This morning’s metallic bam was brought about by two cars colliding not but 100 feet ahead of me.
The collision was a t-bone. A little red car smashed into a bigger dark blue car. No telling who had the ROW, because I wasn’t looking that direction when it happened. I suspect though that the little red car had the right of way, because it looked like it was coming from the same direction I was when it was trying to turn left.
The OTHER car also wanted to turn left, but probably didn’t have a green light. Almost CERTAINLY didn’t have a green.
(<---- a handy schematic for reference)By the time I passed the scene of the accident, the driver of the dark blue car was out of the vehicle, and was tottering around the back of it to inspect the damage.
That’s right, TOTTERING.
She couldn’t have been any less than 90 years old, was about as tall as the trunk of the car, leaned heavily on it for support, and was as wrinkled as a shar pei.
The driver of the other car was not yet out of their vehicle. I suspect that the ramming headlong into a car that to all appearances was not supposed to have been there was a bit more of a shock to the system than being the ram-ee was. Otherwise, why should it be that the pint-sized and likely very FRAGILE old lady was up and about and the driver of the little red car was not?
It’s stuff like this that puts me solidly in the camp of those who call for mandatory road testing each and every time your license comes up for renewal. If I get to the point where I really can’t drive safely anymore, I want to know. Heaven knows I’m not about to admit to myself…because we humans are very adept at fooling ourselves into thinking that we’re more capable than we really are. Shoot, it surprises me every morning when I look in the mirror that I’m not 25 anymore and thin as a rail with a flat stomach and a wrinkle-free face, so why would it be that when I become significantly older I’ll be willing to make the call that I can’t DRIVE anymore?
I won’t. I’ll drive until someone says I can’t. That’s just how it goes.
For the old lady behind the wheel of the blue sedan this morning, I hope that the accident serves as a wake-up call. If she can still HEAR, that is.
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Reminds me of a joke:
When I die, I want to go in my sleep, like my grandpa did, not screaming in fear like his passengers.
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I should like to be very old when I die. I should like it if I could die of something sudden, right in the middle of sexing up some young dude. I should very much like it if after I die people take all the bits that could be of use to other people and burn the rest. I’ll have no more use of it, and the thought of being buried freaks me out.
Ways NOT to die:
1) DROWNING
2) Being mauled by wild animals
3) Burn-related injuries (my God, just put a bullet in me if I’m horribly burned)
4) Something degenerative. I’m no Steven Hawking, people. There’d be no reason to keep me around if all I am is a vocoding head. A nice triple shot of morphine would do nicely if I get to the point at which all I can do is blink.
5) Did I mention drowning?
6) Anything at all to do with spiders
What about y’all? Do you have some death goal in mind? Some “oh hell NO” ways to go?
Tell us about them, won’t you?
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Lastly, one for the chefs out there, a nice little Asian peanut sauce for grilled chicken, as made by Tiff.
1 cup nonfat plain yogurt
2 TBSP peanut butter
1 tsp ground red pepper
1 tsp black pepper
½ tsp sesame oil
Heat in micro for 30 seconds, stir. Dip yo’ chix in the sauce and feel the burn, baby.
If you grill yo chix after marinating in a mix of oil, vinegar, cinnamon, onion powder, garlic powder, and a teetiny touch of mustard, your taste buds will probably send you a thank you note later. Spicy-lisushness!
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That’s it for today. No headline Friday, because that, apparently is how I rollz (or, NOT rollz. mmmm, rollz).
Have a good ‘un, y’all. I’m going to go celebrate the arrival of Jamie Lynn Spears’ baby by not thinking about her for the rest of the day. Won't you join me?
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