If you are my husband…here, go read about the infatuation I used to have with Snoop Dogg.
Or Snoop Lion. Or whoever he is now.
(And THAT is one of the very reasons I am over Snoop. I mean, who in their right mind just up and changes their name?)
(Snoop. That’s who.)
Anyway. It’ll make you proud, honey. Go on now.
If you’re not my husband, just stay here.
I say that because he doesn’t need to know I drove a liiiittle too close to a jackass-left-lane-douche-driver this morning and well, he flipped me off.
(Not my husband…the douche.)
Then I bolted around him and kinda maybe drove slow.
(The speed limit is 75 mph. He pulled out and got in front of me and never even attempted to pick up speed and I had to hit the brakes and drop down to 60 mph.)
(AND THE RIGHT LANE WAS TOTALLY FREE.) (HE COULD HAVE MOVED OVER.) (AND I KNOW I COULD HAVE, TOO.) (BUT I WAS THERE FIRST.) (AND WELL…JUST WELL.) (SHUT UP.)
Listen, I have a one hour commute to the office and a one hour commute from the office that sometimes turns into a one hour and 20 minute commute from the office. Ain’t nobody got time for slow left-lane-douche-drivers.
Especially me. And my last nerve.
And I don’t want my husband to know because well, he’s the law.
Sheriff Buford T. Justice of Portague County.
A tire biter.
(The dude I ask every day of my life if I can have a dashboard siren and a badge.)
(The dude who tells me ‘no’ every day of his life because, according to him, I’m not Kojak and a Volvo is not a believable undercover car.)
You get it.
The douche flipped me off…then about 2 miles up the road, there’s a little fender bender. Just enough to slow up all of us stupidly early morning commuters. OK. Traffic is coming to a complete…stop.
(Collaborate and listen.)
Aaaaand now the douche is looking at me. Through my passenger window. He apparently felt it was now necessary to get in that right lane his ass should have gotten in 2 miles back.
I just stared back.
I could hear that whistle from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.
Oh, how I would have loved to just, at that very moment, delicately put my little dashboard siren in place, lather on a coat of Mary Kay Pink Diamonds lip gloss, all the while staring right back at his face staring at me through my passenger window, then slowly raise my badge and stick it to the window.
HARD. With a snarling grimace on my face. My lip curled up and my eyes squinted really hard.
All I had was my lip gloss and that did nothing.
Traffic started moving, he kept staring, I puckered up and blew him a kiss, he flipped me off again. We’re even.
Let’s just keep all of that between us. The dude who tells me ‘no’ every day of his life because, according to him, I’m not Kojak and a Volvo is not a believable undercover car has no reason to know about this.
(Hopefully, he’s off reading about me and Snoop now anyway.)
He puts up with a lot…let me tell you. (I’m talking about with me. Not criminals or murderers or bank robbers or drunk college kids…me.)
He’s been carrying a gun on his hip for well over 20 years, has a flawless record, and is good at what he does. Yet, I continually advise him on how I’d do things in his place.
1. More people would be pulled over and ticketed for applying makeup in the rear view mirror. (Men AND women. We DO live in Austin, folks.)
B. More people would be arrested for driving slow in the left lane. (Hence, douche this morning would be in the pokey about now if it were up to me. Enjoying an organic turkey burger and sweet potato fries, no doubt.)
3. More people would be calling 911 to see if that Volvo behind them with the dashboard siren on and the driver waving her badge out the sun roof is a legitimate undercover car.
I’ll leave you with this little posting from the other day to give you a better idea of his new life with moi. He swears to me the criminals are easier to tackle than his wife.
AS THEY SHOULD BE, OFFICER….AAAAAS THEY SHOULD BE.