Road Rage

I took driver's ed when I was 16.

Scared the inner speed-demon out of me.

Which is why I didn't get a licence until I was 18, and didn't drive over 35 MPH (including on the freeway) for about a year.

And I've only been in one official car accident (the "unofficial" car incident had to do with Mom's car and my best friend's fence, but that only caused cosmetic front bumper damage, and is henceforth stricken from my record), and that was in a parking lot and did much to make me freakishly sensitive about driving.

Needless to say, the yokels who traverse I-15 don't help my OCD tendencies in any way, shape, or form.

And the fact that there is all sorts of construction doesn't help either, since the lanes are about as wide as my hips (but they don't have a layer of fat).

So, I go from this:

To this:

I don't know if it's my disdain of Utah drivers, or the fact that it's Utah drivers that are threatening my family with their Utah driver-ness, or if it's the fact that I drive a big ol' tank, but I seem to put my nice in the trunk when I hop in the driver's seat.

"HEY, RETARD!" is exclaimed a lot by yours truly (Yes, I know it isn't politically correct, but I grew up in a different era, when it was a standard part of speech...along with "rad" and "awesome," which I still use, because, it's, well...awesome.), as people swerve in front of my suburban in their wheeled Tic Tacs.

Jeremy often hunkers down in his chair (from fear or embarrassment, I'm not entirely sure) at these times, and tactfully tries to suggest that perhaps he drive, and then I give him the Ugly-Crusties, and he drops it.

It's at times like this that I remember what Dad said when I got my driver's licence:

"It's like millions of voices cried out in terror, and were suddenly silenced..."

Thank, Obi-Dad-Kenobi.

P.S. I found my pen! Somebody put it in my purse, along with another one just like it. But it couldn't have been me...