Since we had some crap weather heading our way, I arranged to have the Sponsor’s truck to drive to work and leave the Pirate at home. I was working nights and was not a happy camper when I was rudely ripped out of Dreamland not three hours after arriving by Mr. Slow’s announcement that he has to go to work early.I grumpily roll my tired self out of bed and throw on the first set of wrinkled clothes I find in the dark room. I am pre-coffee and not quite awake. As I shuffle down the hall to grab my phone I mumble something along the lines of an official refusal to drive. I stumble down the driveway and climb into the passenger side of the truck and off we go.
A while later, I am jarred out of my sluggish too-damn-early-for-this state of mind by the telltale noise of tires bouncing over the interstate’s rumble strip. What the hell? I look over at my husband eyes cast down, playing with his phone, which he is holding in his right hand resting on the center console.
“Are you freaking texting?!?”
He response: “No. I’m just checking something.”
That does it. “You should know better!” I’m incredulous. “I have to dodge assholes like that every time I go to work and you are one of THEM?!?”
“I wasn’t texting.”
Now I’m pissed. I try to snatch the phone out of his hand, he’s faster, but I’m more tenacious and finally succeed in grabbing his phone and shove it into the little space on my door handle.
“What the hell does it matter what you were doing?!? You are weaving all over the damn road! Texting fucking kills. What would you do if some asshole made your wife wreck herself? Or worse, kills her.”
He is starting to argue the point; I can see it in his body language. Then he finally hangs his head: “I’m sorry. You’re right. You are absolutely right. I’m a professional driver. I get overconfident when I’m in my own truck.”
“You do that shit when you’re driving in the big truck?”
“Hell, no! I can’t afford to.”
“You are forgiven. Don’t let it happen again. You know I’m gonna shred you on my blog, right?”
“You have every right to. I deserve it. I know better.”
So, I’m on my rocket propelled Samsonite, looking for an early morning with Miss Busa. Love of my life waiting for me (read as sleeping). So I’m westbound on I-20. There are three lanes of traffic. I’m in the granny lane, the license plate DOES read “Mr.Slow.” I see a white Lexus coming onto the interstate, so I move to the center lane to allow the car ease of entry. In other words, white paint transfer on my Connie won’t look very nice. See, I’m a nice driver: make room for others, mind my manners, all that bull shit that is about to go out the window.
Mr. Lexus, with the now visible aviator sunglass, decides that the granny lane is not good enough for him anymore. He wants my lane now. So without a glance at me, he comes on over. Of course I do notice this, mostly because I’m allergic to road rash. Screw that, I dodge to the hammer lane, and look dead at the guy. He must ‘feel’ me staring at him, because he looks at me and throws both hands into the air in the “WHAAAAT?” gesture.
That pissed me off a little, so I decide to show him what for! Ok, squid warning. I know that this makes no sense, but I’m really ticked off now. So I decide enough is enough, I pull my bike hard toward the Lexus piloted by the aviator sunglasses wearing, cool breeze jerk. I think I surprised him a little. Maybe. He pulls his luxury Toyota into the right lane, surprising me; then really astonishing me, he goes all the way to the shoulder. As I accelerate away, I’m laughing so hard, that I have tears running down my face.
The Lexus driver got back on the road, I made it home with a tale to tell: everyone happy. Just so no one is worried, no Lexus drivers were harmed during the making of this blog entry. If the bastard had pulled over, it may have had been different.