I can be a bad ass.
You don’t believe me, do you? You think because I’m a diminutive 63-year-old that I sit at home and knit every night, a cup of tea and a cookie on a table next to my easy chair. Oh how wrong you are.
First of all, I don’t particularly like tea. In fact, if I didn’t think it was healthy for me, I’d never drink it again. Secondly, I don’t knit. It’s not my cup-o-tea. (Wink, wink.) Thirdly, I’d never have just one cookie. Who can have just one? Seriously, I wouldn’t care to know that person.
Now don’t get me wrong. By “bad ass” I’m not saying Marin County police have memorized my name. In fact, my criminal life consists of two traffic violations. (Yawn.) One I blame on my friend Sharon when, at her urging, I drove straight in a right-turn-only lane. What can I say…we were running late. My other crime was speeding. Yes, I admit I have a lead foot.
I almost died Wednesday night.
To put it more succinctly, someone almost killed me. I’d call it murder but I suppose in a court of law it would constitute manslaughter. None-the-less, I might be dead if it weren’t for a red Fiat and one precious second.
I was checking emails at 7:30 p.m. when I received notice saying some bozo had stolen one of our feral cat feeding stations and food bowls. The cats also needed more food. So I grabbed the pertinent items and headed out for the 10 minute drive up the freeway…until I realized I’d forgotten the feeding station. Typical me. So I headed back to my garage where the station was sitting in plain sight. Impossible for me to miss although somehow I’d managed.
Once I entered the freeway, a red 2-seater Fiat convertible flew past me. The top was down and 3 young gals were squeezed in, one obviously without a seat belt. Or a seat. Surprisingly, a police cruiser drove right by them. Must have been quittin’ time because 3 long-haired blonds speeding in a convertible are kinda hard to miss.
Insert 3 crazy gals
Here’s what I’ve learned about commuting. It sucks. I ask you, how do people do this every day?
Lately I’ve been commuting into San Francisco once a week, which normally takes around 45 minutes. But not when it’s 7:30 a.m. Then it takes 90 minutes. Yes, you read that right. I can jog faster than we often crawl along the freeway (and I only jog 10 minute miles). Commuting makes me want to drive off the nearest cliff. But I won’t because that means sitting in more traffic to get there.
I’ve joined the poor saps who commute into the city because the SPCA offered to sterilize 5 feral cats for us each visit for free. Let me repeat that awesome sentence in case you’re questioning whether you need glasses. THEY ARE DONG IT FOR FREE. That means each time I endure the excruciatingly tedious drive, I remind myself it’s worth my nonprofit saving $300. Continue reading