An Open Letter to Those Who Made My Day Miserable

My wife is a lovely woman. Truly. She is charming and personable, beautiful and possessing of a brilliant, defiant intellect that sees the world for what it is, and yet operates within it anyway. I admire her for this. I also admire her creativity; so much so, really, that I am tempted to commit an active of creative thievery.

From time to time my wife, Salome, vents her spleen on the injustices of the world. Or, at least, the injustices visited upon her. All of these are in letter form, and can best be described as 'vituperous' ('Spellcheck' is insisting I spelled this word wrong: I have not, and shall shortly take them to task for this along with all the others who have injured me today), and nothing short of delightful.

I will not do this, however, because this is her idea. Instead, I shall give away awards. Observe:

Honorary mention: The Most Oblivious Shopper In The History Of The World-

Yes, you are well-deserving of a mention here. No doubt you thought the self-checkout line would be a great way to teach your 6 year old (Oh? He's 8, is he? Well, he's a runt) the fine art of credit debt. But did you really need to bring an entire shopping cart filled with goods to check out?

You did? My apologies. And the apologies of all the rest of us behind you with 3 or 4 items who just wanted to get the hell out of there as quickly as possible, as many of us have already been in danger several times by little old ladies pushing shopping carts they can barely see over as they search for little marshmellows to put on their disgusting candied yams.

So, let's say you have a point there. But the next question: while you sat there, oblivious to the growing line behind you, did it ever occur to you that it is not cute and not to let little-Johnny-the-runt pick items out of your cart and try and scan them? I mean, because, runt-boy there could barely see over the counter, let alone find the scanning device let alone find the freakin' UPC code so it could be scanned.

And you just stood there. And grinned, thinking it was the cutest little thing to see your boy take an average of 45 seconds to grab and scaan an item. Never mind the additional minute it took to place the item in the bag.

Hey, I'm not a parent. I don't know about these things yet. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this kind of thing is great to do UNLESS IT'S THE NIGHT BEFORE A HOLIDAY AND THE PEOPLE IN LINE BEHIND YOU PURCHASING 3 ITEMS WANT TO RIP YOUR GRINNING HEAD FROM YOUR BODY AND SHAKE HARD TO SEE IF THERE IS ANY MASS IN THAT SKULL.

On the plus side, you've got jump-start on the runt's future career as a supermarket checker...

Award: For Bravely Living Life To the Fullest Despite the Onset of Age-Induced Dementia

You were exactly as I imagined you, having talked with you the day before. The visual image I had of you as I listened to your husky, officious voice was almost completely accurate when I met you today: the thumb and the forefinger stained yellow with nicotine, your right eye squinting just a bit from years of having smoke curl up into your eye. Your lipstick, a garish red that looked as if you had freshly sucked the blood from an unlucky victim, the pale skin that showed that on beautiful, sunny days, you prefer to spend it indoors with your 18 cats, 2 of which are incontinent.

Yes. I need your help. Yes, I need to make an appointment to have my car body repaired. But in order to move forward you have to make up your mind. And it is that part of you that clearly has one foot on dry land and the other foot on a jellyfish swimming out to sea. I call you yesterday, and you tell me to fax the information. I don't have it with me. I tell you I can bring the car by, though. No. You want a fax. From my insurance company. Okay, I can do that. I have papers. I make plans to do that today.

I call you today. I tell you have thee papers. I tell you I need the number to fax them. You then tell me that you don't take faxes (and yes, this is the same person I spoke to yesterday so don't try and pull the 'bait-and-switch'), that I need to bring the car in so you can take pictures, AND bring the paperwork.

But yesterday you told me I just needed to fax them.

(Snappish) 'I did not.'

But I offered to bring the car in yesterday, and you said not to bother: I can fax the info in the morning.

(Snappish) 'No, sir, I did not.'

Are you on any medication that we should be aware of?

Enjoy your Thanksgiving: I'm sure it's bound to be salmon loaf that you'll dish out to 'Sammy', 'Tucker', 'Mittens', 'Suzy Q', 'Miko', 'Princess Di', 'Tommy-Boy' and those other 12 cats that have moved in over the past few weeks that you haven't yet had time to name.

I wonder: did they have to fax in their order?

Award: World's Most Brazenly Stupid Driver-

Let me explain how this works quickly: the suicide lane is to be used for a busy street when you either need to enter a lane or make a left turn against oncoming traffic. It's a fairly simply concept, and part of its success is due to the fact that when you get into the third (or 'suicide' lane), you're reasonably close to the area that you want to turn into.

So, can you please explain to me why on God's green earth you pulled into the suicide lane in front of the opening that I and three other cars were patiently waiting to enter, with all of our turn signals blinking so you knew exactly where we wanted to go, but you pulled forward and blocked it off from us, with no lights of your own blinking to show us what your $^%^& intentions were?

Did it make you even feel slightly guilty when, once the oncoming traffic cleared, the first of the three of us had to pull into the oncoming traffic lane and drive 20 feet to get to the entrance?
I'm thinking the answer on that one is a 'No', since you still didn't do a damn thing (like give us an indication of where you wanted to go), other than stare at us defiantly as if we were blocking your road.

So we wait, more oncoming traffic passes and then stops, letting the next car that is facing you wondering what the hell you were doing to finally give a honk and turn into the oncoming lane to get to the entrance.

That left me and you, oh-skanky-white-trash-sleaze (I know this due to the fact that one of your headlights were out and your car was a Japanese model made sometime in the 80's and your hood was blooming a lovely rust to counterbalance the white paint of your car), glaring at each other. I raise my hand in question. You sit there and glare, giving me no indication: apparently this is a new country you've discovered, this suicide lane, and you are going to guard the discovery and maybe plant a flag in the middle of the busiest road in town, claiming it to be 'Cindy-Sue' land or whatever your stupid double name is.

But then you start waving at me, Cindy Sue, like I needed to get out of your way, despite the fact that there was traffic coming in the opposite lane and if I made a move, it would be an instant head-on collision. GREAT idea. Further augmented by your useless boyfriend who used that moment to flip me the bird. You are utterly without class, completely stupid, and incomprehensibly so proud of that fact that you demonstrate it in the most absurd of circumstances.

And yes, whipped little boyfriend with the middle-finger that is probably eternally in the 'up' mode, I may be older and respectable, but sometimes, by god, there's nothing better than a little ass-kicking, and your making yourself quite the target. Though I'm afraid Cindy Sue will jump on my back while I'm throttling you and bite my ear with one of the two front teeth she's managed to keep, and I'll have to get shots for rabies. So put your finger down, bad-boy, and maybe have the guts to follow me into the parking lot.

Traffic clears. I do what my predecessors did: pull into the oncoming lane, drive 20 feet, and make my entrance.

And you?

I watch in the rearview mirror: you drive maybe 30 yards in the suicide lane up to a shop on the left where you finally turn in.

I guess it never occurred to you that you could have gotten out of the suicide lane, drove the 30 yards to where you needed to turn, and then re-enter said lane.

But I have to extend you some grace here.

I'm fairly certain thinking is not one of your strong points.

Enjoy your mobile home and 6 kids while the boyfriend with the finger in perma-lock position is out every night downing Bud Light and cursing the day he met you.

Oh and, nice car.