My Dad Said You Were a Drama Queen

. . . . . running late for the early morning Sunday ride, the husband needs a lift in the truck. I'm not allowed to brush my hair or do anything remotely human-looking before driving the husband to meet 30 of his friends. Nothing. To make me look slightly presentable. With zombie breath in tow and my bewbies hanging to my knees - I just had a birfday, people - I jump into the driver side of thy truck. I'm a good sport. Mostly.

**********

. . . moseying on down the road; driving along in my automobile . . .

the husband: drive it like you stole it.
me: I just woke up and therefore it's probably a little dangerous for me to be driving like that ***wild-eyed abandonment***
the husband: ***snickers*** I know, right?
me: what are the chances that there is someone at the 4-way stop at this time in the morning . . . . . . who, I guess, isn't even going to bother to stop?
swerving around the old man whom, mind you, didn't stop at the 4-way stop himself
the husband: you're going to be turning right up here. . . .
me, slowing down to pull in behind old guy to make the right hand turn up ahead
the husband: punch it!
me: ***punching it*** that old geezer is thinking, "effing* kids these days!"

Come to think of it, maybe the old guy was late for the ride too? I mean, he turned so quickly at the 4-way stop, because, if you remember, he never even stopped, which in turn made him swerve into the other lane of traffic before righting himself back in front of me in my lane. B*st*rd.

Maybe he was just drunk. Double b*st*rd.

Finally, I'd like to finish by pointing out it was far too early for me to be pulling out my Kimi Raikkonen moves, which I flawlessly performed in a truck. But all's well that ends well. I'm safe and back at home with my hair now up in a pony-tail and my pegs are brushed. I can now go out in public. I'm safe. All ya'll are safe.

*technically, this is not exactly the word I used, but I'm a lady. So there.