No matter how long I’ve lived here, Massachusetts drivers never cease to amaze and infuriate me. This morning was a classic example. Work crews were repairing the guard rails that had been smashed to bits by idiot drivers on Route 128, thereby necessitating the closure of the right lane for about a half mile. Appropriate signage instructing motorists to merge left was posted, and so I merged when told. Everyone else in the right lane continued speeding down the highway until the last possible second only to cut off those who had done what they were told.
I had already let in three such miscreants when the driver of a monstrous Hummer decided that the three inches separating my car from the bumper of the car in front of me was sufficient for merging. He didn’t look; he didn’t signal. Instead, he nearly murdered me. My compact car’s horn is anything but compact, and that was the only thing that saved me from tomorrow’s obituary pages. Bad enough that he’s guzzling up the world’s resources and driving a car so expensive that it outranks several countries’ GDPs, but he has to nearly kill me to prove how big he is (well, isn’t, but that’s another story)? Ass.
In other news, the online dating gods did indeed smile upon me and the guy called me Monday night. He’s from France and lived in Italy for several years before coming to this country, which means that he has a double-dose of that continental charm. Much of our conversation consisted of his flattering the ever-loving dickens out of me (“Your photo was unlike all the other girlz on zee site. You have mystery, and you know who you are. Men have to be up to meeting your challenge…”), which would have worked marvelously, had I not known that most of it was bullshit. My friends are telling me to go for it and go out with him (“At least you’ll get a fantastic dinner out of the deal. And wine!”), but I don’t know. Any advice?
I had already let in three such miscreants when the driver of a monstrous Hummer decided that the three inches separating my car from the bumper of the car in front of me was sufficient for merging. He didn’t look; he didn’t signal. Instead, he nearly murdered me. My compact car’s horn is anything but compact, and that was the only thing that saved me from tomorrow’s obituary pages. Bad enough that he’s guzzling up the world’s resources and driving a car so expensive that it outranks several countries’ GDPs, but he has to nearly kill me to prove how big he is (well, isn’t, but that’s another story)? Ass.
In other news, the online dating gods did indeed smile upon me and the guy called me Monday night. He’s from France and lived in Italy for several years before coming to this country, which means that he has a double-dose of that continental charm. Much of our conversation consisted of his flattering the ever-loving dickens out of me (“Your photo was unlike all the other girlz on zee site. You have mystery, and you know who you are. Men have to be up to meeting your challenge…”), which would have worked marvelously, had I not known that most of it was bullshit. My friends are telling me to go for it and go out with him (“At least you’ll get a fantastic dinner out of the deal. And wine!”), but I don’t know. Any advice?
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