Filed under: the idiocy files

adventures in commuting

In Lynchburg, I lived two miles from my office, and so my commute went kind of like this:

  1. Roll out of bed.
  2. Get in car.
  3. Be at work.

But life is about choices, and when we moved to Cville, we chose a bigger, more affordable house close to Seth’s work and about a half an hour from mine. So I became the commuter. It seemed only fair.

The only thing is, a good portion of my commute takes me straight down 29, which is possibly the stupidest road in town unless you count University Avenue, which I actually do, so okay, 29 is the second stupidest road in town. It is full of weirdness and random accidents and drivers who have some kind of particular, unique blend of stupid. I think it might be because so, so many of our area’s residents are transplants from other places, so they all bring the driving habits of their other places to Cville and then it becomes just a big fucking mess.

So. Route 29 is basically Frogger in real life. The other day, my drive in forced me to choose between driving directly behind the following: a tractor, a dump truck, a cement truck, and a logging truck full of logs, and dudes, I saw City of Angels so you’d better believe my ass was not behind the logging truck full of logs. I went with the cement truck until I realized that the cement truck was going approximately 21 mph in a 45 zone and so I did some fancy maneuvering between the other trucks in this toddler boy traffic fantasy so I could get OUT OUT OUT.

Today’s obstacle course was brought to us by the friendly folks at VDOT, who decided to mow the grass. All the grass. But not in like a consistent or helpful pattern, oh no. You’d be driving along, la la la, and then BAM! your lane ended, completely without warning, because they were mowing there. So then you had to sit there along with all the other stupid people who got stuck until you could get over into the other lane and continue. Until it happened in that lane too. So my brakes got a good workout today.

Oh! Oh, but then! Hey there, random girl in scrubs walking out into traffic all randomly and shit! That was so awesome how you did that!

And hey there, Mr. Disabled Plates Guy. That totally wasn’t dangerous at all how you just changed lanes 7 times in five seconds without signaling and also cut me off twice. Are you recruiting?

1 Comment May 10, 2011

Okay, so fine, I’m old.

Who in the hell is Gnarls Barkley, and why should I care anyway?

14 Comments July 22, 2006

Gentle Glide, Indeed

And now for something completely different.

I went to Target last night to buy such exciting things as deodorant, razor blades, toilet cleaner, bikini line Nair, a light bulb, and tampons. When I’d gotten everything I needed, I headed toward the shortest line and began loading my stuff onto the conveyor belt while the person in front of me paid for her stuff.

I should have paid more attention to her interaction with the cashier, but I was too busy feeling self-congratulatory about the fact that I would be using a coupon to save a dollar on my giant box of tampons. I spent all my waiting line time thinking about how some women are really embarrassed about buying feminine hygiene products, but I, on the other hand, am so self-confident and down-to-earth about the fact that yes, I am a woman and I menstruate that I am buying a giant box of tampons with a BIG-ASS COUPON! A coupon that is in fact PINK! Something that will draw more attention to the fact that I just bought TAMPONS!

The woman in front of me finished and it was my turn with the cashier. As I approached the register, I noticed that my cashier was unusually bright-eyed and fresh-faced and cheerful. I also noticed that his name was New Team Member.


I try to be patient with cashiers named New Team Member, because I know they are still learning and are sometimes very nervous and/or shy about working a register. This New Team Member, however, seemed to have no problems whatsoever with nervousness or shyness, unless maybe he actually did and they happened to manifest themselves as CONSTANT EFFING CHATTER.

Living in Lynchburg can be dangerous for a surly heathen bitch like me. If I run into an overly cheerful, friendly, and fresh-faced young person, and that person really, really wants to chat with me, I begin to worry that the kid is a Liberty student who is drunk on the Good News and wants to convert me. It has happened before. Since Target is essentially across the street from Liberty University, there’s always a good chance that your cashier might be a Liberty student.

So this kid is chatty-chatty-chatty and it’s in a way that makes him look very dorky and oddly socialized. This is often also a hallmark of Liberty kids, because many Liberty kids come from extremely sheltered backgrounds, were often homeschooled, and behave like puppies on a highway when they get out in public.

I try to be polite. He goes on and on about how he’s afraid of my lightbulb and doesn’t know what to do with it. He sets it aside so he can “figure out what to do with it later.” I make some polite “mm-hmm” noises and start to write out my check, hoping that my intense concentration on the difficult business of check-writing will make him shut up and finish ringing up my stuff.

“Ahh, a southpaw!” he says. That is a direct quote. Evidently, New Team Member is also a lefty, and he wishes there were more of us in the world, and left-handed women are extremely rare and in fact I might be the first left-handed woman he’s ever met and I wish I were making this crap up at this point. He starts off on a thing about left-handed desks and right-handed desks and I finish writing the parts of the check I can write at this point and look up and see that he is using sweeping, giant hand motions to emphasize his story about left-handed desks.

In one of his hands is my giant box of tampons.

I realize that he has been waving the tampons around in the air since the moment he realized I was a lefty. The four people in line behind me have facial expressions that indicate that they’re annoyed by having to wait, but they are absolutely, positively mesmerized by my Playtex Gentle Glide Multi-Pack.

I have to snap him out of it. I suggest abruptly that he just put the light bulb in the bag with everything else, because it’s in cardboard and won’t break. He shakes his head a bit as if waking out of a sound sleep, looks down at the box of tampons in his hands, and promptly gets all flustered by the fact that he’s holding a box of items that will eventually spend time inside a woman’s vagina. It takes him approximately seventy-four tries to get them scanned. And then I have to give him the damn coupon.

And then I finally, finally get a total, scribble it on the check, hand it to New Team Member, and haul ass out of my beloved Target.

6 Comments June 30, 2006


I am thinking about cheating on Jonathan the next time I get a haircut (which will be soon).

I don’t really have a very good reason for my potential betrayal, but I have lots of bad reasons. For one thing, my salon is no more. Seriously. The word around the sandbox is that the owner sold the place out from under them. All the women went down the street to Acorn Hill, and no one invited Jonathan along. So Jonathan went out to City Place, which is kind of a long way away, if you’re lazy (as I am). So it’ll be a new salon with new people and I feel weird about it. Also, Jonathan’s been my stylist for four years now and the only reason I know he moved is because he told my friend when she got her last haircut with him at the old salon. He told her that he was going to call or send a letter to all of his clients to let them know where to find him, but I haven’t gotten a letter or a phone call and I know the old salon is closed for good now because I pass it on my way to and from work every day. So I’m a little miffed about that.

The other not-very-good reason is that I’ve decided I’m definitely chopping a good amount of length off during my next cut. I’ve landed squarely in ponytail hell with my current hair, which means it’s time to make a drastic change. I know I say this approximately once every two days but I mean it this time. And last time I cut my hair, Jonathan talked me out of going shorter. So I’m afraid he’ll do it again.

But I really only have three choices if I want to try a new salon, and one of them is the one Jonathan moved to. I definitely can’t go there if I want to have someone else cut my hair. And I don’t like change and I don’t know if Jonathan has changed his rates since he moved and waaaaaaah I don’t know what to do.

7 Comments June 27, 2006

I Fried My Brain In The Hot Hot Sun

I just had this insane urge to buy a little dog and dress it in a little sweater.

3 Comments June 19, 2006

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