Idle Hostile Thoughts

So I was driving along this afternoon doing errands, wondering what immutable law of nature requires a majority percentage of elderly people to not ONLY drive five miles below the posted speed limit, but also stay in the passing lane. While I was wondering this in a somewhat irritable way, the example specimen in front of me pulled over into the left turn only lane, which is exactly what I was going to do.

Oddly, though he was first "in line" at the light, he decided to stop about two car lengths from the light. Then he looked in his rearview mirror and started whirling his index finger around in a circle. Not understanding Elder Demented Sign Language, I sat there gaping. Then he put his hazard lights on.

Assuming he was mysteriously intending to sit there immobile, I checked the other lanes and moved to pass him on the right. However, for reasons known only to God and the forces of chaos, he chose this moment to give up his fool's errand and quickly pull up to the line, blocking me from reentering the turn only lane. Not allowed to turn, this forced me miles out of my way.

This ranks right up there with the elderly man who stopped dead in front of me, on a 45 mph four lane road, in the middle of the right lane, to allow his wife to get out and go get a free community newspaper out of a corner dispenser.

As a society, we need to improve public transportation. I'M JUST SAYIN'.

Oh help, Oh no!

It's a Gruffalo!

Wait, I mean, oh my god, I am so sick of winter already. It's so very early to be going here. Usually, the last several years, I've at least made it until March before crashing. And to be fair, I'm not really crashing, so much as getting Insanely Restless. It's not even properly cabin fever; I'm getting out quite a bit. It's just ... ugh, the cold, the wet, the dirty. Separately, I can deal with all of those things. Together, the crazy comes. It's like reverseDave's Syndrome. If it gets much colder, it'll be me jumping on top of a car, brandishing a stick, and wearing an offensive slogan.

I hate talking about the weather. So when I get to that point, where the angst of it is worse than the disgust of talking about it, it's bad. My irrational rationale is that I just have too much Mediterranean blood to tolerate this kind of weather. It's just unfair and biologically inappropriate to expect it of me.

Which leaves me no useful course of action anyway, except to come here and bitch about it to all three or four of my readers. It's not like I can whip out my 50% Italian card and have someone whisk me off to the Isle of Capri, can I? CAN I?

...

I didn't think so.