Sorry, but I've got another left hand turn lane story.
Beastie is my husband's jeep. (The other half hates that name for the jeep. When I named our childhood pet mouse Chirpy my brother hated that name too. The name stuck. I've got a telent for bestowing highly appropriate, albeit simplistic nicknames.) Anyway, Beastie is a Rubicon with 35s and all the other appropriate tricks of the trade. The thing goes over anything.
When I drive Beastie people tend to think that I am tailgating when I'm not. Something about seeing a bumper in the top of your rearview mirror makes folks nervous, I guess. But while I might not always have the best visibility out the back (and sides and immediate front) I do know what I'm doing. I've got more road hours in the thing than its rightful owner, and I enjoy being taller than everyone else for once. I sure as hell am not a tailgater and the next person who suggests it will be cleaning tire tread off their roof rack.
But this morning I guess the minivan in front of me was:
a. suffering from a sever bout of jeep envy and wanted to check out my winch
b. on the fucking phone
c. thought I was tailgating (I wasn't!) and decided to teach me a lesson by blocking my access to the left hand turn lane.
My signal was clearly on, and minivan-man stopped about three car lengths behind the next car. After about twenty seconds I decided he was sporting option C. Other supporting evidence that he had appointed himself Daily Driving Deputy were the little fishy symbol (nothing against it, I suffer from that delusion as well, but I also took friggin' science in school) and a Bush '04 sticker. (I highly appreciate people who keep their politics to themselves. A Kerry sticker would have been only marginally better.)
Well, we're late for school again and this dork is, well, dorking around with the Beastie. Folks, don't fuck with the Beastie. Especially when I've had three hours of sleep (up all night talking and writing and watching Dead Like Me which is almost as entertaining as Krypto and his set), one measely cup of tea, a five-year-old who suddenly cares about his appearance, and no breakfast. In short, I wasn't in the mood. Especially since I'm still pissed by the whole chiropractor at the gym thing (that's going to irritate me for a loooong time.)
So what could I do? I popped the two foot median and went around the asshole. Made the light, too. Ha!
My daughter (in honor of the season we'll call her Punkinhead) giggles and says, "Do it again, mom!"
Hmm. I admit I'd forgotten about the impressionable two-year-old in the back seat in lieu of my forthcoming nonfatnowhipmocha and pumpkin bread at starbucks.
I think I tempered the effects of my less than desirable influence though. I turned down the Nickelback and said, "No honey. We only do that when jerks are blocking the road in front of us."
Parenting is rough business; nonstop work and all that. Got to be on your toes all the time.