traffic

This is from back in 2016. I was reminded of it, (try to stay with me, it may be a challenge) because my husband sent me a text earlier today, letting me know that “The city is covered in butterflies.” I spent a good amount of time wracking my brain to figure out what he meant because, well, he speaks in metaphors. And sometimes they’re French. And they’re always obscure. 

Did he see a bunch of little girls in tutus? Were people flying kites at the beach? I dunno. Eventually I gave up. 

 Later, I was out driving and well, I’ll be damned if the air wasn’t filled with butterflies! Hundreds of actual butterflies who were obviously on their way to lunch. And the best part was (yes, it gets better) they were managing to navigate their way above the traffic. Not a splat in sight! 

They were freakin’ butterfly matadors! Or Coreadors. (Not Toreadors because no horse, but you get the picture.)

xox

“Beyah mahtahdah!”He yelled in his frequently indiscernible accent.
“Wait. What?” I whimpered pitifully in the middle of a six-lane highway, traffic whizzing by us on both sides.
“Beyah mahtahdah!”
I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and threw both arms in the air which as we all know is the universal sign for, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE FUCK YOU’RE SAYING!

Not waiting for a break, he grabbed my hand and ran us both out into traffic, weaving and bobbing in between cars out to a place I try REALLY hard to never find myself. The middle of a busy intersection.

There are no words in the English langauge to express how much I hate that shit. Glockenspiel will have to do for now.
Here’s the thing, I will NOT play chicken in traffic. Why?
1) Because I have a brain in my head that very much wants to stay there and not become a splat on a windshield and…
2) There is no place I need to be in such a red-hot hurry that I can’t wait for a break in traffic, or walk to the corner cross walk thank you very much.

But to my French husband, a red light is simply a suggestion and jaywalking on a busy boulevard is a bloodsport—a skill he mastered as a youth on the impossibly dangerous streets of Paris.

It is a bullfight. And he/we were Matadors. Gulp.

Me: (leaning in, yelling above the noise of the cars) I’m gonna…we’re about to…wait, what? Did you say…a matador?

Husband: Yes! Stand still! Don’t let the cars smell your fear.

Me: (Squeezing his hand like a vice grip, hoping to illicit pain) Seriously? Are you crazy? What are you talking about?

Husband: (Yelling back at me through a smirk) Listen to me, all the greatest Matadors are French!

Me: You’re kidding me right? They are so NOT French—they’re Spanish!

Did you see what he did there? He took my mind off of my predicament, knowing I would argue with him.
Well-played husband, well-played.

Husband: I’m telling you, they’re French! They’re called Coreadors.

I was laughing my nervous hyena laugh. Mostly at the absurdity of the conversation and the fact that I hadn’t made any plans to die that day. I’m sure I appeared squirmy and maybe just a tad hysterical. That comes from knowing that you’re probably going to end up as some random, gray-haired stain on the front hood of a Prius.

Me: Shut. Up. They are NOT!

Husband: (Leaning in, yelling above traffic) Or Toreadors. Those are the guys on horseback. 

Me: (Feeling queasy. close enough to death to relate to the bull) Uhhh! Stop! Bullfighting is barbaric! The French don’t have bullfighting! They’re WAY too civilized for that!

Husband: (Amused by my argument) That’s what YOU think!

By the way, can you believe we were still standing in the middle of a busy street? Me neither, but we were!

Me: (Wishing I’d ordered the french toast as my last meal) Egads. Bullfighting. Brutal. Whoever thought that was a good idea?

Husband: The Romans.

Me: Figures. Rome. Brutality central. 

With that, the last car hurtled past us as he yanked my hand and ran me to the safety of our car on the opposite side of the street. We were both laughing, not at bullfighting because it’s a horrible practice* —but at the absurdity of our entire conversation.

Husband: God, you can be such a baby!

Me: God, you’re weird! And damn, the Romans were assholes!

Some story on the radio in the car changed the subject, but I had to share this.

Words from a French wise guy I know: When you’re in the middle of chaos—stand still—be a matador.

Carry on,
xox

*Don’t get your panties in a bunch. We are in no way condoning bullfighting and no bulls were killed in the telling of this story.

Once upon a time, there was a couple, a man and a woman of middle age who’d been together for close to two decades.

Now, truth be told they were generally delightful, sharing many things in common such as their love of dogs and their wiggle butts, foreign travel, and food. But alas, they also had their differences.

Besides politics—she was a life-long bleeding heart and well, his heart, although reduced to mush by babies, sappy songs, and car commercials had never shed any blood (politically speaking) so, besides that, driving together had begun to come between them.

In all fairness, the man’s job required him to traverse the city of freeways numerous times a day. Frustrated, he operated one notch below full-blown road rage as he shared the streets of LA with the other clueless, dumb-shits, commuters.

She, on the other hand, drove very little; and when she did, a book on tape, podcast or favorite music mix would delight her, making her commute almost…bearable.

When they rode together to dinner, the movies or to see friends all the way in San Diego, great caruments (car arguments) would ensue. There was yelling, tears and bad language and it all started to get in the way.

Feeling more and more like a Crash Test Dummy she may have used the words aggressive and dangerous when describing his driving, He preferred the words assertive and tactical.

When he drove, cars seemed to jump out of nowhere, threatening the poor sucker in the passenger seat (the woman), at an alarming rate. He was oblivious. He started to find her constant criticism more than mildly annoying. She found herself blaming him for her high anxiety and lack of fingernails.

All of this to say: When they drove together he was an assbite and she was fast becoming a wing nut.

On one such occasion, just the other night, the situation reached critical mass.

Winding their way home through the canyon after a delicious steak dinner and wine with friends, the woman noticed that he was driving uncharacteristically slow. Like pace car slow. Like “rush hour” slow. Like Asian tourist slow.

Curious as to the cause of this anomaly and sensitive to the fact that her nagging caused him to get defensive which never ended well, she delicately broached the subject.

“You’re drunk aren’t you?” she asked, “Otherwise why would you be driving like an old lady?”

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t adjust his speed or move his head. He just stared straight ahead, following the curves in the road at a glacial pace.

He must not have heard her she surmised, so she asked again, only this time louder.

“Is there a problem? Are you drunk? Why are you driving so damn slow?”

Undaunted, he stared straight into the night.

“Hey!”

“I hear you.” he finally replied never taking his eyes off the road. “I’m ignoring you.”

“Why?” she barely got the word out before he continued.

“You’re not happy when I drive fast and you complain when I drive slow”, he replied. “Besides, I’m a drunk old lady and I can only do one thing at a time.”

His response caught her so off guard that a giant force built inside her until her body could no longer contain it and out it burst. Big guffaws of laughter filled the car. It must have been contagious because his face broke into a Cheshire grin and slowly he started to laugh too. For ten minutes straight, they laughed and they laughed and before they knew it—they were home.

Where they continue to live happily ever after (unless they discuss Hillary, health care, or how to get anywhere fast on the 405.)

Carry on,
xox

I road-tripped to San Diego this past weekend to partake of some friends, food, and fun.

It culminated on Sunday with a talk by the sublime Liz Gilbert. If you follow me at all on social media you probably have a little vomit in your mouth by now—due to my Liz addiction/affection. Too bad.

But this is not another gushy story about my Liz obsession, this is a cautionary tale about following directions.

I set off, like I always do, with the directions to my friend Sandra’s San Diego home programmed into Google maps on my iPhone, where thankfully, the voice of my imaginary wingman (or woman in this case), would guide my every turn.
Easy-Peasy-Parchesi!

May I just take a moment here to marvel with genuine wonder at the fact that I was able to get myself ANYWHERE on time and in one piece for forty-plus years without my iPhone?

My sense of direction sucks so bad that when I walk out of a door in a foreign city, (or five blocks from home), with my big, smug smile and huge sense of conviction,(always with the conviction, wtf?) and start walking to the right—my husband walks left.

He knows I will either turn around and follow him (on the correct path) or meet him at our destination…eventually.

Anyhow, most days I am the GPS ladies problem. For the remainder of this story, we shall refer to her as That Fucking Bitch or TFB.

Thing started off rather well—I immediately turned right instead of left and without a moment’s hesitation and a minimum of attitude, she course corrected.

Once I was on the freeway that she recommended, (which I just want to mention right now, to get it off my chest, was the wrong choice—just sayin’), I put in my earphones to catch-up on some podcasts.

“Stay to the left for the next forty-seven miles” she advised.

Fine, I thought, settling in for my two hour and fifteen-minute drive.

Thirty minutes later I was stuck in a gridlock so profound that the needle didn’t even register speed—because the cars were not moving! When they did it was at a bracing top speed of 20 mph.

You do the math.
I was going to arrive in San Diego in time to hear my beloved Liz thank everyone for coming—and then have to get back in the car and drive home.

“Road work ahead.” she cautioned, interrupting my podcast, more than an hour after the fact.
TFB was not on her game.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” I screamed back.

“Take exit 45B toward the detour.” she sounded smug.

“Ya think?! I told you this was the wrong freeway! I tried to take the 405! But NOOOOOOOO, Take the 5 she says!! Oh! TFB knows best!”

TFB wasn’t having it.

“Take exit 45B toward the detour” she reiterated with attitude this time.

I looked at the map, it read up at the top: Exit 45B in 90 feet. “You’ve GOT to be kidding me!”

I was locked in the far left lane just as TFB had advised me to do, and there was no humanly way possible way to get to my salvation—exit 45B and the detour.

“You bitch! You piece of shit, good for nothing GPS!” I ranted over and over, “You made me miss that detour on purpose!”

Let’s suffice it to say that TFB did not like my tone.

After I found my way out of the traffic, back onto the open road, I finally gathered some speed and momentum and I actually became hopeful of reaching San Diego before Liz Gilbert died of old age.

TFB paid me back by giving me the silent treatment which caused me to miss two freeway transitions and the exit for gas.

“Keep right and transition onto the 805 south”, she directed, as it whizzed by in my peripheral vision from the far left lane.

“Oh, I’m sorry, too late?” she didn’t actually say that—but I still heard it.

I turned off my podcasts. This was war.

I looked at the map and could see that the exit to my friend’s house was coming up. Exit 71A.

We were entering the third hour of our little excursion as I moved over to the right lanes to get into position.

“Keep left”, she said, as if nothing had ever happened.

“Um, no. You FB I have to exit at 71A in two and a half miles” I replied with all the conviction I could muster. I wasn’t going to let her rattle me. I tried to turn her off, but I couldn’t see the tiny “stop” button at 65, 75, 80 miles an hour.

“I said, keep left for thirty miles” I could hear the wicked smile on her lips.

My exit was imminent. 100 feet away.

Then it dawned on me—TFB was taking me to Mexico where I would die a horrible death at the hands of the some drug cartel kingpin: Chapo somebody, and TFB would be sold for parts.

The moral of this story? Gosh, there are so many!

Don’t lose yourself in podcasts when you should be paying attention. You’re not on a train.

Be discerning. Know where you’re headed. Look at the traffic site. Ask questions.

Always drive the speed limit. (I put that in here in case any law enforcement are reading this).

Sometimes devices are wrong. That’s crazy, I know! But they’re not infallible.

Shhhhhh…Don’t piss off your GPS—it could cost you your life.

Carry on,
xox