Code Brown

The whole process of a vacation is just miserable. Anyone who states differently is lying.

 
Parallel to woman who state that they loved being pregnant. I firmly believe that’s a fib too. Ever notice how they always say that after it’s done and over with? I’m sure I will be able to prove or disprove this theory, soon.
 
Between packing, catching a flight, sleeping on a trampoline, oops, I mean a bed, shopping for all the things you forgot to pack even though you made a list… while watching Idol, Harry, Idol, Harry …I realize where I went wrong with that one. Catching a flight home, getting your car out of lot B after a blizzard blew through the state the length of your vacation and your husband didn’t listen to you when you said park in the garage, unpacking…
 
I have a hand cramp. I mean that’s so much work. I am exhausted reliving it.
 
Because of getaway pre gaming, vacation fouls and post-game shenanigans I took to a new method for our short four day retreat to Florida. We were going away for my husband’s thirtieth and our friends ‘Valentine’s Day Wedding Feast Friday Extravaganza of All Stars’. If you imagined me saying all that in one breath you did good. 
 
For packing purposes I had a make believe list. It was imaginary because I started it: ‘underwear’, and then was completely blindsided by Harry Connick Jr and his baby blues on American Idol. If anyone knows me they will know I heart bubble him over rainbows to lazy Sunday afternoons. Due to this distraction I ended up packed in literally minutes prior to the flight. Method one: I just threw shit in the suitcase. Let’s go.  It was liberating. In the moment of course, when we actually landed and had to do things I felt very naked and afraid.  (If you never watched that show you should, it’s a riot.)
 
Typically, I pack for a month’s time when in reality we will be gone a week or less and I never need 75% of things I bring. This vacation I ended up needing all the 75% I didn’t bring.
 
Eddie on the other hand brought a wardrobe to last him a lunar phase. I probably ended up wearing half of his stuff. Did you really need to know that? I don’t know. I also have a stuffed animal of Donkey from Shrek and the Unicorn from Despicable Me. I mean if we are sharing enigmas. They should invent a ‘bring your stuffed animal to work’ day.
 
I absolutely loathe flying. I do not understand how a plane stays in the air. Eddie keeps telling me “..the jets, the jets do, planes have jet engines Hillary.” That means nothing to me. Eddie does this thing, he repeats points over and over again to me, and I stare back blankly. No matter how many times you say the same thing Eddie it’s not going to register. I need more than that. I need a picture diagram, some Dane Cook exaggerations, and cake.  I have seen a jet powered out house fly across a race track but it never actually lifted off the ground. So them jets; scam.
 
Because the thought of nothing keeping the plane in the air was so overwhelming, also due to a week before broadcasts of FBI issues with a flight from Bradley to Orlando on Jet Blue with no account. Either reason, for the first time I took advantage of the airport bar, on Eddie, since he had no better explanation of flying for me. This would be method two: airport alcohol. Now, I got pretty toasted, bare in mind the bar out looked into a valley of taking off and landing planes, adding fuel to my Final Destination flashbacks. Oh Devon, you were something once.
 
Our airline was JetBlue; it was our first time with these rude flight attendants. Also note we were not seated together. Automatic airline fail. When I fly who ever I am sitting next to never enjoys their flight. It’s for the good of the plane just to put me next to Eddie…
Thank goodness Jet Blue has a television to watch. I never knew. Jet Blue also happens to be very roomy. I am not going to lie I was very impressed. You even got better snacks.
 
Still, I didn’t know much of this upon sitting, so my first words to my plane pal: “If I pass out on you just push me to the other side.” She didn’t find it at all humorous. Actually, she put her head phones in for the rest of the flight.
 
Whatever unafraid flying pundit. I didn’t need you in my life anyway because I had Doritos. Two bags!!! And a TV. And my own headphones.  And triple axel lutz toe loops. #Olympics2014
 
Another thing we avoided to attempt to have a carefree vacation was a place to stay upon landing.
We landed in Orlando around 10PM; who wants to pay for a night somewhere to sleep? Method three: living by the seat of our pants. We are going to sell our oats for the last few hours of Eddie’s twenties and for the first few hours of Eddie’s thirties to warn his older self that his younger self will always be there to haunt him.
 
Then after our awesome pep talk, meeting said bride and groom at the airport by chance which enabled us to hear their awesome pep talk, then our pep talk to the pep talk, we are going to find a cheap ass motel. Eddie is too old now and this rent-a-car is so uncomfortable. Whose poor idea was it to not book a hotel? Eddie’s version twenty nine point nine, that’s who.
 
I am not going to bore you with diet fails, bad weather, bathroom beetles, wardrobe fails and extinct service… in a 4 point almost magnificent 5 star hotel.
 
Let me bring you to the day, the genuine purpose this vacation even happened. Our friends of feast we present to you: Eric and Stephanie. To be the Andersons. You see we took the red pill. We took this pill to join these two on one of the best days of their life.
 
One of. Their best days.
 
In reality their best day was when they got their dog Hugo. Who happens to look like a lamb?  Lamb dog. Super-secret alias Lamb Chop. No really, I will show you:
 

It’s perfect honestly since Charlie is Hugo a.k.a Lamb Chops mate, although Charlie looks nothing like the Charley Horse puppet, I don’t think.  I am not sure. I am in denial about how stupid this puppet looks.

Wow I got completely off task there.

We came to this quaint St Augustine to watch our good friends join hands in marriage.

 

In which we actually don’t know if their hands were joined.

 

Sadly we didn’t get to see this epic moment. Why you ask, or didn’t ask?

 

We went down to, the not very sunny at the time of our arrival, state of Florida with a friend and her husband. This friend we shall refer to as, ‘Code Brown’, as to not embarrass her when I blog the reception. Anyway, well I don’t want to name names or anything like that but ‘Code Brown’ brought her big raincloud of trouble with her.

 

It started earlier that Friday morning after we all went out to breakfast, her supernatural power to make everything fall apart around her killed the gas gage in her upgraded Mustang rental. On a highway. On a coastal highway. Lacking any gas station.

 

Whatever, that was the least of our worries that day. We survived; Eddie and I had a downgraded car that actually worked for getting place to place. As long as we didn’t need to stay the night in it we were all set.

 

We decided we would carpool with Code Brown and husband that way only one of us had to be coherent when it was go time to get us back to the resort.

 

The wedding was at 4:00 PM. It was about a forty minute drive. We told Code Brown to meet us in the lobby at 3:00 PM sharp.

 

Normal weddings typically run a little behind therefore you may be questioning our tight time table that we had created. You see Eric, our groom, who models himself off the late Steve Jobs, makes highlighted spread sheet time tables on the regular that shall never be unfollowed. I am one hundred percent sure this wedding started at 3:59:59PM per neon green notation.

 

Thus Code Brown, the notorious plan breaker, be downstairs at 3:00 PM. Not to be confused with any other time stamp in that hour.

 

3:09 PM.

 

Where is the dream team? Still in their room. Their safe is stuck. It won’t open. They need their check book. They need their checkbook to give the bride and groom some money. They need this check for another lamb dog.

 

3:14 PM.

 

They called an engineer. I don’t kid. LOL. Don’t text me LOL, this is not funny.

 

3:17 PM.

 

Fuck the check book, come down stairs now, they don’t need another damn sheep dog. Lamb.

And leave Eeyore’s shadow with your jammed safe. We don’t need any more of that either.

 

3:19 PM.

 

Code brown in gold sequins and all, husband in tow, finally piles in so we can leave.

We all may be very over dressed for this wedding that we will never make it too.

 

Magically not even ten minutes into the ride Eddie and husbands GPS tells us we are maybe fifteen minutes away. Wow, somehow we shaved time off without even trying. With this new found knowledge it is decided we need to stop at an ATM to get cash since the check book didn’t pan out. Hugo really needs a sister. (By the way that poor engineer is probably still trying to figure out where he is needed.)

 

We find an ATM.

 

Let me break this down for you. There was a square building that represented some second hand bank. Around this bank was a one lane moat that at some point had a drive up window that was closed and an ATM.

 

 

As we rounded the square nearing the ATM low and behold we had a senior attempting to … well we really have no idea what he was doing. It took him damn forever; we are talking sixteen slow drives around the trench. If we had to do any more rounds we would have probably needed a tune up, tire change, and some red bull. I mean good Christ Code Brown we had a time frame. It’s always her fault.

A sun glare and wind change later we get out of the ATM situation and reach our destination on left.

 

Or is it across the street on right.

 

Nope, let’s check back to the left.

 

Why is the correct address a bungalow versus castle?

 

This can’t be right.

 

Let’s go back to the right.

 

We were promised castles, noble steeds, cotton candy, pixie dust, balloons…

 

Oh, hey there mailman, its ten minutes to 4:00PM, we have a wedding to go to, let’s make this quick. Wait, we are lost? Say it isn’t so postman. You tell us we are on the wrong island. There is more than one island named Florida? Florida isn’t an island.

 

Mailman you’re talking in alarming circles, STOP PANICKING, that’s my job, tell us where we need to go, hello, shush, if you could just give us directions instead of echoing we are at the wrong place we can get there on time, even though you are telling us we are twenty minutes and two bridges away. I just can’t deal.

 

Eddie just drive, he’s blacking out in horror.

 

Let’s recalculate.

 

Since the postal service was of no help we then are trying to get a hold of a wedding guest, the groom, the castle owner. Anyone? Bueller.

 

But our irrational groom had put a no cell phone rule in place. I am not talking no pictures please or keep your phones on quiet. I am talking leave your phones in the car because I don’t want them in my castle regulation.

 

Which would have been understandable if we were in the castle but we were not; so we were using these amazing tools Steve Jobs invented banned from the Apple devotee wedding, make sense, nope.

 

Just sit right back

And you'll hear a tale

A tale of a fateful trip,

That started from this tropic town,

Aboard this tiny car rental.

The mate was a mighty drivin' man,

The Skipper brave and sure,

Four passengers set a GPS that day,

For a forty minute tour,

A forty minute tour.

 

Gold sequin started getting rough,

The tiny car was tossed.

If not for the courage of the fearless gang

The Nissan would be lost.

The Nissan would be lost.

 

The coach set ground on the shore

Of this uncharted desert isle

With Eddie Hohl,

The Siri too.

The millionaire

And his wife,

The movie star,

The mail man and Mary Ann?

Here on St Augustine Isle.

 

So this is the tale of our castaways,

They're here for a long, long time.

They'll have to make the best of things

Because they are fucking lost.

 

We finally make it to the castle, not bad timing, it’s about nine minutes after four. If the ceremony actually ran late we would have seen the whole thing. You would think we are in the clear.

 

Only not really. This castle was locked down like Normandy. Was Normandy locked down?

No, Invasion of Normandy, I lied, it was the opposite of Normandy. Basically we couldn’t get in. A Trojan horse couldn’t even make it into these castle grounds. This lockdown spanned time periods. To live in my brain is an adventure.

 

Remember how I told you we went circles around some thrift shop bank?

 

Now we were circling this fortress trying to find a way in, a gate that wasn’t locked, an usher. Anything.

 

With each circle Eddie’s anger increased, my depression deepened, Code Brown’s belief we still had time stayed on Mr. Rogers Trolley and husband probably wished he had a work thing avoiding this whole trip all together.

 

It was now about twenty after four and in one of our drive bys we saw people. Eddie flew into one of the dirt drives with a sand storm in his wake. He jumped out of the car and started to take out all his pent up frustrations of the last hour and twenty minutes out on the gate. I mean we flew all the way down here for this ceremony. One in which the bride and groom wrote their own vows about clowns and iPhones.

 

Eddie finally busted the gate open, we weren’t exactly quiet… the wedding guests leaving the castle were staring at us like we were circus extras Stephanie always wanted while we boorishly drove through the broken gate almost running over some man in a … bomber outfit? The guy was covered from top to bottom in overall puffy clothing. Crazy hair everywhere. He belonged to the mountains.

 

A few of our friends in the receiving line were giggling at us, waving, like this was some ambitious joke.

You’ve been PUNKED, you missed nothing, and this was all just a big put-on. Come join us.

 

What we caught of the ceremony was the absolutely gorgeous bride Stephanie and the brilliant groom Eric leaving their beautiful castle as happy as two newlyweds should be. It will go downhill with the second dog though.

 

I'm just joshin' ya.

 

To be continued…

One Woman’s Rationalization of the Seven Deadliest Sins

Snow rage. You know, aggressive drivers who slide in and out of slowed traffic, drive too fast down the barely clean break down lane, tailgate a stopped car, don’t clean off their cars and you get pummeled, scream at you or use obscene gestures while your drunk on defrost. Driving during a New England snow storm is the new kind of road hazard.

 

Sid the Sloth:

 

This may not be considered operating a motor vehicle but depending on how you approach a dirty automobile can reflect a driver’s ability to handle the elements when beginning the journey through a mock Alaskan winter. Let’s be real, our laziness creates countless problems when it comes to driving. This is not just limited to cleaning a mode of transportation off.

 

Who needs to move their hand to use this said blinker to indicate future whereabouts? Not Sid.

Who needs to strap the shit in the back of the truck down before taking off down the highway at 85 MPH? Not Sid.

Who needs to actually turn their head to check out what’s barreling down the next lane before planting their huge metal ass there? Not Sid.

 

So not to point out people directly I was referring to Sid the Sloth from Ice Age.

He’s a sloth. And his name is Sid. And he is adorable.

Maybe if I think of every driver out there as Sid my commute anywhere may be less angry.

 

Anyway.

 

There are people like my father who think it effective to dig out a little hole on their windshield that gives them wide range of nothing. There are people like my husband who just get in and drive; the make shift wind does all the work. Right.

 

Friendly FYI* I could not see out his windshield for the first half of our ride to the gym the other morning. I don’t want to talk about it. Although, as some of you may know, I was probably better off. I tend to freak out in the passenger’s seat. “The road looks shiny, is that black ice, go slow, this is bad, my god why are you going fast, we are going to die.” I am basically the equivalent to a carbon monoxide detector whilst in a motor vehicle I am not operating. “GET OUT, GET OUT, DEATH, IMPENDING DOOM.” Maybe he did this purposely for that reason.

Then there are the people in the SUVs, the trucks and the vans that conveniently forget that there is in fact a top to their vehicle. I call this the Charlie technique. Charlie is my faithful companion. What he can’t see means others can’t see which means there is no existence of the alleged unseen. Therefore he is not responsible. You see? 

 

And then finally there are also people like me. I like to think at least I am not the only one.

 

It started snowing around 1PM. So I started my car at 1:30PM and continued to keep starting it until I left at 3:45PM. I start my car hours before I plan on going anywhere when it snows in the hopes that everything will just melt the fuck off. I cannot be bothered and I hate, HATE, when I open my door and snow falls into my seat. Wet ass all the way home. No thank you. With that said all other sloth like methods mentioned above go right out the window, I just pre heat my car, like an oven, with cupcakes in it.

 

Recently it has been made law in my state that you cannot drive your car until the top, trunk, hood, chest, ass is completely cleaned off so as to not smack others with your snow litter I presume. What a useless rule of the road. Cops are also to sloth-y to use their amazing ticketing power to fine drivers who do not use their blinkers, what makes you think they will pull behind someone who has ‘Super Storm Nemo’ coming off their car to serve them a ticket?

 

(I respectively have three cops in the family, and they all know if they actually listen to me, that I have a thing with the blinkers, the indication of lane changes, turns, any action taken in which another driver need be aware. Or the lack thereof in this state.)

 

In any case, don’t be this asshole people, just don’t do it.

 

Pride and Prejudice:

 

We all think it; oh it’s really not that bad out. We see the snow falling and we are in a complete, utter belief that we are the best damned snow driver the world has ever seen. So good in fact, that the Winter Olympics should make an event in our honor. Snow luge, Ha. Relax, RELAX, we got this.

My dear Tiffanie left work early to get home safely, she left right around the time I was on phase one of pre heating my car. She obviously has no problem admitting that braving snow is not her flavor of chips. And its not that I wanted to get home unsafely but I failed to acknowledge the fact that no matter how remarkable I am at driving in the snow others do not pride themselves on having these abilities.

(True story, you know it’s a true story when your husband tells you as much. What man tells his woman they are good drivers? So for Eddie to tell me I am master snow driver was a shocker but I will freaking take it.)

I also, for some unknown reason, judge the weather on how it looks.  On this particular day we had beautiful sugar snowflakes. The kind that glitters on the way down from the big marshmallow fluff sky and lands making a blanket of confectionary sugar and sprinkles...maybe I should save these parallels for gluttony.

I was in complete denial that anyone could not drive in this Sugarland. And so started the texting between Tiffanie and I.

Tif: “It’s really bad out here. LOL, but seriously. Be CAREFUL!”

 

(I am unsure why it being bad out was so laugh out loud funny to her… maybe because from the comforts of my cubicle prior to this message I was telling her I would be fine based on delicious snowflakes, either way, she maybe finally got her point across.)

 

Me: “Okay, you scared me, I am sweating, and I am leaving.”

 

(Apparently all you have to do to scare me is use the word seriously. Then I sweat. I recently found out I sweat and turn red when eating broccoli too. Just a Hillary fun fact.)

 

At my first red light not even a quarter mile from the office Tif receives this: “Fuck, its slick out.”

 

She told me so. All the sudden sugar was burnt popcorn.

 

Me: “KMN this is redick. I do not have the gas or patience to be stopped in traffic today.”

Tif: “You really need to listen to me and leave early when it snows. What if your mom was driving in this right now? Almost out of gas. You’d be a worried mess.”

 

(What does my Mom have anything to do with this? I don’t know. Maybe its Tiff’s subconscious trying to tell me she xo xo’s me. I love you too.)

 

Me: “I’d be in the ER from anxiety. Sadly they are out in this somewhere in state, I hope, and I am trying not to think about it.”

 

I know this because I had already tried calling my parents and they weren’t home. I called them because it is normal for them to take road trips in severe weather. I get worried. I have to know they are safe or I am in an inconsolable, obsessive panic until I have contact. Totally justified, honestly, they once went out in a hurricane to go check out the flow of a waterfall. “We never made it to the falls, there was flooding all over the roads, our car was sliding all over the place, it was so cool.” Sigh.

  

..Minutes later..

 

Tif: “So. LOL! How many times have you called your mom?”

Me: “Three LOL. I hate you.”

Tif: “PMPL”

 

(a.k.a ‘pee my pants laughing’. She relishes in my alarm, her mom’s panic, anything really with a high degree of anxiety involved she loves.)

 

I am pretty sure I just rambled off the topic of pride.

 

Green with Envy:

 

I always start off cautious and safe when I nudge my car into the heart of a storm. I have a heart-to-heart with my G6 “..we can get through this extraordinary beauty, me and you, we got this, we have been through worse… like the last one of these I had to get home from work in, remember that time, singing Christmas carols to fellow drivers...” By the way that is what my mother named my car, ‘the extraordinary beauty’. Why? I am going to say because I am driving it, and that may sound cocky but if you saw the POS I drive you would realize it is not cocky, but the only logical explanation.

 

Where was I, oh yes, I am driving safe, chitchatting with my car letting her know I am in control while she elegantly slides us onto the highway. I cruise along a little ways and what do you know I am stuck in traffic. I try to play it off still being a diligent driver, try to put on some calm music, a little Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, make sure I have some distance for gliding, not to be confused with sliding, we don’t slide we glide. Jesus walks on water but we sashay on ice.

 

No matter how positive you are you will undoubtedly go through a feeling of discontent towards those damn SUV, mother trucker, van wagons. They I am sure do not have to have pep talks with their transport while speeding down the breakdown lane, no worries that their nonexistent ABS won’t kick in. This is totally not jealousy. I totally never think of car dealerships when driving in snow. EVER.

 

Me: “I almost got hit by a plow riding in the break down lane because, you know, plows fit in that lane for sure.”

Tif: “Oh dear.”

Me: “Great example plow man! Now there’s trucks trying that, I’m gunna get hit. I’m signing off ttys.”

 

**I would like to note I am extremely against texting and driving. On a typical day my phone is located in my purse or cup holder. But in light of the fact that I wasn’t moving for 90% of this ride I labeled it an exception. I maybe just made myself a hypocrite but no one is perfect and I was having some serious road rage because Irish. I am Irish. Our heads get hot at an alarming rate. It’s pathetic. This isn’t really an excuse. I am just going to stop.STOP. 

 

..Moments later..

 

Me: “Okay I weaved my car out of the line of fire after lots of swearing, middle fingers and car honks; I’m back to being a sitting duck. I have too much ADHD for this.”

Tif: “Oh dear.” (there’s that ‘oh dear’ again)

Me: “I can’t just sit here. THIS IS ONLY SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN IN MY CUBE.”

Tif: “PMPL!”

Me: “LOL that was a good one.”

 

(You see due to impending job elimination, probably, maybe a long story, I don’t do much in that cube. They didn’t even bolt my cubical walls to the floor. Nothing like foreshadowing.)

 

Tif: “Deep breaths.”

 

Little did I know at this time my little peacock, peacock is Tif’s household name, was sipping on White Russians. White Russians I needed in this very moment. White Russians that would have helped with the whole deep breathing thing. White Russians that was distracting Tiffanie from conversing with me, leaving me to make serial car plans like singing out the window at other drivers. I do this.  A lot. When I am stuck I serenade my surrounding friends with song. Helps with the smoldering defrosting.

 

So not only was I having a raging jealous hard on for a bigger, taller, beefier car I was in need of a drink, drinks my friend was cruising through.

 

Need, Speed and Greed

 

Me: “If one more person drives the breakdown lane to cut this line of unmoving cars I am going to bump them off the fucking road. I am sick of sitting here like a jack ass too but you don’t see me being a dick.”

 

(I believe I referenced breakdown lane driving as a peeve in a previous blog, I wasn’t lying.)

 

Tif: “Focus on the road!”

Me: “I am but I am not moving LOL!”

Tif: “LMAO oh. Okie.”

Me: “I am ready to get out of the car and stretch.”

 

(Stretching is much better than that one time I was stuck in the middle of a blizzard and some guy got out of his car to take a piss and I got out and pelted a snow ball at him. I was bored and in turn started a snow ball fight in the middle of the highway. In the middle of a blizzard. Those were the days.)

 

Tif: “Oh dear. PMPL!”

Me: “My luck then the cars would start moving and I’d get run over.”

Tif: “If you do that you’ll probably be on the evening news! LOL.”

 

Fame. I would too, the news covers 95% tragedy and 5% joy, good balance.

 

Me: “I am still not moving. I feel a blog coming on. Oh there will be blogging tomorrow.”

 

(Not that it matters, blogs take me forever to write up. I could be blogging tomorrow and we still may never get it until next year.)

 

Tif: “If you ever get home!”

Me: “Lucky enough I am caught up at work…” …bahahhaha.

 

 

So none of this had anything to do with greed…. Ah moving on.

 

 

Grapes of Wrath

 

I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger… Those who continue to pass me!

It cannot be helped because you are a New England Driver and New England drivers are what gave way to the expression ‘road rage’. There comes a point in your stagnant travels that the possibility of making it home before the day after tomorrow diminishes. The songs on the radio have now been repeated eighteen thousand times. Your foot is cramped from tap, tap, tapping the breaks. You’re suffocating from forced heat but shivering from the window open to fight falling asleep.

 

To top it off the breakdown lane is happening place; you are getting flat out pissed. You have scruples, what if an ambulance needs to get down the lane to save someone’s life, am I the only one who is thinking this? You will not be a follower of bad decisions. But everyone else is. And it’s making you livid. Where are their morals? This just isn’t right, where is the justice. STOP CUTTING US ALL OFF. The next one after the next one I am lanestraddling. I will do it. Don’t you dare test me!

 

BUT glorious marvel you don’t have to be that person because the red, wait now it’s a shade of violet, faced man behind you made the choice for you, much sooner. Now he has cars in his wake following in his lead to straddle between. If you are emergency personal he will let you pass but if you’re that Toyota Tundra that just came up on him your shit out of luck. And was the Tundra ever, he ended up stuck in a ditch because he tried going to wide. Teehee.

 

YOU.ALL.SHALL.NOT.PASS.

 

All is right in the world again. You feel a bond with your fellow irate drivers. You send a friendly wave, I felt your pain, and we got this. We will survive. You feel stupid because fuming man has ignored you but so what, morale is back. You may be stuck but you are stuck together.

 

Curiosity is Gluttony

 

Tongue out window trying to catch snowflakes. I mean come on it is now dinner time; I have nothing but some stale Austin Peanut Butter Crackers in my car. My stomach quite possibly may be knawing on my lung to kill hunger pains. Due to a healthy lifestyle I am not allowed to eat the crackers. They are only there in case of an emergency, and I am pretty sure my trainer’s idea of a crisis is not being stuck in snow traffic but more like a zombie apocalypse.

 

Lack of food is making me delusional.

 

Me: “I am no snow angel right now you know, I am a snow donkey. I AM A SNOW ASS.”

 

Who am I being an asshole to, I don’t know. Myself? For not eating the damn crackers! Just eat them. No I won’t! Polly wanna cracker? GAH!

 

*POFF*

 

Crackers can now be found somewhere thrown in the depths of my car.

 

 

A Losers Lust

 

My intense desire to get home is likely similar to Eve and that damn apple. Damn right I am going to eat this apple, I am going to eat this healthy, delicious apple and be home. And it will be amazing. If I don’t die first. Since I am allergic to raw apples.

 

Me: “I moved a foot. Praise the lord it is a miracle…I feel my car should be dressed up as a turtle. I want to strap a Ninja Turtle back pack to the hood of my car the next time I have to drive in a storm.”

 

I had lost Tiffanie somewhere along my journey. Maybe because she was the smart one who was home, warm, drinking and I was out in the big bad world. Talking to myself.

 

Me: “On the road again, I just can’t wait to getOFF the road again. Donkey sang that in Shrek.”

Tif: “Oh dear LOL!”

 

(She’s a woman of many words when she drinks.)

 

Me: “Well, at least my mom is home, I had a lot of time to check in on that, LOL.”

 

End Old Testament

Road Ragers Anonymous

Disclaimer: I am a theatrical motorist, passenger, backseat driver, radio changer, and blinker user.

It is and will always be an apocalypse from the second I enter any vehicle with anyone until the second I tumble out of one.

 

Maybe this is the reason Eddie suggested a dash cam to me. As comical as he finds me in route he cannot stand being in an automobile with me, why he would want to see how I am by myself is beyond me.

 

Come to think of it he isn’t the only one who has suggested this to me.

 

Well, let me enlighten you on what you’re missing on my morning commutes.

Then you can be the judge if a dash cam is right for me. Remember this is only the tip of the iceberg. Some may want the whole berg, polar bears, walruses and all, some may just want global warming to take over and let me rest in peace with the Titanic.

 

Road Rage and Hillary, Take One, Morning Commutes

 

First Stage: Shock and Denial.

 

Radio: “…we are backed up 91 N exits 24 to 32…”

Me: “Riiiiiight.”

Eddie: “You are going to be late.”

Me: “No, no, that will be gone by the time I get there.”

Eddie: Sigh*

 

Once I hit the highway about a half mile in I am forewarned by a similar message, typically every morning, I swear.

 

Electronic Signage:

Accident.

Exits 24 – 32 91 N slow moving.

Find alternate route.

 

Me: “Where I am going I don’t need roads…”

 

Yes, I talk to myself while driving. And yes, sometimes I like to pretend my car is a DeLorean. Could you imagine? I would go back to the future two steal Marty’s hover board (annnd yes, that ‘two’ was put there on purpose). After I stole the board I would go back to the future I just left and use said board to avoid the rest of what is about to unfold in your reading.

 

If you are even still with me…

 

You see for me it is refreshing to just write. When writing a novel it’s a constant annoying awareness of your surroundings: am I spelling this right, is that a word, did I forget a comma, fragment sentences, Oh Meh Gee, not those. Here I can just be a complete mess. I love it.

 

Back to the future of this blog.

 

As lightly depicted above I will react to the learning of traffic or anything really, like a cow getting in my way whilst driving, with numbed disbelief.

 

I deny that the traffic can possibly exist. I cocoon myself in a false reality that because I just adorned the roads with my presence that everything must be cleared. The divine spirit wouldn’t do this to me; why would he want me late; he wants only happiness for his children.

 

The shock that I am completely and utterly all wrong provides an emotional shelter from being overwhelmed by my halted predicament. This ease in period may last for a mere five minutes. When I do blossom from the coma of astonishment I will talk myself through the fact that I will most likely be late to where ever I am going. Oh yeh, work.

 

So maybe I do not care.

 

Stage Two: Pain and Guilt.

 

As the shock wears off I am suddenly in discomfort by my restrictions.

All the sudden I need to do everything. Why am I stuck here? I need to be everywhere else, doing entirety anything else but this.

 

This happens to me when I am stuck anywhere; elevators, walk in coolers, closets to Narnia…

 

Once limited I have an alarmingly high degree of need.

 

I need to host a fake meeting, right now.

I need to use a pay phone and now is the right time for it.

I need to take a dump, in the right that is now.

 

I need to do all the things. Now. Right now.

 

Wait.

 

Maybe I really do care if I am late?

 

Once I am done needing a heavy feeling responsibility blankets over me. I obsess over all the things that can happen if I am late. Will I get fired? Will I get written up? Maybe no one will care? Maybe they will care? Will they notice if I just say fuck it and don’t show for the day? Will I care if they don’t notice?

 

STOP!

 

A Doctor once told me I shouldn’t let my thoughts get carried away like this.

What I just did there is called the “Stop Technique” and it works for me most of the time because when I scream STOP in my head my ADHD kicks in I immediately forget what I was rambling about in my dome piece.

 

Forgetting my worries I text my co-worker that I am in unbearable traffic and will most likely be late.

 

Of course this doesn’t happen in the normal conventional manner, “Hey, I am going to be late.” It goes more like this:

 

Me: “Freaking Ryan Gorgeous Gosling!”

Tif: “What other than the Notebook is Ryan Gosling in? I never really liked him before but now I do. LOL!”

Me: “LmFao. He is amazing. I’ll tell you whenever I get to god damned fucking work. I loathe traffic. Pisses me the fuck off. I should seek help.” < In case you missed it that was the “Hey, I am going to be late.”

Tif: “Lmao! I don’t think there’s help for you. You’re just going to have to live with being crazy.”

 

Sigh, possibly however excruciating it is, maybe it is important that I experience the pain of tapping the breaks every four seconds fully. I needn’t avoid or escape from it with alcohol or drugs.

Wait, what? Wrong meeting.

 

I need to enter this chaotic, guilt ridden and scary place to encourage a revised morning routine for the future.

 

Stage Three: Anger and Bargaining.

 

Frustration gives way to anger.

 

I lash out and lay unwarranted blame for the fact that I am stuck in traffic on every single vehicle.

 

I try to control this, as to not cause permanent damage to my own car. But this is a time for the release of bottled up emotion. I straddle the breakdown lane blocking assholes from trying to cut everyone off. Who do they think they are? If I have to sit here so do you. On my list of driving peeves this comes in at number two. Breakdown lane drivers. I just can’t.

 

I call my husband. He hits ignore.

 

Hashtag#what the fuck.

 

I call him again. He can’t talk. I inform him he is totally not helpful in my revelry. Hang up. Pretty sure he doesn’t care. Pretty sure he doesn’t understand what revelry I can possibly be in while driving. He later informs me that I am utterly ridiculous. 

 

I yell and scream. I ask “Why does this always happen to me?” … LOL… no really I do. My donkey angel tells me it’s because I dawdle in the morning and I curse at my donkey. He goes away and so I sell bribes to my steering wheel “…if you get me to work on time I will never forget to give you an oil change again. Wouldn’t you like that?”

 

For good measure I add, “And if you’re really fast you’ll get those new tires you’ve needed since last winter!”

 

Happy Face.

 

Stage Four: “Depression.”

 

A long period of sad reflection will overtake me when I run out of payoffs and energy from my antics.

 

I will guzzle coffee to add more fuel to my dwindling fire. I will also spill coffee all over me but it won’t matter anymore. There’s no hope for me. I’m trapped in a highway parking lot with no access to napkins.

 

In this sad, pathetic, and wet moment I finally realize the true magnitude of my poor decision making in the dawn. Poor choices like that one time I hit snooze eighteen times versus just getting my fat ass up to go for a run to burn off the stale donut I was sure to eat upon getting to the office late. 

 

And then that thought depresses me more. I shouldn’t find road rage comfort in sugary delights.

 

Stage Five: The Upward Turn.

 

A good song comes on the radio, a calmer and more organized version of my crazy self emerges.

My physical symptoms lessen, and my "depression" begins to lift ever so slightly.

 

I will hum. I will grace my fellow drivers with a happier time.

 

I will blast the music. Dare myself… done, windows down.

 

I will sing to my windshield, head bang to my steering wheel, and play air guitar while causing several other accidents because now more people are focused on my stellar performance versus the road.

 

Stage Six: Reconstruction and Working Through.

 

As I become more happy and functional, my mind starts working again; I find myself seeking realistic solutions to problems like traffic in the morning commute.

 

I will get up early tomorrow god damn it. And I will like it. And this will never happen again.

 

And then I will run for President.  Because I am an awesome early bird!

 

Who needs Clinton when you have me?!?

 

Stage Seven: Acceptance and Hope.

 

I now accept the reality of my situation as traffic clears nearly an hour later.

 

Acceptance does not necessarily mean instant delight with ones self. More like relief.

 

And I actually make it to work only minutes late. Which by the way I am on salary. I actually am never late, I just make up that I am to stress myself out to feel important since they aren’t doing a good enough job of that, lack of engagement and all.

 

Given the pain and turmoil I have experienced, I can never return to the carefree, untroubled driver that existed before this tragedy.

 

But I will find a way to speed forward pretending to be Tanner Foust drifting in between cars for a hope that tomorrow will be a smoother ride.

 

Vrroomm Vrroomm. Beep.