I raced home last night trying to get as much daylight as possible. I mowed! That would mean I’d need a mower, right?
The bad news: Stan, Stan the Lawnmower Man is no more. He officially quit his business earlier this year. Who knew? A devastating bit o’news indeed! Not sure what I’ll do in the future. The good news: He said he’d look at the mower for me. The better news: It cost $30 to fix and was returned to me Wednesday night.
By then I was already in the throes of animal care and general household chores and it was well after 6:30, meaning there wasn’t a whole lot of daylight left. And, as I also had planned to watch Obama’s healthcare address, I postponed mowing until last night.
The grass was tall and thick and daylight was fleeting but I moved quickly, stopping only briefly when the mother showed up (she’s been working over at my late uncle’s house to help my godmother get it ready to sell) and once to get another trash bag and grab a cold drink. And it was warm last night. So I was drenched and exhausted when I marched back in the house just past dusk. But, it was $10 night at the grocery store (off a $50 purchase) and Mother Hubbard’s cupboard was getting mighty bare.
I showered and dressed and headed out. Though the shower had helped, I was tired and a little achy as I pulled into the lot. It was pretty full. I felt like Kathy Bates on the lot at Winn Dixie in Fried Green Tomatoes. Little did I know how close to recreating this scene I’d come.
An SUV in the second spot from the main drag began backing out. I stopped at the intersection, threw on my blinker and left lots of clearance so the man could both back out and turn onto the main drag. He no sooner started his turn and I took my foot off the brake than a car goes speeding around me – and right into the spot I was waiting for. If I had been driving Ladybird instead of Pearl, the temptation to go all Kathy Bates on him might have been irresistible. “I’m older and I have more insurance.” Instead …
Hey! I yelled and blasted the horn. Luckily, there was another space a few spots farther down on the other side or I’d have been even madder. Mr. Rude Dude, a tall dark 20-something, emerged from his car as I was walking toward the store. “Would you mind telling me what I did wrong?” he belligerently asks.
This was akin to the infamous shot at Fort Sumter. Or, for the non-historians, akin to Bugs Bunny’s classic line: “You realize dat dis means woar.”
NV: Oh, I don’t mind at all. You cut me off.
RD: Cut you off?
NV: Yes. I was sitting there with a blinker on waiting for that man to back out when you went whistling by. I wasn’t doing that because it’s fun.
At this point, I thought he might actually apologize. I could unruffle my feathers and forgive an oversight. Maybe he was just absentmindedly driving along. Who hasn’t done that? But no.
RD: Blinker? I didn’t see any blinker. I wasn’t looking for a blinker. Who uses a blinker on a parking lot?
Oh. My. God. It’s a wonder I didn’t bust a vein. Mind you, I’m not the greatest driver in the world, but this boy is an idiot. Profanity was on the tip of my tongue, but I paused long enough to regain a bit of composure. Just a bit. Then I fired … with both barrels.
NV: Anyone who is making a turn should use a blinker, especially if you’re waiting for a space. What kind of moron are you? Probably the kind who doesn’t even use blinkers on the street. Jerk.
And I walked off. It felt almost as good as bashing in his car would have, but left my car unscathed and my insurance rates intact. Towanda!