Archives for April 2014

So today was my first day back at work after a ten day break. And as expected, it got off to a spectacularly shit start when I got stuck in the worse than usual gridlock traffic on the freeway. On a good day, and by good day, I mean the middle of the fucking night when everyone else is already home and in bed, my journey from home to work would take between 20-30 minutes. This is largely dependent on how much I’m willing to risk a speeding ticket to save those extra 10 minutes (frequently for the record). On a bad day, say like every fucking day I commute, this can take anywhere from 45-60 minutes.

Except for today. Because today, it took a grand total of 90 fucking minutes for me to get from home to work.

Now I know that like me, there was a heap of other people all returning to work today, which only added to the shitastic traffic. However, in a deliberate move on my part, I decided to start my commute in a little later than normal. Smart move right? Avoid the first day back traffic and therefore severely reduce the chances of unleashing my homicidal rage on either my fellow commuters or my colleagues at work. Well in theory yes, but really, it was my first day back at work, of course I wasn’t getting up at the ass crack of dawn, to rush in to a job that regularly sends me to the liquor store on the way home. I wasn’t about to shock myself into a heart attack, although in hindsight, that would have been a great excuse to stay home.

Instead, my alarm went off a good hour after it normally would on a work day and after a luxurious breakfast in bed, I took a shower, straightened my hair and made a coffee for the commute (thank fuck). And as I reversed my car out of the garage, I congratulated myself on a well thought out plan. After all, going back to work after a ten-day break, hell, after the fucking weekend, is never easy, but at least my drive in today wouldn’t suck too much. Oh fuck me, was I wrong about that.

Because, as I finally reached the freeway entrance, which essentially forms the bulk of my commute into the city, I pretty much ground to a halt. Not only was the traffic fucked, it was beyond fucked. I mean, worse than a normal commute day in, fucked. I’m pretty sure all the cars were stationary and the entire three-lane freeway resembled the parking lot at my local Target. Fuck me, this was not going to be good.

But what choice did I have? Short of saying fuck it and executing an Austin Powers style 20-point turn and driving the wrong way back up the freeway ramp to go home, I had no choice but to continue. And continue I did…for a solid 45 minutes, essentially driving what probably equates to two miles in that time.

Now I know there are often reasons for slow/grid-lock/completely fucked traffic, and as I would soon, or rather, an hour later, discover, today was no exception. And you can imagine my delight when I came upon said reason, only to discover it was an “incident response” van, pulled over on the side of the road with some pretty flashing lights on its roof.

Yep, that’s fucking it. No accident, no alien invasion, nothing.

And look, in some ways I can understand. Pretty shiny things distract me too. But let’s get real, these are normally expensive, come in tiny little boxes and hang from my ears, wrists or neck. They aren’t the type that weigh a ton and sit on the side of the road doing sweet fuck all. Seriously people, you’re fucking slowing down for that??

Naturally a few F bombs fell from my mouth as I finally drove past these pointless flashing lights and all the fuckwits watching it, and actually managed to get my car out of first gear. This maneuverer also allowed me to finally overtake the fuckwit in front of me who’d felt the need to let every fucking car that wanted change lanes in in front of her. A good 90 minutes after leaving home, coffee long gone, I walked back into work only to discover that yes, it takes approximately 30 seconds to feel as though you never left it in the first place.

Fuck me.

PM1

Ok, I need to have a rant about car salesmen/women. And look, apologies to anyone who reads this and does this for a living. I know I’m stereotyping here, but my recent experience with one has failed to suggest otherwise.

So Hubs A recently convinced me to purchase a new car. I say convinced when what I really mean is he went on about it for so long (years), that agreeing was basically the easiest way to get him to shut up. The man’s a gadget/upgrade kinda guy. Normally I’m ok with this, I like having the latest i-whatever and a kick ass home theater set up. But cars piss me off. They are such a waste of money and I find it hard to justify buying another, newer model when the car I currently drive is still fully functional.

But most of all, I just hate the whole buying a car experience.

But, like with most things, he wore me down. Throwing out words like black leather interior, black paint, GT sports version, and turbo, got my inner Fast & Furious revving (RIP Paul Walker, you are still missed). In the end, I pretty much couldn’t refuse. The man knows I have a weakness for cool looking cars, even if they are as over the top as half the car scenes in the Fast & Furious movies (I never cared Paul, you still looked cool). So off we went, me bracing myself for the fact that my annoyance meter was about to reach I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face level, Hubs A trying to reassure me that he’d handle the dreaded Car Sales Person.

Because I don’t want anything to do with them. This is partly because I don’t care for their bullshit and also because I don’t understand half the shit they’re talking about. Sure I’ve watched, and re-watched (a million times) all the Fast & Furious movies, (they’ll never be the same without you, Paul), but my understanding of sequential gear boxes and continuous variable transmission and all the other fancy shit they go on about, is basically non-existent. It’s not that I can’t understand it, I simply chose not to. I just don’t care about that shit. What matters to me is the car looks awesome, it’s safe, it’s at the right price and I manage to walk out of the whole experience without punching the Car Sales Person in the face.

So when said Car Sales Person starts going on about the car I’m currently picturing myself racing Paul Walker in (beautiful man, I’d probably let you win), being “priced to clear” or “the cheapest price you’ll ever pay for this model” or “won’t last past this week” or “loaded full of extras”, my annoyance level starts to creep up. Because you know what Car Sales Person, I might not give a shit about this stuff, but Hubs A does. Do you honestly think we’d walk in here, ready to drop several thousand dollars on this without having done our homework? Um no, no fucking way actually. And FYI, when you try to reel us in even more by throwing out an, “Oh and I should mention, I have another buyer ready to pay this price, right now,” I’m very close to reaching punch-you-in-the-face levels.

Oh so you’ve got another buyer who’s ready to go do you? Really, where are they? And why don’t you have a sold sticker on that window? And why have you just spent the last 20 minutes trying to convince me to buy the car for the exact same fucking price?

I know you’re fucking with me Car Sales Person…I’m not an idiot. But I tell you what, how does an, “Ok, that’s fine, we’ve seen a cheaper version of this car up the road anyway,” sound? Oh what’s that I hear you say? “What can I do to stop you walking up the road?” or “How can I get you to buy this car right now?” Ohhhh, where’s your other buyer now huh? That’s right, they don’t fucking exist.

And now, neither do I. I live my life a quarter mile at a time Car Sales Person, I don’t need you riding it. I might just go home and watch the original Fast & Furious (arguably the best, love you Paul). At least the car bullshit in that is entertaining.

PM1