Got My Shit Boots On

OK, so I’m not really a control freak.  I mean, maybe sometimes.  But only in regards to a couple of things.  Mainly other drivers and computers.  Two things I can’t control.  No matter how hard I try.

It’s Monday morning and, surprise surprise surprise, I had another incident on the way to work where I had to restrain from throwing my car in park, getting out of it and sternly lecturing the Student Driver that had the unfortunate fate of being in front of moi.  And by sternly lecturing, I mean beating the crap out of their car while flailing my arms and talking in tongues until they cried for their mama.

Lesson to said Student Driver:  Your car has two turn signals.   A left one for, oh, say, when you want to turn, oh, say, LEFT.  And another one on the right for, most likely, turning RIGHT.  These signals are not meant for simultaneous and sporatic blinking when you think that maybe you might want to consider going down that road or, oh look (!) a turtle!  Should we pause the instructions for a moment and pull over to save it?

Ed. note:  I am proud to be a member of the turtle-saving community, however my mother taught me a long time ago that risking the life or lives of myself or other human beings to do so is not a strict rule of the turtle/kitty/doggy/caterpillar saving handbook.

And in continuation of the turning lesson, I might add that if you do choose to properly utilize that signal because you’ve determined that yes (!), you do want to go down that road, then please – by all means – turn.  No, really.  TURN ALREADY!  That oncoming car is half a mile down the road.  Sitting and waiting for it to pass is literal torture for the motorists behind you flipping you off patiently trying to get to work on time.  Perhaps me and that instructor in your passenger seat should trade places for just a moment.  Or a day.  I’ll have you driving like Earnhardt Jr. by noon.  Safely, of course.

I also have a small issue with drivers, particularly new ones, maintaining a speed.  Now, I won’t rant about this one because I suffered this impairment, albeit breifly, when I was learning to drive.  And, duh, I’m allowed to learn slow.  But, nobody else.  Just for the record, though, try to stay within 5 mph of the speed limit.  A variant greater than that subjects you to horns and fingers.  Mainly my horn and my finger.  Unless you’re old.  Then you just get the horn.  Ya know, out of respect.

My other peeve today is my computer.  And printer.  They are one and the same as far as I’m concerned.  I believe they hold daily briefings each morning to determine how they will perform technical espionage on me.  Neither will do what I want, both blink madly at me when I’m not doing what they want and they will take their sweet time when a) someone’s on the phone waiting for me to find some piece of important information for them or b) I’m ready to go home.  They also like to play mind games with me.  Especially the printer.  In a game of good cop, bad cop, he’s the bad cop.  After jiggling cords, checking settings, attempting the bang-it-out method and beginning to do the arm-flailing thing, I notice the miniscule little light on the bottom blinking.  It’s out of paper.  Bloody printer.  You’re fixin’ to be out of lights if you don’t quit blinking the meaningless green ones at me and hiding the important red ones.  I’ll go all Patty Lou* on your ass and chunk you out the front door only to find you next Spring after the snow melts.

*Yes, there is a story behind that one and yes, I will post it soon and yes, it is entertaining.

It’s been a lovely morning and I have sincerely enjoyed trudging through it with my shit boots on and a taser in my hand.


2 responses to “Got My Shit Boots On

  1. Patty Lou here. For those of you who don’t already know, I am Liz’s mother. I won’t spoil the suspense of finding out what it means to “go Patty Lou on you”, I will let you learn that from her future blog. It’ll be much more entertaining that way. I will, however, hint that it has something to do with a frying pan, Pennsylvania snow, and my Arab temper (which I obviously shared generously with my daughter, though she got none of her artistic talent from me and only some of her writing talent). If you don’t want to wait for Liz to tell you what it means to “go Patty Lou on you”, just go find the drunk dude that tried to run his pickup truck up the rear end of my Camaro and ask him. Or the snowmobilers who run through my front yard. Or, or, or….

    Hey Liz/Elizabeth/Punkin/Wizbef, would you like to have a go at my scanner?

    And hey, y’all who live below the Mason-Dixon Line, would you please keep your 92-degree/150% humidity weather DOWN THERE, please?!!

  2. Pingback: The Wit Factory

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