Everyday Stranger

Fucking Drivers!

Here's a little hint about my persona. I can get angry very, very easily (how else do you think I found Don's site?) But there is one thing that sets me off like a firecracker.

Comments about my driving.

Now, I learned how to drive in Dallas. Dallas is known for being a city full of drivers that are not only aggressive, they are armed. And pissed off. And late for work. And putting on makeup. So it should come as no suprise that I haven't a clue on how to be a defensive driver. I am all offensive, all the time.

Kinda' like my blog.

Anyway, when people ride with me and comment on my driving, it really winds me up. Big time. The only accident I have ever had that was my fault was a tiny fender bender when I was 16. Otherwise, I drive very well. Just...er....very fast. And I am all about following rules and am a good girl, except when I drive.

Then I feel most traffic rules don't apply to me. They apply to everyone else. It amuses me further that I am driving in Sweden on my American license, and I don't always know what the signs mean.

For example, at Easter time this year I got a voice mail from someone that was angry about my driving. See, in Sweden, if you write down the license plate, you can dial into a system and get the person's name and phone number.

Imagine that system in the U.S., if you will.

Anyway, when people get into my car, they generally know to shut up about my driving. If they don't, they risk my wrath.

Once, I got an angry message from someone that was livid that I passed them (overtook them, for my English friends) on a road.

This voice mail set me off like a bottle rocket. At the end of my tirade, the ears of Dear Mate, Best Friend, and Partner Unit all lay in ruins. As did the answering machine. I was in an absolute rage. I tried to explain this to my Partner Unit later that night.

"The fucking GALL of this guy!" I screamed. Ed was hiding, Partner Unit wincing as I broke the sound barrier with my anger.
"I know honey." he replied earnestly.
"How DARE he? He wasn't even doing the speed limit!" I ranted.
"I know honey." he replied earnestly.
"I could KILL someone!"
"I know honey." he replied earnestly. "Why don't you tell me where you were when that happened?"
"I was on that stretch of the road just by the road sign of the two cars, one black, one red."
He looks at me. "Did you pass him after that sign."
"Yes! That means the passing zone!"
"Um...honey...That means "no passing zone." You just violated a traffic rule."

That took a bit of steam out of me, but then again, the No Passing Zone sign didn't apply to me.

It applies to everyone else.

Badness has happened to me again today, and I am actually hoarse with anger from ranting on the phone to Partner Unit (I settled for sending off furious text messages to Dear Mate and Best Friend. They know better than to not support me on this one).

Now, Europe has these quaint things called round-abouts, which are the answer here to 4 way stop signs. The idea is that you enter the round-about and yield as things happen. Remember that scene where Chevy Chase goes round and round Big Ben in "National Lampoons European Vacation"? That's a round-about.

Pathetic I remember that.

Anyway, I entered one of those close to my house, fresh from renting horror movies for Halloween ("American Werewolf in London"-oldie but a goodie. "Nightmare on Elm Street Part 20"-newie and likely a suckie. "Final Destination"-no idea. Slim pickings at the video store). There was no one waiting at said round-about so I went through it and then turned onto my street and into my driveway. I got out of my car, and an old Saab came screeching to a halt behind my car.

A guy, perhaps in his 50's, gets out of the car and heads towards me. My guard goes up immediately, since I don't like people approaching me like that. And he proceeds to lecture me about not using my turn-signal.

At an empty round-about.

I listen in stupification.

He keeps lecturing.

I just stare at him.

At the end of his rant, I mumble "OK" coldly and he drives away.

Then Helen becomes Dr. Jekyll. I flip out. I phone up Partner Unit.

"I hate this fucking country! I hate it I hate it I hate it!"
I hear silence, then a slow "Okaaaaaaaay."
"Don't you people have anything better to do than chase me around and lecture me about my driving?"
"Um....nooooooo."
"I'm going to get a gun. Do you understand me? A gun. And the next loser that goes after me for my driving is going to get it."
"Honey, you can't do that."
"The hell I can't!"
"No, they don't allow guns in Sweden."
"Fine! A knife!"
"You have to get pretty close to a person to use that, dear."
"Fine! A sword!"
"Need an export license."
"Fine! A chainsaw!"
"Yeah, that's ok."
"Really?" I say, amazed.
"Yeah, I'll just drain the gas." he replied.

Of course, the whole screaming end of my part of the conversation took place on the yard. Our neighbors now know of my plots to endanger the lives of anyone that comments on my driving.

But I will have a chain saw, anyway.

So if you see a little yellow Beetle in Stockholm hurtling around empty round-abouts without signalling, better not piss me off.

-H.

PS-I think I am in love.

Posted by Everydaystranger at October 31, 2003 07:18 PM | TrackBack