left handed turn you say?
Don’t laugh at me, but I’m going to share something deeply personal about myself here.
I get anxious when I need to make a left-handed turn. I’m OK with making such a turn when there is an appropriate arrow signal giving me 100% right-of-way, but when I need to stop in the middle of an un-signaled intersection and wait for oncoming traffic to pass, allowing me to turn, my palms get sweaty and my heart rate increases noticably.
The only reason I share this with you is because earlier today, as I was making a right-handed turn, my turn indicator light burned out. This is the second time I’ve had to replace the right-handed turn indicator light since I purchased the car in October.
It was then that it hit me. Its because I go out of my way to avoid left-handed turns so my right signal gets much more use.
Road trippin
Its been a little while since I’ve thrown a bag in the car and headed out of town for a weekend of exploring. My dear friend Crazy Michael joined me this weekend to provide much needed company and entertainment for a drive to St. Louis.
We missed the bulk of the Friday evening commute arriving in St. Louis early enough to check into our hotel, freshen up and hit the bars before Missouri’s insanely early closing times.
Now, I used to live in the St. Louis area when I was attending St. Louis University in the late 1980’s, so the city’s layout came back to me pretty easily. The major routes, buildings and points of interest are still pretty much the same and although there have been some pretty major changes in the last 20 years, some things have surprisingly stayed the same. I saw more Robert Smith early Cure hair styles than I could count on one hand, and unlike the word of the weekend, these were not being IRONIC.
I haven’t kept in touch with any of my friends from my days in school. Its difficult to maintain relations over the years without a major commitment from both sides and as is often the case, one side lags behind eventually coming to a whimpering end. So you can imagine my surprise when somebody called my name and tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find Miss Moffett, my first ever drug lord, staring at me wide and crazy eyed wanting a hug and a kind word. The reasons for our fallout are not important, or even remembered, but the divide was still there and I could feel it in all its coarse honesty. We exchanged polite greetings followed with inquiries into each other’s lives in the time since we last met. Each statement of mine followed by a response of “Right On!” from MM.
The following morning after brunch in the Central West End, we arrived back to my car…
I was livid. I grabbed my camera and snapped a few shots of the offending car and its license plate before jotting down a biting note advising the careless and evil driver that they’d be hearing from my insurance company for any damage done to my bumper. As I got out of the car to put the note on the windshield, there was a couple of little old women approaching the other car. I asked, in an agitated manner, if they were the drivers of this car? I retrieved the camera from my vehicle while the driver helped strap her 98 year old mother into the passenger seat, returning to show her the park job and find out what her problem was. I softened considerably seeing the old woman fumble for words. I told her to be more careful in the future and that there wasn’t any real harm done.
Later, back at the hotel…
We freshened up again for a night on the town. Another night in a bar followed by a trip to the drive thru on the way back to the hotel, to wake up with dry mouth and a slight headache.
Driving home, we took the long way. Along the Mississippi river for a good 70 miles of back country roads, farms, quaint country inns and the most amazing white trash people I’ve ever seen.
From all the weekend, I have one regret. Why did they have to be little old women?