Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: cars, driving, humor, Marriage, southern, tailgates, traffic martyrs
You’ve all seen them as you’re stuck in a hideous line of traffic going from four lanes to two, or as 20,000 people are trying to leave a stadium at the same time. Either way, somebody farther up is LETTING PEOPLE IN. That person is a Traffic Martyr.
Sacrificing your spot in line for a Slider (a.k.a. the I’m-going-to-try-and-get-over-even-though-I-saw-the-line-backing-up-a-mile-ago-guy) not only rewards rude driving, it has historically caused an immeasurable and unrecorded rise in health care costs. The lemmings behind the Traffic Martyr have to up their Lipitor dosage, or risk having their hearts explode as their blood pressure escalates faster than the General Patraeus sex scandal.
If you are, or ever have been, a Traffic Martyr, maybe you’re one of those genuinely nice people who believe in letting Sliders in once a day. I’ll bet you even do it with a smile and a wave. And you probably believe in unicorns.
But I doubt you’re really that nice, down deep inside. Letting Sliders in your lane probably made you feel good, maybe a little self-righteous, and definitely a little superior. After all, you were the nice one. I’ve been there myself. And in the right situation, Traffic Martyrs can be useful, like when they slow the pace down enough to let you safely whack your teenager with a “punch-buggy-no-punch-back” hit while driving with your knees.
But if there’s one thing people hate more than Traffic Martyrs, it ‘s Sliders.
When Hubby encounters a Slider attempting to invade his driving space, he usually creeps up until he’s one inch behind the car in front, blocking the Slider. It’s as effective as a girl saying “let’s be friends.” Hubby’s move usually results in lots of honking and bird-flipping. But recently, in a rare act of being a Slider, Hubby ran into the ultimate Slider Hater.
Literally.
At the horse races last week (the same ones where the Irish news interviewed me), Hubby was trying to leave the infield with 10,000 other wind-burned, inebriated tailgaters. Having thoughtfully parked on the end of the aisle, facing out, he was quickly ready to merge into the line of stop-and-go traffic. One driver, however, was very upset that Hubby was going to be allowed to join the vehicular Conga line so soon. But instead of quietly cursing the Traffic Martyrs and like most people, Slider Hater called out to Hubby:
“You can’t just get in line! I’ve been waiting here for a half-hour.”
Hubby, having already gotten permission from the Traffic Martyrs around him, answered in typical Slider fashion, “Seriously, you’re not going to let me in? We’re all just trying to get out of here.”
Slider Hater: “Hey Buddy, I’ve got my kids in the car back here. Now you can do the right thing and let me go first, or you can do the wrong thing.”
Now, to be fair, Hubby had gotten permission from all the other cars around him,and Slider Hater had probably been sitting there for a while. Tempers were flaring. “It’s a rental,” Hubby yelled back. Daughter #1 cringed.
Hubby then attempted to merge. Misjudging the width of the rental car, Hubby took out the front of Slider Hater.
Yep, that was fender-bender #3 for our family in nine days.
Karma….freakin’ chipmunk.
Filed under: Middle Age, Sports | Tags: bourbon, election, family, Food, horse racing, humor, Ireland, Montpelier, south, southern, subourbonmom, swing state, tailgate, Virginia
Last weekend I was doing what God has ordained all good Virginians do in the fall: Tailgate.
But not at a football game—watching horses race around a mile-long course at James Madison’s home, Montpelier plantation. They were jumping bushes and fences no horse in its right mind would ever do if there wasn’t an annoying tiny-man on its back hitting it with a stick.
For any southern tailgate, the men don their uniforms of khaki pants, button down shirt with bowtie, and navy blue jacket. The women dress up in silly hats, colorful scarves and ridiculous boots no self-respecting horseman would ever wear anywhere near a barn. They spread their southern delicacies (i.e. ham biscuits, devilled eggs and pecan pie—not everybody can bring chips and salsa!) on fold-up tables covered with their best tablecloths and silver chafing dishes. The centerpiece is an opus of fall foliage around silver candelabra or a horse statue. And lets not forget the most important feature: the drink table. Bourbon, wine, rum, vodka, champagne, and Bloody Mary mix are all ready to be tumbled into Jefferson cups or, in our case, red solo cups (nothing but the best for my friends!).
It was a beautiful day, free of cell phones, election flyers, and pimple-faced doorbell ringers. Not a tramp stamp in sight.
Until, THE INTERVIEW, that is.
That’s right, folks, an Irish reporter from a television station had a camera man in tow, circulating among the drunks, asking what it is like to live in a swing state. And guess what? He interviewed me. Yep, the least political person who’d already had about three bourbon and gingers.
That went well.
It’s a little vague, but I’m pretty sure I offered him a drink about every other sentence. In my golden-hazed mind, I managed to string together this thought: Irish-guy-must-want-to-drink-so-be-a-good-hostess-and-offer. He politely declined each time.
He asked me what it is like to live in a swing state. Thankfully I choked back a comment about all the rumors of swinging couples in the area where I live. Or at least I hope I did. In my head, I planned to give an intelligent rant about how we all are huddled in our living rooms, cowering from the ringing phones and massive recycle pile of election mail, and that the electoral college is unnecessary in this electronic age.
I’m pretty sure what came out was something like “It sucks.”
Yep, I’m a voter. Mr. Kluge, my Government high school teacher would have been so proud.
I’m pretty sure you’ll never see that interview on the news in the U.S., except maybe on YouTube as one of those Dumb American posts, but I have done my part to ensure that the international world’s view of Americans is still intact.
The news guy never did take a drink. Maybe if I’d had some Guinness…
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: Apple, computers, humor, Mac vs PC, southern, teenagers
I am technology-repellant.
In fact, there are probably some groups like the CIA or FBI who, I am sure, would pay me a lot of money if I would walk into a room and wreak havoc on the computers, phones and televisions there, just as much as I do on the ones in my house.
I am the DEET of the technology world.
Hubby, in a moment of extreme sweetness and concern for me, decided with Daughter #1’s help, that not only do I need a new computer (which I desperately do…mine occasionally screeches like a coffee grinder), but that I need a Mac.
First, let’s be clear: I am a PC person.
And my brain is full. I simply cannot add any new information without deleting stuff that is vital, such as the location of my keys and the wine bottle opener. Learning a new system is out of the question.
So a couple of weeks ago, in walk Hubby and Daughter #1 with a brand new Mac for her, and one for me, too. They were so excited I couldn’t reiterate right then my firm desire to stay in the world of PC. To their consternation, as Daughter #1 sat at the kitchen table happily exploring her Mac, doing the awkward two-finger scroll thing, I sat on the couch and slowly let the resentment boil up.
“Who did they think they were, anyway?” I muttered to myself. “As if they know what I need in a computer! Maybe they could just pick out my clothes and tie my shoes, too…” This went on for some time, I think mostly inside my head. If not, they wisely ignored it. And yes, I did realize that I sounded like a spoiled little brat. But the tirade rolled on, as fast and furious as the election ads during The Voice.
The next night, with their encouragement I tried to make it work. First I had to transfer files from the PC. I did it!
But then I couldn’t open anything. Nothing worked. I fumed. By ten o’clock I had stomped off to bed, ratcheting up the sleep number so there was no way Hubby could climb up next to me.
The next day I tried to make the requisite appointment at the Apple store for some help. When I called, a chirpy, automated male voice announced that he understood complete sentences! He actually said this with real-ish enthusiasm. Then he cheerily informed me I couldn’t make the appointment I wanted except by going on-line. So I did.
It didn’t work.
Blood rushed to my face, and filth came out of my mouth that I’m pretty sure would have embarrassed Emimem. So I reached for the phone, ready to call back and yell, “F%$#* you! Did you understand that?” But, I resisted. I still needed to get in the damn store, and I’m pretty sure they tape those phone calls.
So I called Hubby instead. After listening patiently to ten minutes of foulness and hatred of inanimate objects misdirected toward him, Hubby was eventually able to get an appointment for me (don’t ask me how). That afternoon, in a strange role reversal much like the movie Freaky Friday, I became the petulant teen and Daughter #1 had to talk Mama down from the ledge.
“If you will stop being so pissed off, I’ll tutor you tonight,” she said, with the patience of Jobe. Later, she added, “Stay in the kitchen. I don’t want you to see what I’m doing. It’ll only make you ask questions and get all mad again.” Wow. She’ll go far in life, I’m telling you.
Even my tech-savvy teenager couldn’t figure it out. So, I soon sat at the Apple Store with another teenager/tutor named Zach, prepared to be humiliated. And really, Computer Gods, did he have to be cute in a Zach Ephron kind of way? I’m not a full-blown cougar, but it was hard not to notice…
Instead, he mumbled a lot of “that’s weird,” and “why won’t it do that?” Eventually, Zach managed to get most of it sorted out, then sprinted off his beanbag (seriously, that’s what we were sitting on) to escape the pathetically grateful Mrs. Robinson next to him.
So please, accept this blog for the miracle that it is—done on my new Mac, with only a small amount of cussing and one bourbon and ginger.
Subourbon Mom 