Maybe it's the PMS talking ...

Picture this: you’re on Interstate oh, I don’t know … 94; heading west. Doing the speed limit because you’re in city limits. Seems normal, right? Maybe in your town, but not in mine!

Here in the frozen tundra, drivers breathlessly refer to the stretch of six-lane traffic with three exits that runs through town as “the freeway.” Freeway is such an intimidating word in these parts. When spoken aloud, it’s almost in the hushed tones we reserve for using the “c” word … cancer. We don’t deal with freeways every day, so clearly they are something to be feared. Such to the point that when confronted with an on-ramp of any nature, we bravely accelerate to three-quarters the speed limit, and slow down when coming abreast of another car; the mere presence of which is enough to make us pucker in parts Midwesterners generally don’t speak about. We glance, furtively, at the car next to us. By now, they are well aware of our presence and we engage in a little telepathic tango. Is the other person speeding up? Slowing down? Do they want us to fall behind? Shoot ahead? Are they in a hurry? We are, donchya know, in the Upper Midwest after all, and up here we always put the other’s needs before our own.

Thus, those engaged in the herky-jerky dance of merging continue until someone gathers their balls about them, squeezes their eyes shut and races ahead, narrowly missing the semi truck jockeying for position to use the next exit.

Funny, huh? Not if you’re not originally from here. Not if you grew up in the Southwest and learned to drive in LA on a Monday morning while sucking latte and yammering on a cell phone.

As the poor slob trapped in the vehicle behind you, I offer this:

Learn to drive, Myrtle! No where, I mean NO WHERE does it say the definition of “right of way” is “whatever the guy in the blue sedan wants since he’s already up on the freeway.” Adjust your speed. Be doing the posted speed limit by the time you are at the merge point. I know this is going to blow your mind, but those cute little ramps are for accelerating. It’s the long, vertical pedal on the right; give ‘er a whirl! Don’t stop at the top. No, I’m serious: if you get up there and see cars slowing down to let you in, speed up some more. I know that your Scandahoovian upbringing dictates you to allow others to go ahead of you, but truly, in this situation, the right thing to do is butt on ahead.

Next week, we’ll talk about the fist-fight I saw at a four-way stop. ‘Something about “no you go first, no YOU go first” …

God, I love Fargo.

The new job is stupid

I am entirely convinced the reason I am at this new place is to meet a few key people. One is the girl who didn't leave (my ... doesn't THAT sound ominous?), a guest who needed a friendly listening to and some employees who needed my foot SHOVED UP THEIR ASSES.

What with my spectacular office in the breakroom and the no open-toed shoes policy (how many pairs of lesbian shoes can one woman own, I ask you?!?), the clientele are, erm ... questionable and a solid 94% of the staff committed to doing nothing but partying, then coming to work to talk about how great it was to be completely anhilated and driving home at 2:30 in the morning before coming to work at 7:00am. (Manager or two included.) I'm appalled. Was it like this at the old hotel 9 years ago? Was I young enough to think it was normal? Blech!!

I really, really miss my former co-workers and people I got to see regularly at the old job. I do not, however, miss the pay or the job itself.

A HUGE happy birthday to my best friend, Kyla. She's the whopping 31 this year. Of us, she's the one with the greatest majority of her poop in a group. I want to be just like her when I grow up.

Happy birthday, Kyla: I love you.