I was nearly run over yesterday. Shhhh, don’t tell Neta (or my mom or my daughter). I had a rant all booted up to talk about the dipshit who blew a red light and nearly turned off my lights. I’ve calmed down some, mostly because this kind of thing happens much too frequently. Such are the hazards of walking and pedaling among thousands of motorized vehicles, handled by moronic, inconsiderate speed demons.
A friend of my daughter’s had to swim away from his car on Monday. He was driving down River Rd. when suddenly it became…a river. A mis-calculation had him stranded in the middle of a flooded intersection. Daughter drove out to rescue him, bummed by the fact that Micky D’s was closed. Of course it was…there is a river of water where the sidewalks used to be. He was able to salvage his tools and textbooks (studying to be an auto mechanic) and his teacher says car may not necessarily be toast.
It is harder to be a daughter than a mother. That may not be universal, could just be in my universe. Not, mind you, that mothering son and daughter didn’t have challenges along the way (or still) it’s just that I felt surer of my own steps in those regards.
I got word that dad (& wife) evacuated for Gustav by heading to Georgia. For all I know they may still be there.
I broke down and gave a cousin my email address, hoping that maybe we could “re-connect” in some meaningful way. I thought that she, being 5 or so years my senior might be able to offer some insight from the over 50 point of view. A few of her messages so far:
FWD: Guurl I just got my nails did FWD: Men! ! FWD: Prom day in the ‘hood
Sometimes I feel like I sprang from a pod. I am one of them, but I’m not.
Neta’s newest nickname for me is “Detail Deb” as my tales tend to go a little long. Heh!
My wasband took to calling me “chocolate” for a time. Yours truly didn't feel endeared by the term.