Every now and then I'm just the wrong amount of running late for work so that when I hit the two mile stretch of twisty road that's part of my commute every day I am thwarted by her. She who drives to work on the same road every day and yet still drives like a Nervous Nelly who has no idea what the next turn might reveal. I don't know her but I do recognize her car from the parking lot - she works in the next building over from mine at the University and damn do I hate her.

Today I stupidly left at 8:18am instead of 8:15 or 8:20 and halfway down Cherokee Road there she was, driving 24 miles per hour. I�m not even exaggerating. TWENTY FOUR miles per hour. I generally drive a slightly-too-fast 35mph but the morning was clear and dry and I know this road blindfolded because I drive it every single day Goddamn day and SO DOES SHE. What the hell, lady? Of course, when I came up behind her (I necessarily tailed her but did not tailgate) she put on the brakes and coasted to a ground-burning 23 mph. I HATE HER. Sincerely, it's fine if she wants to be late for work every day but she's making me late too and that's just rude. She was going so slow that I had to keep my foot on the brakes to prevent my car from ramming into hers. I was coasting, people, and had to put the brakes on, that's how slow she was driving.

I wouldn't be so completely bitchy about this if it hadn't happened at least three times. Not a fluke - she just drives like a douche.

Speaking of douches, have you noticed the crazy new trend in slang lately? It's all about the 80's. I'd recently started saying "sweet" a lot and realized it was a direct result from watching Napoleon Dynamite too much. Now, it's all about douches and douche bags, which is fun, if you ask me. I've also noticed "pussy" making a solid comeback, as in "I can't believe he wouldn't call her - what a pussy." Sweet.

I like to embarrass myself a lot. Check it:

I had a hair cut recently at the same salon as always, by April who always cuts my hair. She's a firecracker and I love her. The salon? Not so much, but mainly because they were impossible to work with when they carried our Keen stuff. They position themselves as a high-end salon but the boutique items and "art" are almost always sort of dreadful.

The art changes every few months and this time it was weird half-naked women painted in the style of graffiti. It was not my thing at all (oogly) and seemed an odd choice, to say the least, considering the salon's clientele. Anyway, I asked April, �What's the deal with the art?" and she responded, "Oh, you don't like it? It's my boyfriend's stuff."

Oops.

In which I am not just embarrassed, but mortified.

I have one of those toll-paying Smart Tag thingies in my car and man, let me tell you, best invention ever. It sticks to my windshield and pays my tolls and I never have to think about it. Until I get a new car, which you all know I just did.

While waiting for SmartTag to mail me a new set of Really Specific Velcro to stick my pass up in the new car, I've been forced to carry it around and remember to hold it up manually so the toll gets paid.

Last week I took the downtown expressway to go to the new gym to try out classes before committing. (I did, indeed, sign up with Gold�s. Now you know. The last straw at my old gym involved pushing my way through a gaggle of pubescent wrestlers in order to get to the damn locker room. The hell?) So I�m on the downtown expressway, running a bit late, and when I get to the toll plaza I automatically go through the "SmartTag only" lane. It�s a breeze! You can see where this is going, right?

I remembered a fraction of a second too late to hold up my SmartTag and stared with confusion at the toll gate that wouldn't lift. I try to back up and wave my SmartTag around wildly but someone has already pulled in behind me and someone behind them and so on. Holy shit, I wanted to die.

The toll lady in the next booth over slooowly walks up to me and asks for cash. I have not one red cent on me. She sighs in that Beleaguered Government Worker way and slowly goes back to her booth for the form that she slowly fills out and then hands over for me to fill out at lightning speed. Meanwhile, 500 angry drivers have piled up behind me and I can feel their rage. I can feel it lifting the hairs on the back of my neck, all prickly. Hell, I understand it - I'd want to kill me too. Finally everything is filled out and I'm handed a copy and told to mail .50 in or else I'll be fined. I want to cry. I want to personally apologize to every car behind me. I want to thank the driver directly behind me for a) not honking and b) not getting out of her car and beating me over the head with her SmartTag.

Now, please fill up my comments section with tales of your most recent embarrassment. Thank you! I'll be here all week.

5 chatty monkeys