You may remember this, well, it's changed somewhat.
I’ve been driving to the office lately, because the dog is leading a very complicated life. He’s still in the cast, and likely to stay in it for another month, which is driving him absolutely bonkers. On top of that, his separation anxiety is pretty much through the roof right now – we’re working with a behaviorist/trainer, but one of the keys to success is getting enough exercise and of course he isn’t allowed to have ANY exercise, so he’s losing his mind and taking mama right down the drain with him.
So, I need to be ready to rush home at a moment’s notice. And that means that I cannot take the train, which has a set schedule. There are trains that leave Irvine at fifteen minutes past inconvenient, followed by a later train at waytoolate thirty. Sometimes those trains are late, and when a train is late, they mean it – I had a couple of nights where I sat on the tracks for three hours, wondering if I would have time for a shower before work started again.
What I’m doing instead is driving, through heavy traffic, every damn day.
The worst portion of my commute, by far, is the bit close to my office, deep in the heart of Orange County, California. And I have a couple of words about Orange County:
Heidi and Spencer Pratt live here.
And fit in without being noticeably worse than everyone else. Since Heidi and Spencer are two of the most horrible, odious people who have ever lived, this should tell you just how awful the OC is.
It’s filled with people who behave like complete self-important tools at all times. The job losses during the recession hit Orange County hard, and a lot of these folks are living on the brink of financial doom, but by god they worked hard at being so superficial and pretentious and they’ll still be yakking into cell phones via cutesy Borg-style headsets when they’re bedding down in the shelters.
If they have to sleep in cardboard boxes, they’ll check the brand of the product that used to be packed inside before crawling in.
I’m generalizing, of course. But it’s my blog, so I’m allowed.
Anyway, this population segment manages to be wildly obnoxious while standing in line, so just imagine how they act when they all run get in their Beemers and get on the freeway. I swear, I spend two hours every day on the Sphincter Expressway. That gives me a certain amount of expertise, and therefore I think I can offer some advice.
...and stops talking on our cell phones and sits up very straight while holding the wheel at ten and two, we probably saw that highway patrol car hiding in the bushes. Clearly you didn’t, and you made a point of flipping me off as you cut around me going ninety.
I’m sure you understand why I was pointing and laughing a mile later while you were getting your ticket. Next time, you should assume that the rest of the group knows something that you don’t, and fall into step.
Especially if you can see that it is at least four car lengths of space, and your lane is stopped. You might be tempted to suddenly change lanes and floor it, but be aware that you might slam into the back of a stopped car just five car lengths ahead of you. I saw some random jackass do this exact thing last week, so take the time to look ahead more than 100 feet before you test your car’s zero-to-sixty performance.
It does no good to tailgate me, then swerve wildly into the next lane and back into this one, if you have not noticed that there is a reason I am going slow. I am trapped behind a cement mixer, and so are you, and being pissed off at me is not going to make me go any faster.
What it WILL do, because I am getting pretty tired of your antics, is make me very careful to make sure that any openings for getting around said truck are just big enough for me. You’re still stuck back there?
Awwww. That’s too bad.
Somebody is changing the tire. It’s over on the side of the road. It isn’t anybody famous. Nothing to see here.
Can we all just quit staring and GO?
There’s nothing to do down here. You are supposed to be up in Orange County clogging up traffic and hogging the good restaurant tables and acting like assholes. What could you possibly want in San Diego? It can’t be good.
So that’s my summer.
Asphalt and insanity.
I can’t wait for fall.