Road rage

It was only about two years ago that an ex-boyfriend finally broke me of the finger habit -- you know, flipping the bird. It comes to me so naturally. I LOVE flipping people off. I even practiced when I was in junior high so that I could use two distinctly different birds. One, the "I SO don't care enough about you to put any muscle into this" flipoff, with relaxed fingers, middle finger barely extended beyond the others. The other was a more angular representation of the cock-and-balls, with the first and ring fingers pointed sharply downward. I have been using these for years, and even learned a few of the trick varieties, as in winding up or inflating the finger via the thumb, asking (with flipoff turned upside down) if the flipee could hear it or needed it turned up, and asking the flippee to read between the lines. But the problem was I was using my well-honed gestures while driving, pretty frequently, to anyone who did anything I deemed idiotic. The ex convinced me that I was very likely to get myself killed. At first, I just laid off doing it so that he wouldn't have a heart attack, and then I grew accustomed to not doing it. Also, it saved me having to clean the interiors of my windows: when I was really enthusiastic I sometimes mashed the knuckes right up against the window, like the time I forgot I had a horn.
In any case, I had to redirect my anger somehow, so I turned to the other thing that is as natural as breathing to me -- cussing people out. However, I wasn't really saving myself from possible attacks this way, so I decided maybe I needed a new tack entirely. I decided to wish people well. Some cunt cuts me off, and I grit my teeth and think "That's okay, you probably have somewhere important to be. Good luck getting there, I hope you reach your destination safely." This actually worked for almost 24 hours. Then I realized it was a load of shit, so I have a new coping method. It's a two-parter. First, I think that the person making the bad driving choices probably has incredibly bad karma. I actually believe in karma, incidentally, spiritual wasteland that I am. In fact, this is deserving of its own tangent later. Anyway, I figure if they're a shitty, angry, aggressive or careless driver, they probably have those qualities in other areas of their lives, too, leaving them dissatisfied and lonely. This makes me feel better. It's a Great Gatsby thing -- see Jordan's diatribe on careless people. Then part two is that I allow myself to vocalize my anger, but I try to do it (especially if my windows and theirs are open) in a manner unlikely to inspire a beating, and maybe even to make them (but more often myself) laugh. For example, the truck who almost clipped me yesterday while changing lanes too quickly heard as he sped away "YOU ARE NOT MAKING WISE CHOICES!" A speeding cell phone user who whipped around me as I turned into a driveway might have heard "Wherever you're going, it can't be THAT good!" Other recent comments included such gems as "That was a ridiculous thing to do" and "Good luck with that!" All these are uttered in angry loud voice, but I think if anyone managed to hear them, they most likely would just have a funny story to tell when they got home. "Hey honey, guess what this freak said to me . . ."
Incidentally, I used to always assume that if a guy had a gi-normous truck or booming stereo system, there was only one reason -- small package. But now I'm expanding this definition to allow for guys who were shortchanged in other ways, too. But I have a hard time believing that any smart, self-assured, well-endowed dude would be driving a monster truck blasting the bass so hard you have no idea what genre of music it is.

On karma -- I actually don't believe that the universe is keeping track and saying "Hmm, helped an old lady cross the street, two points. Next year I'm giving her a refund check she wasn't expecting." I just think that if you're a good person and live a good life and try to be nice to people, you tend to get nice things back. Perfect example -- I made some zucchini bread, I walked it across the street to an elderly neighbor, and a few days later she gave me a bag of home-grown tomatoes that were delicious. Here's another one you can see practically daily in retail establishments -- some jackass walks in talking on a cellphone, ignores the clerk but to throw change at her, and walks out. Now do you think if he overpaid or something that the clerk would run out to the parking lot to hand him his change? Probably not. Whereas when I make nice to the clerks, laugh at a stupid joke, compliment somebody on their sweater or whatever, I tend to get good things out of it. Sometimes it's nothing more than a cheery smile, other times it benefits me in surprising ways -- the clerk will tell me where they got the sweater I admired and that they're on sale. Or if I'm making conversation about a book at the bookstore, the clerk will give me a recommendation for another author I might like. Think of it in the long-term, too. The dad who makes time for his kids, plays with them, checks their homework, and occasionally makes Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes, what kind of relationship do you think he'll probably have with his kids when he's old -- a fulfilling one, right? They'll feed his dog when he's on vacation and his daughters-in-law will bring over casseroles and shit. Whereas asshole spare-the-rod dad is probably more likely to end up in a convalescent home with a few pictures of the grandkids who live across the country. Is it karma in a perfectly spiritual sense? No. And does it always work every time? Nope, but still I'd say there are very appreciable benefits that come from living a good life. Be friendly, be nice, be honest. That crap comes back to you.

I've been thinking of my step-cousin Connie. Once you're an adult I don't think you even have to acknowledge step-cousins, but when you're a kid and you spend time with them, they count. Anyway, I liked Connie -- she was close to my age and fun to be with. Not the sharpest crayon in the box, but a million watts brighter than my step-siblings, so her presence was a welcome change. But what's been on my mind is Connie's eating habits -- I HATED having to eat with Connie. See, we had a rule that no-one could leave the table (or get dessert) until everyone was finished. I don't know whether Connie adhered to the "chew each bite 100 times" school of thought or what, but she was the slowest eater I have ever encountered, ever. I've seen tigers tear through entire cows in the time it took her to scoop up her Stove Top Stuffing. Dinnertime with Connie was absolutely glacial. I still have no idea why we didn't just suspend the rule about staying at the table when Connie was around: she was so obviously out of the realm of the normal that any fool could see we were going to be ready for breakfast, let alone dessert, by the time Connie had shoveled in her meatloaf. It was crazy. I mean, I understood manners, but this was ridiculous. This would be like asking us to wear our best velveteen Christmas ensembles in the Arizona desert in August. The rule was basically okay, but in an extreme situation, simply didn't work out. What frustrated me most, though, was that I had no say in the matter. No one asked "Hey, are you ready for dessert, Countess?" or "Say, Countess, when would you like pie?" No, I was ready for the pie directly after the canned french-cut green beans, but I could not eat pie until Connie was ready, too. I was ready, and I just had to wait. Pie time was not up to me. It was like when I was a really little kid, and I wanted to run around and go to the park and watch cartoons and practice cartwheels and the SUN WAS UP, so CLEARLY it was daytime, but I had to wait until my parents were awake, too. I have never been good at waiting for other people. That's why I like activities that just include me so much.

Tomorrow is rafting day, and contrary to Piggs' dire message about the state of his health, he seems fine. The thumb which was possibly disclocated and about to fall off earlier has been steering a succession of stolen cars in Grand Theft Auto: Vice City for over three hours now. I hope it's okay for gripping a paddle. Actually, strike that -- I hope it saps some of his strength, because he paddles way harder than I do, and digs in way deeper with the edge of his paddle, so that we end up veering drastically toward whatever side he's not rowing on.

It's just about beddy-bye time. See y'all.