humor

Rain Showers

Matt Snyder of A Prolific Potpourri has narrated this story on his wonderful podcast, Short Story Saturday! I recommend checking him out!

Hubby and I lived in our first apartment for 18 hellish months. By that time, I had a work bestie, Phoebe. I suggest imagining her as Phoebe from Friends, but if she drank heavily and popped pills. She was my age but dating a 45 year old creeper. It wasn’t a fling, last I heard they were still together. Phoebe stayed with Mike through several beatings and trips to rehab, but that all came later. At the time we’re discussing, they were 6 months into their relationship and living together.

Mike owned a double-wide 45 minutes outside of town. There was one gas station 15 minutes away, otherwise they were alone with a few scattered neighbors. His home sat between his grandmother’s and aunt’s, but Aunt (Dee) moved in with the granny when her husband died. He committed suicide five years prior after being fired, and his affairs were made public knowledge. He drove to a secluded area to shoot himself, but Dee never went into their house again. I can’t blame her there, but personally I wouldn’t have left my diary behind for anyone to find.

During a particularly bad rant to Phoebe, she told me about Dee’s situation. Apparently the 4 bed, 3 bath house needed cosmetic repairs, and was available for rent to anyone capable. Due to the work required, rent (water included) was only $300. Life in the country is cheaper in general, but to give you an idea of living costs in my hometown, the rent for our tiny crap-hole was considered cheap at $550.

Hubby and I were ecstatic, it was exactly the kind of work he does. We followed Phoebe and Mike there that evening. The money saved on rent would be more than enough to justify the extra gas cost. “Is… Is that a house or a trailer?” I asked Hubby as we pulled into the driveway.

“That would be a trailer with extra rooms built on each end.” He explained, slightly unsure. After a full walk around, he corrected, “It’s actually two trailers with two additions, none of which match.”

I know my maps aren’t fancy, but I swear this is completely accurate. The problem this time is the location and trashy owner, not my lack of art skills.

“They don’t expect you to do anything on the outside. There’s no leaks; structure, electrical, and plumbing are solid, but the rooms need to be cleaned and painted. They had pets inside, so they want to rip out the carpet and install linoleum, but that’s the worst of it” Mike reassured as he struggled to open the front door. If his assessment had been accurate, everything would have worked out fine.

“Are the utilities already on?” I asked, too entranced at the prospect of living far from Rob and Amy to be suspicious.

“No not yet, but she already started the process, they should be on by the end of the week.” Mike answered and lead us through the house.

The stench of carpet repeatedly soaked in urine and left to dry assaulted our senses upon entry. The woman was clearly a hoarder, it quickly became apparent why the extensions were done haphazardly. They built where they could when they needed more space. The living room, kitchen, one bedroom, and bath were free of clutter stacks, but the remaining rooms were so full you couldn’t enter. Look, I know this has more red flags than a date who casually mentions living with his mother, but that’s why I wrote Breakfast of Champions first. If you haven’t read it, you can’t follow the thought process through this decision.

Sure, the place looked and smelled bad, but at the time, I was working from home and Hubby did these kinds of repairs for a living. We figured we could be cozy in a week and clean the spare rooms at our leisure. The living room and kitchen alone were bigger than our entire apartment. Honestly, we already had our eyes on a few things. There were all sorts of buried treasures, including a loaded gun hidden in a curio cabinet, but that’s for another day.

We moved the following weekend when utilities were restored. The house was so filthy we asked friends and family for help, but we only got Amy. My parents came, but stressed me out so badly we let them leave. Amy was excited to come, she was fighting with Rob and packed for the weekend. It was better than no help at all, we were grateful.

After checking each appliance and faucet, we learned the fridge was broken, the kitchen had the only functioning sink, the washer didn’t spin, most outlets didn’t work, nor did the guest shower, and a dead rat floated in the toilet. Every second I suffered from Amy’s Xanax delusions were justified when she reached in, grabbed the rat’s tail, and dropped it into a trash bag. “Huh, that was gross.” She shrugged it off as if she were discussing inconvenient weather.

Mike delivered a new fridge, otherwise nothing else was repaired for the 6 months we stayed there. Hubby wears 4-5 outfits daily, we can’t go long without washing clothes. Desperate, I tried to clean them without spin cycle assistance. I rung out each item before throwing it into the dryer, but the best way to describe the resulting pain in my hands is wet-burn. Plus, drying heavily soaked clothing broke the dryer inside two weeks.

We learn fast, it didn’t take long to understand our landlady had no intentions of making the home livable. We delivered our first rent payment in person, believing we would make fast introductions, hand them money, and retreat. Standard procedure. Not for these ladies. Dee and her mother were lonely, chatty women. They insisted we come in to “set a spell.” Thats hillbilly for “we want you to sit and listen to us talk a few hours.”

Scared and nervous we entered the witch’s lair, and again, were immediately assaulted by the pungent oder of urine, but fresh this time. Imagine you’re in a movie theater wearing flip-flops. You know what it feels and sounds like walking on those floors? That’s exactly what their carpet was like. Yes, I said carpet. Let that sink in a moment. If I was going to be trapped anyway, I wanted the conversation to be beneficial. I gave her a list of our major issues, most importantly the plumbing.

“I think we need to address these items before we begin cosmetics. The house isn’t livable.” I wanted to be polite, we wanted this to work.

“Oh my, I don’t know what could have happened, everything worked perfectly when I lived there.” Dee reviewed my list. “But there’s no reason to wait, my son is a plumber and I’m sure he can find a washer real quick.”

It was hard to resist pointing out the last time she entered the home was seven years go, but I managed. “That sounds great, but we can’t wash clothes until then. If he can get it quickly, it shouldn’t hurt to wait. We (Hubby) go through clothes too fast to dirty more with house work. My parents live outside the opposite end of town, it’s almost an hour from here. That’s too far to take clothes every other day.” I made a conscious effort to maintain a smile.

“Ah, I see! Well that’s no problem at all. You can was clothes here while we wait on the new one.” Dee beamed proudly.

I would have worn each pair of underwear for a week before I did laundry in that house. They would smell worse leaving than going. As it is, we burned the clothes we wore inside this first day. I’m not joking. I would like to take a moment to apologize for the sins we committed against the environment, but I was raised in a place that doesn’t believe in science. I didn’t know better, I am truly sorry. They were old clothes anyway, so when the smell clung to us we threw them in the burn pile.

By Sunday afternoon, we filled five 42 gallon trash bags but had no clue what to do with them. We hadn’t made a dent in our closet, where we were surprised to find clothes piled floor to ceiling. No hangers or baskets, nothing folded, just clothes thrown in until it was full. “But wait! Can’t you donate the clothes to charity?” You ask. That was also my initial response. Unfortunately, it was soon apparent we found the rat queen’s nest.

The smell was our first warning sign, but tolerable by our new, lowered standards. Armed with rubber gloves and face masks, we initiated contact with the pile. Rat feces fell from each item we picked up. Some things were chewed and matted together, some were stiff as a board. When the first live rat fled from the pile, we changed tactics. Newly armed with shovels and rakes, we scooped clothes into heavy duty trash bags. Hopefully you now understand why I would be averse to have them in my car, especially for multiple trips. Burning them honestly seemed like our only choice.

When Amy left Monday, we considered our living spaces almost as good as it would get. We obviously couldn’t waste money fixing the house, but we ripped out the carpets for our health and sanity. Once the living room and bedroom were clear, we saw there were very few places not permanently piss-stained. The thought of walking on it everyday was unsettling to say the least. Are you familiar with the felt paper used underneath shingles?

This stuff, it’s like thick construction paper.

Far from glamorous, but we had tons of the stuff and it put something clean under our feet. After the first two months, we adjusted to our new routines. We learned to brush our teeth in the kitchen, took five minute showers, and never left the safety of our living areas. It was around this time, the complaints about plumbing got serious. We accepted we would never have faucets or the other bathrooms functioning, but Hubby found a leak under our good bathroom. That scared us. If it stopped working, we were beyond screwed. I do not ‘pop squats’ no ma’am.

Every day for weeks I sent messages to Dee and Phoebe, “We have a leak, I’m really worried about it.” I understood they weren’t capable of concern for our general well-being, so I decided to appeal to their needs adding, “I’m mainly concerned because of your water bill. I’ve seen leaks cost several hundred to the water company alone.” That one always earned me a response, but not one I wanted.

“Oh goodness me! My son is a plumber, I can ask him to fix it. Can you maybe just fill up a couple buckets to flush and wash with, then you can cut the water off?” Dee suggested this as if it weren’t the same son who was supposed to provide a new washer. I was skeptical.

We tried it for a few days, but the shutoff valve was ridiculously hard to access, and when days turned to weeks we were beyond our limits with Dee. Each time I spoke to her she behaved as if it were the first time. At the end of the first week she let slip, “My son is a plumber, I can call him to come fix it!”

“You said that last week, have you still not called anyone?!” My calm facade fell momentarily, but I struggled to regain it in her awkward silence.

Finally, she said “I did. I did… but he was busy, maybe he forgot. I’ll call again right now.” It was the first time she ended a conversation voluntarily.

As I’m sure you can all guess, this continued until they received a $400 water bill. Dee called crying, sucking snot back every few words. “What… what happened?!” I thought… but you said you could keep the water off. You… you said… you didn’t mind!”

I never cared for her poor me act to begin with and now she pushed me far past caring about etiquette. “Never once did I say we didn’t mind, I said it was doable for a few days! That was over two weeks ago!”

“I… I’ll call my son… he’s… a plumber.” Dee hung up, but she didn’t call her son, she called Mike.

A few minutes later, Mike knocked on our door, a sheepish Phoebe standing behind him. I knew what was coming. “Ah, let me guess, you heard about the water.”

“Yea, look. We really need to work something out. You have to see it’s unfair to tell her about a major leak and decide to turn the water back on when she can’t get it done the next day.” Mike tried to hand me the water bill, but too many things pushed my rage past the limit of control. I’ll leave out my curses, they’re unbecoming.

He was use to commanding fear and respect from Phoebe and the two old biddies he cared for, he forgot you can’t treat other people that way. I was already in defense mode before he tried to bow up in my front door to push that cray on me. I ignored his outstretched hand completely, and looked past him to Phoebe. “Do I need to show him the texts and calls from the last several weeks or do you want to explain it to him? Because the way we’ve been living it’s not going to be pretty if I have to relive a play-by-play.”

Phoebe tugged his shirt sleeve, “She really has. Non-stop. I told you.”

The look on Mike’s face said it all. Dee called him crying her pity story, he wanted her to leave him alone, so he believed her hogwash without an ounce of thought. Caveman then decided he would bully his way through like he did with everything else. It was only a few weeks until the water was shut off completely. Dee claimed she couldn’t afford a plumber or water bills. She invited us to use her facilities, but if you’ve been paying attention, you know that wasn’t a valid option. Instead we drove to mooch water from family.

Life wasn’t too terrible. It was genuinely better than dealing with Rob and Amy until Hubby had a wreck. We were less than a week into living without water when a car came into his lane. I’m thankful he wasn’t seriously injured, but our only car was totaled. I don’t want to go on a tangent about the wreck, but it took almost 3 months to receive our insurance money, and we were too young for a rental. Once a week, my parents drove us for groceries, otherwise we were stranded. It was kind of fun at first. Hubby couldn’t take jobs, and winter was an incredibly slow time of year for a porch building company. I took a few short phone calls a day, but the rest of our time was spent popping Adderall, smoking weed, and watching tv.

We could cook and brush our teeth with store bought water, that was never a problem when we had so many larger challenges to face. Washing clothes had us stumped, but we worked out a routine of washing at Phoebe’s every Friday while they bar hopped. We grew to look forward to those nights. We were able to have a real shower and toilet. Some of you may be wondering why we didn’t visit regularly, but we just aren’t those people. Maybe if it were only Phoebe, but we hated Mike and I have a super weird thing about potty etiquette.

The first two days without water, we became desperate enough to use each toilet regardless of flush capabilities. Unfortunately, that put us over the max waste limit one can tolerate in their home, and we were forced to find alternatives. Hubby peed outside freely, but to my great despair, I too was forced to pop the squats. Alas, this did nothing to help with pooping. How campers and hunters use bushes I’ll never understand, but Hubby tried walking into the woods on Day 3. He returned covered in poison ivy and red-bug bites. So, what do do?

Well, it turns out, if you take a 40qt pot, and hook a few Walmart bag handles over the pot handles, you’re off to a good start. No matter what, don’t forget to hook those handles. Learn from our mistake, you don’t want to clean your own. Then you need four 4×4 cut offs taller than your pot, 6 inches is ideal. This requires a flat, even surface, and it helps if your willing to put a few screws in the floor. We were. Again, not something you want to learn the hard way. Once you have your base, you need to two more (preferably decking size) boards to lay across the top. Now you have a redneck toilet. It doesn’t flush, and you have to change the bag after each use, but it kept us pooping indoors.

The sad part is, once that’s resolved you have to figure out what to do with the bags. Obviously we couldn’t burn them as we had other trash, no one picked up garbage this far out of town, we were baffled. Then we noticed the shed in our backyard. We were use to ignoring it after our first look, when we moved in we saw it was full of garbage and smelled of mold. “You think that would work?” I asked Hubby as we shared a knowing glance.

“I think it’ll have to, let’s check it out.” He carefully approached the shed with a shovel, using the spade to swing the broken door ajar. It couldn’t latch, but it closed far enough to get the job done. The shed appeared to be Dee’s first hoarding victim. We honestly believed if (big if) anyone ever discovered our shame, it would be years away with no reason to suspect it wasn’t Dee herself. Hoarders save all sorts of weird stuff after-all.

Pooping quickly became the worst part of each day, but when the shed could hold no more, we were forced to hike into the woods. We found a deep gully to throw our bags into, but ignoring the fact we had to add a lengthy walk to our waste disposal routine, it felt deeply wrong. It’s the one routine I couldn’t adjust to. As the weeks progressed, with no end in sight, we sank deeper into depression. While we only had to suffer the poo routine in the morning, other challenges faced us through each day.

We may have showered every Friday, but we couldn’t go more than a day without feeling gross. Bird baths with store water were a waste of time and resources, but it’s what we did most often. The first time it rained was on Day 5. “It’s raining hard enough to shower outside, do you want to try?” Hubby suggested, already collecting soap and shampoo.

“Yea, I think I do.” I was excited at the idea. I enjoyed playing in the rain, and this gave me a valid reason.

We don’t have snow here, our winters rarely have truly cold days, but apparently standing in the rain will make all the difference. As soon as we stepped into the open, rain hit us hard and cold, it felt like someone knocked the air out of me. Hubby was able to last almost five minutes for a complete scrub down, but I only managed to wash my hair. We felt better than we had in days regardless. We showered every time it rained for the entire 8 weeks.

The first time rent was due after losing water, I refused to pay. Dee was furious, but I wouldn’t budge. “No! We’ve been living without water for over three weeks, and no, we are not comfortable using yours. Even if we were that wouldn’t make this ok.” I was no longer trying to be polite. Those days were long gone.

“But I need rent money to pay for the water. You can’t have water until you pay rent!” She demanded as if she cut the water off as leverage.

“If I thought there was any truth to that at all, I would pay it just because that’s how desperate we are, but I know full well that’s not where the money will go. You had our money and several weeks before the first water bill, but you did nothing.” I was shaking with fury.

When Dee resorted to calling us con-artists and refused to discuss water further, I hung up mid rant. A few minutes later she realized I was no longer on the phone and tried to call back. I ignored the calls, well out of patience for the day. The biggest surprise of all came the following day. With no forewarning, a man resembling a dirty, redneck Santa knocked on our door.

He introduced himself as Dee’s son-in-law, and was not a plumber but explained, “She won’t leave me alone about it. I done told her over and over this place needs to be tore down, but she just don’t wanna hear it. I came by today just to shut her up. You all need to get outta here ASAP, she ain’t got no money, and if she did she’d just spend it on stupid shit from the tv.”

I thanked the man for his honesty and blocked Dee’s numbers. We already planned to run for it when the insurance money came, but I decided there was no point to suffer through any further contact with her. There was no fear of her coming in person, she wouldn’t even pull into the driveway. After having her blocked several days, she sent Mike in her stead.

Lucky for him, he arrived with a vastly different attitude. He apologized profusely, told us to continue ignoring Dee, and reminded us we could use their facilities anytime. It was all very amicable in their regard, but I’m sure he used a different act when reporting back to Dee. I didn’t care in the least as long as we had no contact with her. When the insurance money finally came through, we bought an Avenger and moved to a nice 2 bed 2 bath apartment in town. It was a wonderful, glorious home.

A few weeks after the move, Phoebe informed me Dee hired a lawyer and intended to sue us. She and Mike were present during the lawyer’s visit, and the conversation was phenomenal.

“Not only did they refuse to pay rent, they stole from me! I want all my rent money, my stuff, and then something for all the emotional distress they put me through. They lived there for 6 months!” Dee ranted at the lawyer.

“Well we can probably get the rent money, but pending what they did with the stolen items… what all did they take? Do you have a copy of your renters contract?” The lawyer asked, pausing to look up from his notes.

“We didn’t do no contract, but they robbed me blind! I’ll have to make you a list, we gotta get in there and look, but my beautiful glass cabinet is gone!”

“You didn’t have any contract? That’s going to make recovering rent very difficult if not impossible. What other big items were taken? Did any of you see them take it? What’s our proof?” The lawyer put his notes away, already suspicious of his “easy paycheck” Dee described over the phone.

“I told you, I gotta get in there and see, I don’t know what else yet! Of course they didn’t take it when we was looking! They ain’t gonna admit to it, they saying they never took nothing! Liars! Liars and thieves!”

With a deep sigh, the lawyer asked, “Well why wouldn’t they pay rent? Did they give a reason? They just didn’t have it, or what?”

“They said they wasn’t gonna pay till I fixed the water, but that’s bullshit! They wasn’t supposed to be using it!” Now fully exasperated, the lawyer asked, “Wait. Are you saying that house doesn’t have water?!”

“Course it did. They had water till they ran up a $400 bill and got it turned off.” Dee snapped.

Mike, tired of the conversation, sped things over the finish line. “Look, they paid rent on time every month until the water was cut off. Aunt Dee did the water in her own name, it was suppose to be included in the rent.”

Dee looked at Mike with black hatred, but the lawyer spoke first. “I think I’ve heard enough. Ma’am , if they decide sue you, give me a call. Otherwise you need to thank your lucky stars and leave those folks alone.

And that friends, was how Dee left our lives for good. You have to be very careful when house shopping. Whether it’s to rent or own, always do your homework. I’m glad I finally got to write this one. We didn’t have time to cover all the good stories from living there, but the water incident was easily the most difficult. Next up, I’ve decided to make my 50th post the Halloween Special! I hope to post it in the next few days, until then stay safe and suspicious. Remember, the paranoid ones survive horror movies longest.

humor

Road Rage

Road rage will get you killed. I admit, I had it bad. The kind that makes people not want to ride with you. I’m not proud, but this is one of those ‘please learn from my mistakes’ things. I know so many people killed in car wrecks, I myself have metal in my body because of a wreck. Let’s go over the key points to why it’s a dangerous emotion you should do away with immediately.

1. People are flipping insane. You never know when one is going to lose their shit. And for every smartass thinking ‘what can they do in the middle of traffic?’ it’s time to wake up, Buttercup. Crazy people don’t care about witnesses, they’re crazy. By time they snap out of it they could be in jail for murdering you, but they didn’t realize there would be consequences because they’re crazy. It doesn’t make you any less dead. Here, I’ll give you examples of how I learned the hard way, please, enjoy my pain.

Let’s start with summer after Junior year. On the way to work, I had to pass through a large intersection. I drove through a green light, but saw a truck running the red to my right. I slammed on breaks and skidded to a halt, the beat-up truck missed me by inches. I had a habit of responding to fear with anger, still do, but I’m working on it. As the truck passed, I flipped it off and gave a good, 3 second honk. Pretty standard procedure, she was clearly in the wrong. I drove away and continued singing whatever emo shit I was undoubtedly playing when I saw the truck cut a u-turn. It raced to catch up and rode my bumper. I never saw inside, but it was obviously a truck full of gangsters, and you know they had guns. We don’t really see people when we’re driving. We see obstacles that exist solely to thwart our attempts at traveling.

Looking in the rear-view, all I could see were three shadowy outlines. This was happening as we entered the downtown area. The four-lane was coming to an end and the next red light offered nowhere to hide. I was jammed in with other cars; accepting the inevitable, I made sure doors were locked, and daydreamed worse case scenarios. Securely trapped until the light turned green, a woman who looked like Momma Klump emerged. My assumption about gangsters was a tad hasty. She was wearing one of those moo-moos, and her head was covered in curlers.

This is accurate except for the missing curlers. Nutty Professor II: The Klumps, hilarious movie.

I was afraid my window would break if she leaned on it, but she only jabbed it with her finger while cursing me. No one else got out, but her volume increased significantly when I began to laugh. She didn’t understand my relief of not being gunned down in the street. I drove away when the light turned green, wondering if I could get away with running over her foot. At the time, I was stupid enough to think she would regret following me to work. Luckily, she didn’t, but I am disappointed in Past Me for being too dumb to understand there are many, many terrible things she could have done with the knowledge. Alright, let’s jump ahead to after we moved out of that crap town.

The bigger the city you live in, the more likely you are to cross paths with crazy. The turn for a house we rented was off a skinny two-lane. My actual road was a cul-de-sac, but it was long, you couldn’t tell until the end. I hated that two-lane, it was only 45mph without a single place that allows passing. Normally, I didn’t waste a lunch hour trying to drive home, but if I did, I was in a hurry. Once, I drove down the long two-lane and saw a truck pulling up to a stop sign on my right. It never attempted to slow down, it just ran the stop sign and shot onto the road. I was going 51, if you want to say that’s too fast in a 45, whatever, but there was no stopping. I was driving a tiny Dodge Avenger, the truck was a large Dodge Ram, I would have died if I hit it. Reflex and luck saved me. I couldn’t see around the curve, but I swerved into the left lane and passed without wrecking.

I want to point out, I didn’t flip it off or honk. I couldn’t if I wanted, both hands were glued to the wheel. The truck filled my rear-view mirror. When it followed me into the turn for my road, I knew it wasn’t coincidence. I had no clue who was inside, I passed my driveway and kept going. That’s how I learned I lived on a cul-de-sac. The truck pulled across the exit to block my path, but it wasn’t big enough. I squeezed between its hood and the curb, seeing one small woman inside. I decided I didn’t have time to play this game. I drove out of the circle, pulled over behind my drive-way, and got out. The truck stopped dramatically close to my bumper, and the tiny woman came out screaming. She smelled like a distillery. She slurred so bad, I couldn’t make out most of the words.

When she finally paused for a breath I let out all the anger built up from running and watching the clock. “Are you done? I could see you run your stop sign clear as day. How early you start drinking?! It’s like 11:30 and you reek! Do you understand I would have died if I hit your dumbass in that huge truck?!” I did my best to make the Look.

“You ain’t see shit, you the bitch speeding!” She wobbled like a bobble-head.

“Oh bite me I was going 51. Fuck off, if you pull this shit again I’m calling the police.” I turned to walk away, wishing I had a something to use for a mic-drop.

“I wish you would, bitch! I’m friends with all the cops!” I could hear her feet dragging as she followed me.

“Yes, I’m sure you do think that. And I’m sure the ones your thinking of super appreciate you driving plastered under their protection and harassing people. Bravo, next time, try a cup of coffee before you drive.” I locked myself in, pulled my camera out, and showed her it was recording. She tripped getting back into her truck, but I never saw her again. I want to point out how lucky I was; I stopped because I saw a small woman alone, but only later did it occur to me she could have easily shot me if she had a gun. I could have done a million different things to resolve it, but road rage clouds your judgment.

Hubby has far worse road rage, and the inability to learn from mistakes. Yes, it’s a deadly combination and why there’s metal in my body. Seriously guys, please learn. If I ever speak of the car wreck it won’t be anytime soon, but there’s plenty more where that came from.

Not long after leaving our hometown, we were out learning the roads, trying to find a route to work I could drive without having a panic attack. I don’t know what these guys did to start a war, probably nothing significant. If a car pulls out in front of Hubby, he behaves like they spat on him. Had we lived in the age of dueling, he would have died before 20. Anyway, these guys did something he considered offensive which meant revenge had to be swift and painful.

Hubby sped to pass them, grabbed an empty Sprite bottle, and threw it out the window. It hit them on the driver’s side. That seemed to piss those guys off a lot. They sped up to pass us, which was scary in itself. In the middle of heavy traffic we’re all bobbing and weaving to do these ridiculous stunts. They one upped Hubby by throwing a full Sonic drink. Sticky coke splashed all over our windshield. There really aren’t words in our language to properly express my anger. I’m not sure which hurt more, the anger at Hubby for starting it, or the anger at Hubby for being too stupid to understand I was angry with him, not the idiots in the other car. FYI – coke is horrible to clean off, but after it cooks in the summer heat and turns into syrup, it’s torture.

A few weeks after that incident, the sharp pains of anger still burned in my chest, but I was hiding it better. Make no waves, suffer no tsunamis, it’s a great life motto, I wish I remembered where I got it. We were on the main highway when a mini van cut us off. It was a bit of a dick move, but worse happens all the time. Hubby zoomed up next to it, flipping the guy off while screaming “fuck you” out my window.

Guys. Inside the mini van, an old man who looked like a serial killer was gripping his wheel so tight I could see the veins in his hand. He was medium built, had wild gray hair, but clean shaven, and had the stern face one associates with dads who force kids to choose the belt they’ll be spanked with. If I had mastered the Darth Vader strangle hold, Hubby would not be alive today. Be sure of that. I made him turn off the highway at the next light.

“Fine, if it’ll make you happy, I’ll circle through that neighborhood.”

“If that guy follows us I’m letting him kill you while I escape.” I warned. Sure enough, serial killer followed us. “Surprise, surprise asshole!” I was terrified, I used angry sarcasm to show it.

“I really don’t want to hear it.” Hubby grumbled.

Hubby drove through the neighborhood, serial killer on our ass. He turned at random, and of course, it was a dead end. Not a cul-de-sac with the turn-around loop, a dead end. The mini-van pulled across the road to block us in, driver side directly across from us. He glared at us with a ‘wish you were dead’ look I couldn’t help envying.

“Shit, what do we do? Should I get out?” Hubby asked.

“I’m tempted to let him kill you, but if you open that door I’ll kill you myself. He probably wants you to get out.”

Hubby is useless in a crisis. He can get you into one faster than teenagers on acid, but once it starts, he’s only capable of making it worse. You have to remove him from the equation immediately or his panic will hinder you every step of the way. “Just sit still and be ready. If he gets out, run him down, I’ll say I was driving and panicked.” I wasn’t sure if I was telling truth, but hoped it wouldn’t matter.

I turned on my phone’s flash and took several pictures. I hoped if I had pictures, he would leave; criminals tend to be camera shy. If he got out of his van, I planned to scream he was live on Facebook. After a minute of constant flashing, he drove away. I’m not sure if he even blinked while we sat there, but when he was out of sight I made Hubby drive the opposite way. Did this teach him a lesson? Hell no. I won’t speak of him often, but when I do, never, ever make the mistake of thinking he learned anything.

2. You aren’t saving time. Most rage stems from being in a hurry to get where you’re going. Have you ever done the math on how much faster you arrive when speeding VS driving the speed limit? For daily commutes you’re talking an average five minutes or less, totally not worth the hassle.

Here, let’s put this one in perspective. When we first started driving, Thelma and I had vastly different reactions. I believed I was an invincible race-car driver, and Thelma believed she would die if she drove over 40. I once made her cry hitting 80 on the bridge. It boiled down to me not having patience; driving is boring, I’d rather get it over with. In this one instance, Thelma had the right idea. Thankfully, she’ll never read this to know about it, alcohol erased it from her memory years ago.

To prove how much time her driving wasted, I proposed we race from school to her house. I planned to arrive long before her, but I only won by two minutes. I sped, bobbed and weaved, cut people off, but she caught up at every red light. When I turned off the highway I finally pulled ahead, but a two minute lead didn’t grant much bragging privilege. Unless you have serious distance to travel on open roads, there’s no argument for taking the risk. Plus paying tickets are expensive and dealing with insurance sucks.

3. It makes you look like a proper ass. Sure it feels justified in the moment, but have you ever seen someone else with road rage? Have you seen their beet-red faces lined with bulging, purple veins? Spraying the windshield with spit, making excessive hand gestures as if their words aren’t sufficiently expressing their displeasure? They look kinda foolish don’t they? Are you ready for a shock? It looks the same when you do it. I know, it’s hard to accept, but dig deep, you know it to be true.

See, here’s a good one. Don’t be this guy. Do Future You a favor, count to 10 or something.

No one plans to have a wreck, they happen when you least expect. They can change your life forever in an instant. A trip to the gas station can kill a loved one. Most people need a close call for this kind of life change, but it’s not necessary. Life doesn’t give you a sign in the sky saying, “good job, if you had cut that guy off, you would be dead right now” it shouldn’t have to. Yet if someone suffers through a terrible wreck and 6 month recovery, they start driving differently. You don’t need to suffer to learn, just learn. If it isn’t important enough to use your hazard lights, it isn’t important enough to risk driving erratically.

Look, I’m not exempt from this. I feel terrible about what I did to the poor man on the bicycle. I mean, to be fair he shouldn’t have been riding it there in the middle of 5:00 traffic. We were on a two-lane road out in the country, nowhere near civilization. There’s no bike lanes in places like this! And this guy is riding his bicycle in the right lane knowing full-well myself and a line of 10 cars were stuck behind him. A chance to pass finally presented itself, but when I got next to him (ok yes, I was too close to him) I held the horn down. His entire body, bike and all went straight up, and over. If the cars would not have already been behind me, also passing, he would have been ran over. Sure I wanted to punch the guy in the face for being a jerk, but I damn sure didn’t want him dead or crippled. Did everyone laugh like it was a big joke? Yes. But he wasn’t injured so it’s ok.

I know this isn’t the kind of stuff I usually write, but this crap is important. It’s not just you. The road rage between you and one other vehicle can kill kids in the car behind you. The car neither of you realize is there because you’re behaving like idiots. I don’t care how angry you are, no one wants to be that asshole. Karma is a crafty bitch, do not give her a reason to cut you.

Ok, thanks everyone.

Oh, one last order of business. I sincerely hope my imaginary groupies are enjoying their new lives, perhaps the break has absolved me from any… unsavory presumptions. I think it has. Alright, good day.