Fat Friday

Pardon Me, Do You Have Any Gray Poupon?

This morning on my way to work, I noticed (how could you not?) a guy in a red Rolls Royce convertible turn opposite me down Leafy River Road. He wore a jaunty straw hat, sunglasses, and had a very dashing scarf tied around his neck.

I said, "Flaunt it, baby! Flaunt it!" (Points if you name the source.)

But I have to tell you, I was not happy with Dashing Rolls Royce Man, who decided on such a fabulously idyllic day (and it was. Oooh, it was) that he would go 35 mph down Leafy River Road. Normal speed? 45 - 50 mph. And it's situated so that passing is dangerous to the point of possibility. Plus skinny bicycle men have discovered this road, which is most decidedly not the place for a bucolic spin.

I was trapped behind five cars and ahead of six cars.

When we go to the end of Leafy Green Road, he was in the front of the line to turn. I zipped up on his right, because I was going across to Farmer Green Road.

I rolled down my window. He rolled down his window. I said, "Do you see the line of cars behind you? Do you know how many people you just made late for work? Do you understand that people have to go to work?"

It may be that he expected me to say something about his very cherry ride. His mouth dropped a little bit.

In a thick Italian accent, he said, "Oh, madam. I am very sorry."

Now it was my turn for my mouth to drop. I rolled up my window. He rolled up his. And I was glad when the light changed.

But you know what? Right now, I think I should have just parked the sad old Bullet on the side of the road and hopped in the car with him.

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The Taylor Report

I took Taylor to see Hunky Vet last night. Apparently, it's been decided that in the future, only Hunky Vet will see my cats.

He did about a thousand dollars worth of tests on Taylor for free. They didn't even get written down in the log.

He looked at Taylor. He checked her eyes. Listened to her heartbeat. Groped her liver. Then he said, "She's going to make a complete recovery. I - well, it's amazing, actually. I seriously was not expecting to see her back here in such good condition. And she's gained half a pound in the last ten days." (Me, too! At least!) "Amazing how she's bounced back."

He sat down opposite me. He looked up at me and said, "Don't take this the wrong way. I know this has been hard on you. But I hope I don't see you again for a long, long time."

On the way out, I picked up the beautiful rosewood box containing Katy's ashes. A week later and she's home again.

One day, when I go - they're all going with me.

I called the North Shore Animal League's Survivor Care program today and told them Katy had died. He asked me how and I gave him the extremely censored version that I've been giving everyone. Because honestly? It's too horrible. If you love animals, it's simply too horrible.
He murmured sympathy. Then wished me a happy weekend.

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Cousin Karen Cometh!

She says she's going to be here around 10 tomorrow morning. I have no idea how she's going to manage that. I have never been able to make it to Richmond in under eight hours.

This might be because I meander once I get past the Virginia border. The geography is essentially the same as it was when I was growing up. If I get off any exit on 95, I know pretty much where I'll wind up.

When I was a kid, in the summer time, the Swapping of the Cousins would be done at the Potomac Bridge. My mom and grandparents would drive to the bridge and settle into the park on the shores of the Potomac. They have grills there, so we'd start a cook-out. Meanwhile, I'd go digging into the sloppy sand to see what I could find. My aunt and uncle and my two cousins would arrive and we would eat. Then my cousins would get in the car with us and we'd drive back to Richmond.

I almost always stop at this park, although I despise the bridge. I dig around in the sand and I remember the cook-outs. I must have thought all of my relatives were immortal, because I never stepped back to savor it. That's why I try so hard to call it to mind when I'm there by myself.

Anyway, Cousin Karen has none of that baggage. It's her first driving trip to Jersey. Even though she's 36 years old, there is still an innocence and naivete about her that makes me worry. Some guy could say to her, "Hey, could you help me find my puppy?" and Cousin Karen would never think twice about it. That's what I worry about sometimes. She trusts people too much.

Here There Be Monsters

I would like to think that Pleasantville, where I live, is a haven and a sure port in any storm. However. One look at the national sex offender data base proves that there are several bad men around where I live. One, in fact, lives on my street, although not my block. So there are, sadly, bad men in Pleasantville.

Yesterday morning, I was on my way out to see "Kung Fu Panda". (I'm sorry. I have a weak spot for Jack Black. Is that wrong?) It was about 9:30 on a sunny Sunday morning and as I tootled along the road leading out of the little enclave where I live, a guy in a silver Nissan zoomed out of his driveway. I slowed and then stopped as he pulled out and turned the car along the road.

He pulled over to the right and then stopped. I stopped, too, because I figured he had a reason for stopping. Then he stuck his hand out the window and waved me on.

Oh, I thought, he's probably just re-arranging the cars in his driveway. When you've got three cars in the family and a one car driveway, it makes for some re-arranging.

So blithely I passed him, only to see him follow me so closely that in my rearview mirror, all I could see was his windshield and the silhouette of his head.

My heart rate skyrocketed. Dude, I thought, it's Sunday morning. There's no road rage in Pleasantville, especially on a quiet Sunday morning.

I slowed and tried to pull over, but he seemed to go even faster and made for the right side of the road. There was no place to pull over. The road out leads through an apartment complex and cars lined the street.

I came up to a stop sign and looked both ways before revving my car through the stop sign and to the right, where you would usually only go if you lived there. It's a dead end with lots of little cul de sacs behind the buildings. I zipped into one of these, relieved that he wasn't following me. I figured if he did, I'd just lay on the horn while calling 911. It would piss off enough people to come to their windows and see what was going on.

After I waited a couple of seconds, I peeked around the corner. He was still at the stop sign. He waited. And waited. And then he turned left.

I know he was just an asshole taking out his frustrations on me, but I have to tell you, I've had more than my share of that. I thought of the people in that house. I thought of the man they live with and I felt sorry for them.

Eventually, I pulled out of the apartment complex and went a different way to the theater. Although I wanted to think I shook it off, I know it cast an ugly shadow over my day. It went deep so fast I barely had time to register it.

The movie was great. I laughed out loud.

But on the way home, I went past the house where I saw him pull out. I know where he lives. And I know his license number if this particular little monster gives me trouble again. The next time, I'll be quicker with 911.

Yet I hate knowing it. I hate knowing there are monsters in Pleasantville. I've ignored it for a long time or was in denial of it. My little enclave is safe and stable. But there are monsters here, large and small. This is a little one. The large ones end up as a story in the newspaper, featuring headlines like "Daughter of NJ Poet Laureate Murdered by Lover", "17 year old shot in drug dispute" and so on.

I hate that that guy did this to me on a Sunday morning. On such a peaceful, lovely weekend. And my mind keeps going back to his poor family. Is this another headline in the making?