Okay, so today, I had a mini road-rage episode.? ? Due to some super-human self-restraint,? I didn’t side-swipe? the other car? or even give them a little love tap on the back bumper.? Or shoot them with an Uzi.? But I did flip them the? bird.?

Which, depending on who you are, doesn’t sound all that bad—except that my 4-yr-old son was in the car.? Luckily, he didn’t quite catch on.? His comment was, “Why are you waving at that man mommy?”?

Oh yeah, and “What does jackass mean?”? Oops.? (Although, to be fair, “jackass” was a pretty innocuous word compared to the much more satisfying choices running through my brain).

So, what happened that caused me to flaunt my middle finger so flagrantly?? Basically, the guy wouldn’t let me merge into his lane.? I had a designated freeway entrance lane that was ending, traffic was crawling, and everyone else ahead of this donkey’s bottom seemed perfectly fine with letting folks merge, one-at-a-time.? Not this joker—he deliberately sped up and cut me off —three times.? As if getting one car ahead was going to significantly chip away at his commute time.? Finally,? I honked, whipped around his sorry butt, and then went so far as to roll down the window so he could appreciate my tallest digit in all of its? glory.?

So, maybe it wasn’t the most polite thing to do.? Or the most prudent, for that matter.? But it did make me feel a heckuva lot better.? That counts for something, right?

Of course, as retribution for my transgression, I got to hear “Mommy, why was that guy a jackass?” and similar variations for the? duration of? our painfully slow drive home.

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The Red Rocket

Posted by houndrat on Friday Jan 11, 2008 Under cars, husbands

We have a car, sitting idly in front of our home, that my husband fondly? refers to as? “The Red Rocket”.?

Me?? I fondly? refer to? it as “The Red-piece-of-shit-that-my-pragmatically-challenged-husband-paid-$1100-for-against-my-explicit-instructions-and-look-I-was-right-the-damn-crappy-thing-doesn’t-work Car”.

The Red Rocket.? A poetic and fitting name for, say, a corvette or maybe a classic 70′s muscle car. Heck, it would even be? marginally? appropriate? if we had an Eclipse.? Or? possibly a Saturn (although that’s a stretch). What is? it not a fitting name for?? Well, certainly not the 1989 none-too-gently used piece of snot Toyota Celica that has apparently taken up permanent residence outside our home.

The Red Rocket.? What an ironic name for a car that can’t muster over 50 mph on the freeway, on those rare occasions that it actually deigns to start for us.? Oh, it’s red, all right, but my husband must have been smoking crack to come up with the rocket part.? The only? remotely rocket-like thing about? it? is the? ear-numbing? amount of noise it produces, because of? a blown muffler.

You might be wondering how we acquired the? Crimson Crap-mobile.? Well, join the party.? I’m still sort of wondering the same thing.? One day, my husband? goes for a walk with my son to the park,? when, lo and behold, he returns with the Maroon Monster.? It was one of my husband’s? decidedly less inspired? impulse buys (of course, he chalks it up to the ADHD he self-diagnosed a month ago).

Actually, back that up a bit.? My hubby called me in-between the walk to the park and the ride home.? He called to ask me what I thought about purchasing the Magenta Money-Sucker.? My answer?? “No!”? Him:? “Maybe we should think about it?”? Me:? An emphatic “NO!”? Him:? “I’m sure it would be a great commuter car?”? ? Me:? “NO, NO, NO!”?

Husbands of the world, a quick tip—Never, ever ask your wives their opinion when you know you are just going to blatantly disregard it anyway.? This is the epitome of stupidity, and makes you destined to be? snoozing with Fido for a very long time.?

Back to our story.? See, my husband got his car totaled by a drunk driver last April (not that it takes a whole lot to total a 1996 Nissan Sentra).? My husband, who commutes over 60 miles one way to work every day, got a rental car, thinking this dude’s insurance would pay us pretty quickly, since he was clearly at fault.? Ha!? Such naivete on our part.? The? freakin’ bastards? (Legacy Pacific, in case you’re interested), have, to this day,? not forked over one measly dime.

So, what makes? someone spy a junker with a “for sale” sign and think, “Hey, there’s the perfect commuter car!”?? What conversation could? have possibly been going on in? my husband’s? head?? Hmmm…I like to? imagine it was something like this:? “Why, it’s a piece of crap 1989 Toyota Celica, complete with ripped up upholstery and a tape deck from the stone ages.? And look–it has a stick shift, which my wife can’t drive, and no room in the back, even though I have one kid already another on the way, and three dogs!? But that’s okay, because it’s perfect!? Why, it’s the Red Rocket!”

Or perhaps he was just thinking of a new fun way to piss me off—if so, hon, you’ve succeeded beautifully.

I told him to take it back immediately, I told him it was too old, I told him it was too ugly.? Heck, I even told him it would spontaneously combust within minutes of us owning it.? I may as well have been talking to my son’s miniature R2D2 robot (which? listens to? me about equally as well).? The Rojo Rubbish-Heap stopped working within a week, as I predicted, and now sits in front of our house, in all of it’s red glory (or lack thereof).

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the totaled Sentra is still here as well, keeping the Scarlet Shitbox company.? Why?? Aha, so you haven’t read my blogs on procrastination yet (Christmas? tree Procrastination and? All other varieties of Procrastination).

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