The weather has been nicer and more spring-like lately*, so I’m trying to walk to more of my showings within 4-5 blocks of my office.
*Except yesterday when it was so windy I got choked with my own hair every time I opened my mouth to speak. Even Mother Nature wants me to shut the fuck up.
Of course, being a pedestrian in any city comes with its own challenges. Let’s face it- no matter how many laws exist giving you the right of way, everyone else (including those smug, reckless cyclist bastards) considers you the conveyance-free low man on the totem pole.
I’ll admit it- I’m a fickle bitch. When I’m a pedestrian, I hate motorists and when I’m a motorist I hate pedestrians, cyclists, other motorists, children, old people, and anyone wearing a t-shirt with Bob Marley or Che Guevara.
Why all the hate? I’m sure you all remember my candid, well-worded, and perfectly reasonable diatribe against mopeds. Well, I had 3 different showings at a nearby building yesterday and I was almost mowed down by one of the little dildo-driving cum puppets at every single showing.
The first time, I was crossing with a damn walk light and the dumb motherfucker came barreling down the turn lane with no regard for my right of way, and no intention of stopping. My potential lessees may have shouted some highly inappropriate but approved epithets at his fleeing form.
On trip number two, I was returning to the office and crossing the parking lot behind the apartment building when some cum receptacle on her hot pink sex rocket darted between the two parked cars I was walking toward. I ended up having to jump out of the way while she turned hard to miss me. After which, she had the nerve to give me the finger and I threw a rock at her.
My final near death experience was also on the return trip to the office where I was crossing University Avenue (which is a one-way street, for you non-locals). It’s already a terrible crossing because there’s a marked crosswalk that no one pays any attention to, even when you’re traveling in it. In this case, I lucked out because all the traffic was stuck at a red light for at least another 30 seconds and I can cross all 4 lanes of that hell in 12, wearing 6” stilettos and doing an Irish jig.
My luck ran out as I was in the last lane when a moped came tearing toward me, driving THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE-WAY STREET. See, in this state, mopeds are treated like fat bicycles for parking purposes, but still have to obey the same traffic laws as motor vehicles. EXCEPT that you don’t need a driver license to operate a moped, so these dumbfounded dipshits don’t even know what the traffic laws are.
When Mr. No-Way-But-the-Wrong-Way made his debut, I’d already resigned myself to death before my 31st birthday, so I stood in the middle of the lane, hand on one hip, head cocked to the side with a look on my face that I hope conveyed the sentiment best described as “try me, motherfucker.” It must have worked, because he ended up having to swerve around me into oncoming traffic that had escaped the red light and then ran his moped up the curb before ramming it into a concrete retaining wall. Karma is a BITCH, sweetheart.
And speaking of birthdays! I’d like to wish a happy birthday today to my old-ass husband, who will always be 1 year and some odd days more decrepit than I. This is also my birthday week and we will be celebrating by spending a night in a swanky hotel in Dubuque, IA (motto: we have riverboat gambling) for some well-deserved R&R.
I’m not much for celebrating my birthday with parties or attention whoring. Hell, I’m not even going to tell you when it is. However, to show that I’m still a good sport, and because I much prefer giving gifts to getting them, I’m giving one of you the opportunity to have a very merry un-birthday with some fabulous gifts.
First, these stylish refrigerator magnets for the house full of munchies:
And because pie is no good without coffee:
Busy day of being stunning indeed…
Or perhaps you don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but you are someone who enjoys the finer foods in life, I have this:
To win, you must chose your favorite among my many ranting, frustration-fueled posts and write me a poem in any format of 31 words or less. I’ll also pick 2-3 runners up and give them a smaller, but still fabulous consolation prize to be determined later and shamelessly plug your mastery of poetry and/or the English language in a follow-up post. Leave me a comment or email me by Sunday, April 22nd .
Give me your best shot – a hateful review in masterfully crafted iambic pentameter, a dirty limerick in homage, or a flowery soliloquy – just make it good. Use of profanity is acceptable, and even encouraged, if used sparingly and done well.