Starting the day with a brawl
I hate confrontations and generally avoid them at all costs. That said, when I snap, I SNAP.
Pulling out of my driveway this morning, guess what? SNAP. It happened when a woman in an SUV passed me doing—in my estimation—50 or 60 mph. My road is residential, narrow, wooded, hilly and has a speed limit of 30 mph. On our nightly walks, we’re often passed by drivers who seem to be training for NASCAR.
It pisses me off. We’ve written letters to the police department but that’s a short-term fix. They come and do some additional patrols and it gets better for a while and then they stop and it’s back to living on a raceway.
So this morning, when that big Suburban flew by only a few feet from the nose of my car, a little voice in my brain said, “That’s IT!” (Actually, it said a lot more than that, but I think my mother-in-law might read this).
And I pulled out after her and followed her to . . . the ER? The train station? The bedside of a dying relative? Nope. The golf course at the end of our road. Because heaven forbid she is late for her tee-time.
I pulled up behind her as she was pulling her clubs from the back of the truck and smiling and waving to all her golf friends. To help set the stage, she was one of those women. You know the type: Probably in her 50s. Probably doesn’t work. At 7:45 a.m., her flawlessly coifed, female-politician hair was wrapped around a visor that coordinated perfectly with the rest of her designer golf outfit. Makeup and nails were done as though she were off to the opera instead of the golf course. Tan. Very tan. Lots of bling.
From here on out I shall refer to her as Abhorrent Speeding Hoity Obnoxious Lady (or ASHOL for short).
ME: Excuse me, Ma’am, but that road back there is 30 miles per hour and you must have been going about 60.
ASHOL: Well, you pulled out quite fast yourself.
ME: No, I was inching out to get around the garbage cans (note: today is trash pickup day). I have learned not to pull out quickly because of people like you.
ASHOL: Well, I did look down at my speedometer and I was doing 48.
ME: Right. On a 30 mph road. I walk my babies on that road and next time I’m calling the cops.
OK, so it wasn’t really a brawl, but I hate that I my voice and body were all shaky for about 30 full minutes after ASHOL and I had our little chat. I’m sure she just laughed it off and went on with her day. And probably in her twisted head thinks I am the obnoxious one. But I’m still pleased that I called her on it instead of letting it go (a choice that would probably have had me kicking myself all day long).
Pulling out of my driveway this morning, guess what? SNAP. It happened when a woman in an SUV passed me doing—in my estimation—50 or 60 mph. My road is residential, narrow, wooded, hilly and has a speed limit of 30 mph. On our nightly walks, we’re often passed by drivers who seem to be training for NASCAR.
It pisses me off. We’ve written letters to the police department but that’s a short-term fix. They come and do some additional patrols and it gets better for a while and then they stop and it’s back to living on a raceway.
So this morning, when that big Suburban flew by only a few feet from the nose of my car, a little voice in my brain said, “That’s IT!” (Actually, it said a lot more than that, but I think my mother-in-law might read this).
And I pulled out after her and followed her to . . . the ER? The train station? The bedside of a dying relative? Nope. The golf course at the end of our road. Because heaven forbid she is late for her tee-time.
I pulled up behind her as she was pulling her clubs from the back of the truck and smiling and waving to all her golf friends. To help set the stage, she was one of those women. You know the type: Probably in her 50s. Probably doesn’t work. At 7:45 a.m., her flawlessly coifed, female-politician hair was wrapped around a visor that coordinated perfectly with the rest of her designer golf outfit. Makeup and nails were done as though she were off to the opera instead of the golf course. Tan. Very tan. Lots of bling.
From here on out I shall refer to her as Abhorrent Speeding Hoity Obnoxious Lady (or ASHOL for short).
ME: Excuse me, Ma’am, but that road back there is 30 miles per hour and you must have been going about 60.
ASHOL: Well, you pulled out quite fast yourself.
ME: No, I was inching out to get around the garbage cans (note: today is trash pickup day). I have learned not to pull out quickly because of people like you.
ASHOL: Well, I did look down at my speedometer and I was doing 48.
ME: Right. On a 30 mph road. I walk my babies on that road and next time I’m calling the cops.
OK, so it wasn’t really a brawl, but I hate that I my voice and body were all shaky for about 30 full minutes after ASHOL and I had our little chat. I’m sure she just laughed it off and went on with her day. And probably in her twisted head thinks I am the obnoxious one. But I’m still pleased that I called her on it instead of letting it go (a choice that would probably have had me kicking myself all day long).
posted by Kimberly at
12:30 PM
2 Comments:
That's awesome! I would've been shaking too. I hate ASHOLS. Clay was moving our lawn one day -- on top his John Deer -- and a woman sped down the road. As she was driving by, he lifeted his hand and motioned for her to slow down. She told her husband and he came over. Knowing my husband, you can imagine the rest! -- Alex
Rock on!! We have a similar problem on our road - a road that leads to a school, where you think they would be more careful driving on. Instead, it's like the Indy 500 when school is open, all the parents racing to get their kids there on time. I am lucky if I am even allowed to pull out of my driveway! Unfortunately, local cops can't sit on these roads all day but where are they when you REALLY need them?
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