy jammin' to my tunes. And then we have a cardio loft that overlooks
the weight room below, with several TVs suspended from the ceiling along the
front of the cardio machines.
Historically I’ve toggled from the cardio loft to the movie room when
doing my cardio at the gym.
But for the past few weeks, I’ve
been using it for my running. I’ve
discovered it’s FAR easier on my joints and knees than running on the pavement
in our neighborhood. And yes, it gets a tad boring running around in circles, hamster-like, but as long as I have good
music on my MP3 or iPhone, I’m good to go.
I miss the fresh air...I miss the moon
-- love the moon! -- but that cushy turf is the draw!
So I’ve been working on
building up my endurance. If you don’t
run regularly, you lose your stamina.
And I want to get back to running a solid 30 minutes without stopping. So I’ve been slowly building back up. My mantra this morning…
Just breathe…
you got
this…
this is nothing…
Look at you...
you’re floating like a kite…
That's it...just breathe.
That’s what I do. Mind games.
Constant mind games, whether lifting or
cardio, when it starts to break me down, I fight back with mind games. Mantras. Self-talk. And music. Gotta have that music.
I ran for 22 minutes, then
headed to the weight room and got in 40 minutes of back and ab work, including
one hamstring/glute exercise thrown in for good measure. Circuit training, higher reps, minimal rest.
When I left the gym this
morning, I was still floating a few inches off the ground. I almost have to work at suppressing a loud and sustained “YESSSSSSSSSSS!” as I’m walking to my car. My head was clearer, my mind emptied of the
muck and misery. It’s like a Happy
shot. Yep, I gotta have that Happy
shot. Time for my Happy shot again. It’s the best medicine on the planet.
I was at Walmart a couple
of days ago -- I don’t like shopping there and avoid it as much as possible. My son insisted that we get more green Christmas lights so he could finish his masterpiece on the front lawn. So I was taking the long route from the Lawn & Garden over to the
Groceries when I passed by the TV/Electronics/DVD section. I couldn’t help but notice how crowded that
department was. And as I began checking
out the customers flocking in and around, it dawned on me. Look at them!
Every single person in that section was overweight. Noticeably overweight. And I began to ponder on that… They’re google-eyed about the TV’s, the DVD’s…
that’s THEIR medicine. They're in their glory. Give 'em a big
screen, a big comfy couch, a stack of DVD’s, a remote control, and a bag of chips, and they're in paradise.
Attention, all you
movie-watchin'
TV-addicted,
lazy, brain-numbed shoppers!
Have we got a deal for you!
Free chips and sodas with
every $50 purchase!
They don’t have a care
in the world that their pastime is exacerbating their weight problem. An endless stream of commercials, seducing them into eating more and more fattening, artery-clogging food, as they poke it in and change the channel, hour after hour,
totally oblivious to what it feels like to get up off their asses and move
every now and then, take a walk. Just.get.up.WAKE up. BREATHE!
For each their own? I guess.
But as a tax payer, I’m having to pay for their health problems that are
self-induced due to their passive lifestyles.
And that ruffles my feathers a little.
No, a lot.
I made my way to the
self-checkout lane and scanned my few items, bagged them, and finalized my
purchase. As I was gathering my three
plastic bags of items, surely no more than 2-3 seconds after the transaction
had ended, the little robot voice very emphatically snipped (yes, it snipped, I'm sure of it), “Please remove your
bags.”
I guess I was taking too
long. And I don’t waste time, for the
record. It’s the way I roll, constantly
planning my next move. Time's a wastin'.
“Please remove your bags.” Really?
I half expected the next outburst directive to be “Please get the hell out.”
I wonder how long the
robot shouts at those shoppers in the TV/Electronics department, I giggled to
myself as I headed out the door.
Oh, how I do not like being at Walmart. I was already feeling the stress beginning to
smother me. C’mon, gotta get out of
here. Just breathe and keep walking.
First it's endless commercials. And endless campaign signs. And then it's endless voicemails filling up my answering machine. (Delete, delete, delete!) And now my answering machine at work!?! (Delete, delete, delete!) And then the brochures begin littering people's windshields, mailboxes and front door knobs. I'd add radio stations to this list, but I don't listen to local radio, only Pandora -- because I'm a jazz addict ... and a Blank & Jones addict ... and I live in West Virginia, so no further explanation is needed.
I digress.
Last week they began lining up NO PARKING signs around one side of the courthouse, so trying to maneuver out into traffic after exiting our parking building was rather taking life into my own hands, considering the absentee voters parked as close to the corner of the curb as they could, making it nearly impossible to see when it was clear to pull into traffic.
And this morning. The cones. Those damn orange cones are EVERYWHERE, circling the perimeter of the federal and state courthouses, cop cruisers with their blue lights flashing parked among them.
Uh, right! And so how am I supposed to get into my parking building, I ask? Watch this ... as I hastily maneuver in and out of them -- you know, those tricks I learned off Turnfast.dom? Yeah. Those.
One of my few pleasures of the morning while having coffee-- my giant-sized coffee --before heading to the gym is scrolling through my Reading List of Blogger to the recent posts of blogs I subscribe to. (Creature of habit here.) I would much rather do this than log on to Facebook (puhleeeze) or surf news browsers.
My morning "fix" (play on words) is easy. Just let me read my emails, cleanse & pray with scripture, and read my blog feeds. That's what I like. That makes my mornings complete.
There apparently is a bug on the Reading List Feed component of Blogger, allowing only one blog post to display at a time. No matter what you do, it won't load more updated blogs to your list. Bugs. For three days now... "Thank you for your patience...our engineers are working on this problem..."
My patience? Hmm. They assume things they shouldn't assume.
Nobody likes waiting rooms. There are very few pleasant waiting rooms in a real world. This we learn. You do what you have to do.
My windshield had mysteriously developed a crack, right at the top, on the driver's side. Like, overnight. Where the hell did THAT come from!
That was two weeks ago. Today I found myself in a small, cramped, dark, ugly, smelly, noisy, depressing waiting room of a local windshield repair establishment. The seats were small, uncomfortable, and arranged in a sad little L-shaped circle, parked in front of a smallish TV, The Weather Channel playing over and over and over ad nauseum. Try watching The Weather Channel for almost two solid hours straight, nothing but overly dramatic weather forecasters, one after the other, repeating the gloomiest and doomiest weather across our nation...over...and over...and over...Cheerful stuff.
I THOUGHT I'd come prepared. I'd brought my Kindle. I'd eaten a small protein snack before leaving the office, not hungry at the time and thinking it would hold me over until I got home after getting my windshield repaired. But as I sat in this small, dimly-lit depressing little room, the monotonous weather updates lulling me into a coma amid the bickering and yelling of the workers, I realized that trying to read to stay occupied wasn't working. I felt myself slumping further and further down into my very uncomfortable chair.
And then the hungries hit. Oh.my.goodness. I was suddenly starving. Of course there were no vending machines. Zero. Nadda. A sad little bowl of peppermints. Slim pickings.
To make my stay even more pleasant, there were two restrooms within a few feet of where the pitiful little row of chairs were arranged, like, we're talking maybe six feet away. A little too close for comfort? Oh, yeah. I lost count of the number of times these greasy, tatoo-covered workers in the garage bays paraded in and out of the bathroom. They sure did. I was shocked and amazed. What? Are you having intestinal distress? Kidney issues? Should someone call a doctor? Of those who were in and out, you could safely assume bladder relief. (But I thought only women had to make trips that often.) Others? Well, let's just say they camped. (Please, God, not again.) This went on and on and on, the endless parade to the restrooms. Don't dwell on it. You'd think that would have taken care of my appetite. It worked, but only temporarily.
I began to hallucinate, seeing mirages of pizza. It dawned on me that I probably wasn't really hungry, but that it was exhaustion masquerading as hunger. And there I was, stuck in this dreadful waiting room, way too close to the restrooms, not in the best of company, no one to talk to to distract me, and no idea when I'd be set free.
I tried thumbing through outdated magazines, none of which interested me. I checked emails on my cell phone. No matter what I tried, I kept getting sleepier...and hungrier...and sleepier...and on and on and on, enduring this torturous wait, trying to recall a time when I was more bored, more hungry, more annoyed, more exhausted.
Finally, one of the little short, greasy, ear-pierced, tatoo-covered workers came to announce that my car was ready. I could go. I promptly thanked the little man, paid my bill, and hauled ass out of there.
Just get me home. Just drive. Drive! Home.Sweet.Home.
I received an email yesterday afternoon that a dear neighbor friend of mine had been in a horrific accident (one of those stuck accelerator stories that scare the shit out of you when you dwell on it) this past Saturday and had miraculously lived to tell about it, and had just gotten home from the hospital. I panicked. She lives a few blocks away and I only see her now and then while she's walking her dogs. We used to play Bunco together, which is when I got to know her well, falling in love with her joie de vivre and adorable, contagious sense of humor. Though in her late 70's, one would never guess it. She's constantly on the go and in the know.
I texted her son before I stopped by to make sure she was up for company, and he later texted back to tell me she would love for me to stop over. He and his brother live in Cleveland and Columbus and had dropped everything to come to her aid the minute they heard the news. After picking up a maple & cinnamon bagel and a caramel chocolate muffin from the bakery, I stopped by our house, unloaded my briefcase, let Chessie out, then headed down the street toward her house. Rounding the corner, I saw two women carrying dishes of food, and by the time I got to her driveway, they were getting back in their car and pulling away. Fearful of what to expect, I was certain that I didn't want to stay long. She needed her rest, and too much company would only wear her out.
When I arrived, her sons (both in their 40's or so) welcomed me and filled me in on her condition, the wreck, etc. They thanked me for coming. When I saw her standing in the kitchen doorway having a conversation with one of our neighbors, I was astonished at the degree of bruising and swelling over her face, chest, arms. She waved and smiled at me, "Hi, Twyla, I can't see you very well but I hear your voice and I know it's you. Wish I could see better," that adorable, infectious giggle laced with understandable nervousness. I tenderly reached for her hand and gave her a light hug. I wanted to cry.
After being shown photos of the car and seeing her injuries, I was so thankful that she had survived this awful accident with not even one broken bone! They had to extricate her and airlift her to the hospital. Everyone who witnessed the scene agreed that she was a walking miracle. Tender Mercies from Above. My heart was breaking for her.
As she began to tell me about her broken glasses, the eye doctor's report, grateful that she had not lost her eyesight, this other neighbor, a notorious flap jaw, began finishing each of her sentences, interrupting to tell about an experience she had gone through years ago, how scared she was, and what she remembers and doesn't remember, and oh how glad she was that .... blah-BLAH, blah-BLAH, blah-BLAH. On and on and on and --- And with fire in my eyes, surely burning holes in her curly, goofy head, I'm thinking ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS, BITCH? SHUT THE HELL UP!
How inconsiderate! Here I am trying to get just a minute or two with her, reach out, offer comfort, LISTEN to her, wanting her to know I'm willing to prepare meals, shop, do whatever she needs me to do, and here's this annoying, screechy-voice windbag who just won't stop. I finally interrupted her mid sentence, insisting that my friend come and sit down in the living room, get off her feet. I emphasized that WE SHOULD BE LEAVING because she needed some peace and quiet, needed her rest. She seemed grateful for that initiative.
Turning to make my way to the kitchen with her bagels and muffins, her son began sharing with me a few brief details and expressions of gratitude. And there she goes again, that VOICE! That hyena laugh. Chatty Cathy was at it again, towering over her in her recliner, going on and on and on about absolutely nothing.
What is it about people
who don't know when to shut up?
You know, I try to be conscious of this, on guard most of the time trying not to monopolize conversations in a social setting. I strive to be a good listener, attentive, intuitive, in touch. A fluid exchange. Quid pro quo. Good conversation skills are SO underrated.
Well, it dawned on me that I needed to rescue my friend from this self-centered prattle monkey. So butting in again -- and most certainly for the last time -- I said very emphatically, "Well, it's time for us to leave (more preferably stated "get the hell out of here") and let you get some rest. You've been through enough and you need some peace and quiet," coming very close to placing my hands on this clueless woman's shoulders, perfecting her about-face, and kicking her ass out the door.
Who can truthfully say -- in good conscience -- that it is not in need of complete and total overhaul?
MOTHER OF BOMBING SUSPECTS:"I wanted to scream to the whole world, 'What did
you do?' What have you done with my son? He was alive. Why did you need to kill
him? Why didn't you send him to Guantanamo or whatever? Why? Why? Why did they
have to kill him? They got him alive, he was in their hands," she shouted,
her voice cracking.
"It
is some kind of show, spectacle," she said in accented English.
"There
is a lot that is unexplained," she said, adding that she was considering giving up her U.S. citizenship.
"if they want the body, set sail on a raft and wait for it on the coast of russia.....DO NOT let them into our counrty. She is a lawbreaker and he is an idiot. Have them pay back the US all the $$ thrown at them for being in policital asylum.....welfare , school tuition, health care.....stuff that as [hard working] citizens we do not get..."
Sweaty and worn out, I had just arrived home from my spinning class and was having some post workout nutrition -- dinner. My husband tells me I look sexy when I'm sweaty, hair all mussed up, dressed in workout clothes. Hmm. Imagine that! That's nice. Irritating, is what it is.
I'll finish my story.
So my youngest son walks by, having just showered after finishing up his own lifting session with some of friends. This conversation ensues:
HUSBAND: Have you noticed C lately?
..................(to C) Turn around, let your mom see your back.
(C complies sheepishly)
ME: What? His muscles? Yes, I've BEEN noticing that for a long time. It's very noticeable. He's really gained a lot of muscle in his back, chest and arms. He looks great!
HUSBAND: Yes, he does. You can really see the difference just in the last few weeks.
ME: Yep. It's that hard work and good genes. He's blessed with being able to add muscle easily.
HUSBAND: Uh-huh...
ME: (in an encouraging tone, smile on my face) Yes, just think. Imagine how YOUR body would transform if you were to lift weights now and then... ! (smile fixed on my face, dead stare.)
HUSBAND: (reciprocal dead stare; no response)
It's very strange. He's quite the cheerleader. Quite the advocate. And I get compliments from him on my efforts at staying fit, working out, all.the.time. My sons get kudos and support from staying fit, getting strong, working hard.
Yet no matter how I approach this subject -- and believe me, I've tried every way known to man for years and years and years, even avoiding the subject entirely, still ... I run into a brick wall with his reciprocity.
In a word? It hurts.
Isn't one of the first lessons we learned in kindergarten to "play fair" ... ?
quid pro quo?
Yes, there's a lot of truth to what they say. You can set an example, you can cover it with sugar, you can throw vinegar on it, you can disguise it, hint at it, analyze it, encourage it, ignore it, give credence to it, beg for it, plead for it, flirt for it -- the list goes on and on and on...
Our church has decided to update the membership directory and has been urging all members to make appointments to have their portraits taken with the photography company they've contracted with locally. Members are asked to sign up for an appointment, and the family shows up at their alotted time over the course of a few weeks. The family portraits will be included in the new directory, along with contact information, etc.
We've been dreading this event. It's the typical song and dance, the followup "pressure" session to get you to purchase their "packages," none of which I have EVER liked for a host of reasons.
Why must they ALWAYS use BLUE backgrounds? Is there a law?
Everyone always looks posed and held hostage.
At least one of the subjects has a goofy smile.
The lighting is always bad.
The colors always too bright.
Posed huddles are just -- well, unnatural?
Why must we have our hands strategically placed on each other, little group hug gesturing? I live with four men. They never "touch" each other. This is a big clue that screams "FAKE."
Who sits on stools to have their photos taken? Stools? Why must we sit at all, for that matter?
This is especially painful for teenagers, thus the smiles are always forced and painful.
We attended our session. We huddled, and touched, and grimaced smiled, and laughed on cue at all the tacky jokes the photographer rattled off (if only he knew it was making it even more difficult to make our smiles look natural), and after what seemed like an eternity, the torture came to an end, and we dutifully went to the next room to choose our pose for the church directory. We heard the typical sales pitch, the "deals" they were offering, hoping we'd buy hoards of photos and packaged assortments.
REALLY? Uh, no thanks.
We chose our directory pose, agreed to buy two 5x7's, then ran for our lives outta there.
Oh.My. WHAT a can of worms this topic presents. I must assign an exclusive label for this blog post title.
I'm aware that over the years as a reporter, my patience has both improved and waned. It's dictated by circumstances, some inexcusable, some not so inexcusable.
Example: We are in the middle of a motions hearing in court, and I am listening intently to the motions being made by counsel when I hear loud voices outside the courtroom doors, making it more difficult for me to hear the attorney addressing the Court. Seconds later, again, same voice. Same show of disrespect. Suddenly the courtroom doors crash open -- surely an attorney should know to quietly enter and take a seat as discreetly as possible while court is in session? No. And then I see who it is. Ah, yes. Mr. Jerk. He's already been before the Court earlier this week. I feel my ire rising already, just the sight of him. Maybe even slightly nauseous. Yes, he has that effect on me.
How impressed this guy is with himself. He has arrived. He wants the world to know and acknowledge his presence. Please!
Does he take a seat quietly? No.
From the moment he enters the courtroom, he sets into motion this display of annoying behaviors.
Rustling of papers
Loosening of tie
Seemingly involuntary jerk of the head -- over, and over, and over
Fake clearing of the throat -- over and over and over
Loud whispering (no, it's NOT a whisper actually) to other lawyers seated near him, followed by laughter -- his laughter, not theirs
More clearing of the throat
Digging through his briefcase, pretending to look for something
Continued, antsy gestures and nods
Feigned facial expressions of boredom and impatience -- his time is so valuable, after all
The case at bar is concluded, and Mr. Jerk's case is called. He walks demonstrably to counsel table, noisily and ostentatiously placing his briefcase on counsel table, opening and closing his jacket to proudly display his suspenders, because, ahem, Don't I look amazing today, People? Spewing pretentious and unsolicited comments in an attitude of jest -- his attempt at being "folksy" with the Judge, all before he is personally addressed by the Court, superseded by his own annoying laughter. Wow, have we been gifted with his almighty presence.
The Court opens the case, naming the parties to the case and the motion that is pending, calling upon defense counsel to argue his motion. Sure enough, as Mr. Defense begins stating the grounds for his motion, Mr. Jerk begins to clear his throat again...and again...pours himself a drink from the carafe on the table, drinks ALL of it, then pours another. (Are you nervous, Dude? Mouth dry?) Gulps that down. Places empty cup noisily on counsel table. Straightens papers. Straightens tie. Scoots back in chair, then forward again. Pours himself yet another drink of water, gulps it down. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses his legs. Clears his throat again. (How many times now? I've lost count.)
The Court politely interrupts Mr. Defense to ask him him a question regarding a comment he has just made. Sure enough, Mr. Jerk feels led to answer that question, oblivious to the fact that the Court did NOT address the question to him, while at the same time Mr. Defense attempts to address the Court's concerns and answer the question---all of which is a challenge for me, trying to get two voices at once, aggravated that Mr. Jerk has spoken out of turn.
Mr. Defense finishes a couple more sentences, and again, the Court stops him to ask yet another question. I saw it coming. (How could I not?) Just as Mr. Jerk is rising from his chair to take the liberty of answering a question not posed to him, I cannot restrain myself and politely but assertively interrupt Mr. Jerk -- seeing that my judge hadn't felt led to -- and admonish him to wait until he is addressed before speaking since I can only get one voice at a time for the record.
A brief pause by everyone, and then Mr. Defense resumes...
The look on Mr. Jerk's face is priceless. That look of surprise. Offended even? Did she just try to embarrass me? Put me in my place? The court reporter? Really?
YES, REALLY, DUDE. Shut the hell up and sit still until your opponent finishes his argument. And THEN, only if you must, and only if called upon by the Court, you may speak -- as animatedly as you care to. And in the meantime, I'll do my best to take down your purged utterances while waiting quietly and eagerly for this hearing to conclude.
Oh, and incidentally, I'm 99.9% certain that Mr. Defense's motion will be granted. And I'm rarely wrong at second guessing my judge's rulings. Justice is served.
My brain is on overload and I'm suffering from severe forgetfulness as a result.
This is
Annoying
Disturbing
Maddening
and it frankly has me concerned!
Getting to sleep last night was a challenge. All I could think about was what I'd forgotten, misplaced, and neglected to do or remember to do. Important stuff. Inexcusable. Brain overload.
My list of TO-DO's is a mile long, and growing by the hour, and that serves only to exacerbate my loss of brain cells.
On my commute in to the office this morning, the sun was shining, the flowers and trees were blooming, spring bursting forth in jubilance all about -- even in my step. Just one of those ... ahhh, yes...decadent spring mornings. Life is good.
And then I entered upon the highway. And that euphoria began to dissipate.
Three words: Left-lane drivers.
It's no secret that I have a bit of pent-up road rage. It's unfortunate, in a way, that I can't just blow it off, ignore the self-centered morons who frequent our highways. I would prefer to be more lackadaisical when the challenges of driving on America's highways ruffle my feathers and rob me of what would have been a happy and positive start to a glorious spring day.
SCENE: All three lanes, crammed and cluttered with long lines of slow(er)-moving traffic, the far left lane illumined with constant red brake lights from drivers hoping to pass, tension not exactly an inanimate force at this hour. Yes, folks are thrilled to be going nowhere fast.
I finally manage to snake and maneuver my way in and out and of the middle and right lanes, and once more to the middle, making my way alongside the lead car in the left lane. Infuriated, I see the woman driver looking down at her cell phone, TEXTING, coasting along in her dirty-blue piece of crap clunker (I'm trying to be kind), her speed oscillating between 10 and 15 mph under the speed limit -- IN THE PASSING LANE. TEXTING. IN THE PASSING LANE!
It's really too bad that I didn't have a set of these flash cards on hand.
Sometimes it just FEELS GOOD to get it out. To give your frustrations a voice. If only my son was in the car, I would have ordered him to whip out his cell phone and video this maniac texting on her phone at rush hour in the far left lane. But he was not. So to "muscle-up" my message, while helping to release my rising ire, I laid on my horn for a good 5-7 seconds alongside her car before cutting over in front of her with laser-like agility and timing. The look on her face was priceless.
I may be paving my way to hell for this kind of behavior. Me? Meek and gentle? Hardly. But on the other hand, I restrained myself from fleeting hand gestures and/or flashing my lights. I suppose I could have surrendered to those inner demons and lost ALL control.
And it seems I got my message across while earning the Highway Hero of the Morning Awardfrom a long line of drivers,
every bit as frustrated as I had been,
as I watched in my rearview mirror
this Left-Lane-Lunkhead-Texting-Twit creep into the middle lane
and that long line of cars speeding angrily past her.
Heeeeeeeerrrrrre, I come to save the day!
The time has come for me to consider one of those static cling backward-reading “Move Over” windshield decals (complete with an arrow that points to the right) so that I can more “gently prod” these misguided morons into, well, getting the hell out of the way when they see it in their rearview mirror. But then again, maybe not such a great idea when coming up behind a state trooper. NAH. Never mind.
It seems we need stiffer fines for loons clogging the left lane. Maybe then (or maybe not) they'll begin to get the message:
And make sure all your Ivory-Tower Tater Tots in Washington get a good whiff while you're at it, K?
In response to the statement by Frank Holmes, CEO of U.S. Global Investors, claiming: "The Economy Can Handle Higher Oil and Gas Prices" -----
(Texas Citizen): "Hey, Frank Holmes, can I borrow $60 to fill up my compact economy car? Because apparently you live where there are always rainbows in the sky, flowers are made of candy, and you shit sherbet out your ass!"
faux pas n. pl. A violation of accepted social norms, customs or etiquette, varying widely from culture to culture, usually used in social and diplomatic contexts; a blunder, especially a social blunder. A fashion faux pas occurs when the error is directly related to a person's appearance or choice of clothing.
When I was flying to Vegas in December of 2010, I saved the copy of Sky Magazine from my flight. Why? Well, for one thing, I was enamored with the beautiful photos and illustrations of Great Escapes, hoping to some day -- SOME DAY -- be lucky enough to make it to even one of these yummy places. But mostly because I could so relate to the hilarious quote by Clinton Kelly, the style editor of the magazine, from his article entitled "Party Poopers," specifically, his take on holiday sweaters and the heed to refrain from wearing "red and green" to holiday events.
I couldn't help but notice, once again THIS year, the many holiday sweaters, vests, sweatshirts, and other obnoxious adornments that people -- women -- chose to wear in their feeble attempt to look festive. This is one of those pressing times when one feels led to make a nationwide public service announcement to women who choose to drag these atrocities from their closets each year and dare wear them in public. (Spare us all and clean/update your closets: BURN THEM)
We've all seen them.
Enough already! ... she nauseously pleaded.
And so sharing Clinton Kelly's sentiments on holiday fashion faux pas, remembering how I giggled aloud when I first read this article on my flight, I decided to include excerpts from it in my blog. Point well taken, CK.
Your Sweater Should Not Light Up Any garment featuring appliqued snowmen, snowflakes, elves, reindeer, Christmas trees, candy canes, holly leaves or Santa faces must be destroyed immediately. There's a law. In fact, if you are in possession of a sweater or vest that plays "Jingle Bells" or illuminates in any way, you will be deported. OK. I'm kidding about the law, but seriously, people, this is not cute!
Red and Green? No thank you. When kids play elves in the school play, the teacher tells them to wear a red or green sweater. Then she makes them little caps out of construction paper. When you show up at a holiday party wearing a red or green sweater, you look like a 9-year-old with a glandular condition who lost his cap.
By the beginning of the fourth quarter of my son's football game last night, I found myself faced with a huge decision: Do I try to keep from peeing my pants (I could not wait another 15 minutes+) or do I make the trek to those disgusting porta potties (there were only TWO) sitting just beyond the end zone in a very dimly lit area.
Porta potties disgust me. That is an understatement. I have never understood how they pass the CDC's test for permissible use in public places. I mean...really?
Those poor people who work in the porta potty industry. I can't imagine: "What do you do for a living?" I install and empty porta potty reservoirs.
My neighbor's son called her last week from Richmond to tell her that he had been at an event with his young daughter, and had made a visit to a porty potty. While inside, he accidentally DROPPED HIS CELL PHONE in the abyss of poop and pee. It was a brand new cell phone. He panicked. His dilemma: Do I walk away and leave it, or do I take the plunge and try to retrieve it? (I'm laughing my ass off as she is telling me this story.) As it turns out, he wrapped his entire arm and hand in pretty much an entire roll of toilet paper, reached in, and fished that sucker outta there. O>M>G>!
I'm not so sure -- no, correction -- I'm absolutely sure I would not have bothered. Sometimes ya just gotta walk away.
In my case last night, it was either pee my pants or head to the germ pits and relieve myself. (Note to self: Start carrying a paper mask and hand sanitizer in my purse.) I opened the door handle, entering apprehensively, and got to the business at hand as quickly as possible. (WHY don't they have hand sanitizer dispensers mounted inside these monstrosities?) Thoroughly disgusted, yet relieved, I exited the porty potty. I glanced about furtively, a sense of humiliation having taken over me for having to resort to this necessity.
Sometimes we HAVE no choice. When nature calls, there is no voice mail. You either answer, or you suffer the consequences.
Yesterday was a pain in the ass.
