Skip to main content

Ten Things I Hate About Traffic


Folks ask if I miss “the big city.” Yes, I miss a lot of things about living in a big city, but the traffic is not one of them.
Why would I miss drivers who do not know how to use a blinker? What is so difficult about turning on a blinker when switching lanes, or turning it off when finished?
Why would I miss drivers who think they alone own the Multi-Trillion Dollar Roadways when we all know they’re in the same tax bracket as we are? These road hogs honk and cuss and gesture obscenities as if they own the place and I am trespassing.
Why would I miss those who ride my bumper so closely that I can see them in my rear-view mirror as if they were riding in my back seat?  
Why would I miss the drivers who force themselves into my lane after I have been in line waiting my turn, or those who shoot into my lane from a non-turn lane and then honk at me as if I am the one in the wrong?   
Why would I miss those who depend on my benevolence to offset their stupidity?  I’m the reason they made it home today - the fool who swerved into my lane before clearing my front fender, or the idiot who waited until he saw the whites of my eyes before darting out in front of me at an intersection.  You’re welcome.  You owe me your life. 
Why would I miss the speed demon who passed me up because I was going too slow for his taste and then refused to make eye contact when we met up again at the next light?
And I do not miss the sadistic bozo in front of me who waited until the left arrow turned yellow before making a run for it, leaving me to sit through another red light. Or his cousin, the jerk who blocked the intersection during a go light instead of waiting back at the intersection like the rest of us, and now no one can move because his vehicle is in the way.

Yes, there are lots of things I miss about living in a big city, but the traffic and their drivers are not among them. 
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Happy Breastday to Me!

I gave myself a very special birthday present this year – I had surgery. Before you think it was to increase, decrease, or “lift” something, let me tell you it was not cosmetic (though I could probably use a few nips and tucks at my age; the infinite number of creams I buy OTC are not working their promised magic). About four or five months ago, I discovered a hard lump about the size of a large marble in my left armpit.  I had been feeling small pangs of pain in my left chest for several months, but I figured it was just my turn to dance with heart disease.  Everyone in my immediate family is diabetic and suffers from strokes or heart attacks, so I thought – here we go; my turn. I was going to tell my internist about the pangs during my next visit, so imagine my surprise when I discovered the lump. The Drama Queen in me immediately manifested herself – cancer, I thought.  I have cancer. I searched some more and found that the texture on the left side of my left breast felt diffe
9 comments
Read more

Dating Challenged

I stink at dating – always have.   I sputter.   I hyperventilate.   I fail miserably every time. I blame a pathetically underdeveloped gene that got little use before I married in my early twenties, then atrophied, gathering dust and rust, until I became single again in my fifties.   I decided to use this defect to my advantage when I needed to do some investigative reporting a few years back.   While on a newspaper writing assignment on Boomer-aged dating, I sacrificed my dignity and my vanity for the sake of the story (and I got several). Thank goodness, HoneyBunch saved me from all this when we married.  (He comes up with the best dates.) I’ve decided I will “show you mine if you show me yours.”   I will swap dating horror stories with you, but you have to promise to play along. The trick here is to tell about your worst date in 25 words or less.   You must keep it clean and you cannot name names. Our little contest will run only this week and before my next blogger posting.   Me
8 comments
Read more

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread.   On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.   I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take
8 comments
Read more