Stupid People Suck

I should have been feeling the holiday spirit. Sure, I've had a bit of a sinus headache for two days, but I was hoping that was bringing us more snow for Christmas instead of the misty drizzle slowly melting everything down into a nice Manhattan mush. It was pajama day at work, guaranteed to put me in a slightly better mood. And, of course, the surprise of having Monday off from work (unpaid, of course, are you kidding me?) unexpectedly really did raise my spirits.

So it is with a certain amount of chagrin when I say that I'm feeling just a tad bit less than good will to all for the holidays. And I usually love the holidays.

I can't help it. I hate- nay, detest vehemently, the drivers here in Rochester. It could just be all of Minnesota for all I know, but this is getting completely ridiculous. Yes, New England drivers have a reputation and deservedly so. The drivers in the NorthEast are rude and fast. Not exactly the best of combinations. But the drivers here....oh ho the drivers here. I don't even know how to describe it. I am not exaggerating when I say that I truly feel my life is at risk every time I go anywhere in my car. And the snow and ice have not brought slower, more cautious driving, it seems to have made everything worse. (Don't make me go off on how they stopped plowing the roads altogether and have left most of the side streets a mass of ice and slush, expecting them to wear down over the course of two weeks.) Every day, almost every trip small trip in the car, I witness blatant running of red lights. The kind of red light running that makes you wish a runaway semi were to come blaring through the intersection at 80 mph. And I hate wishing those things because I really feel that they're beneath me, but still. Let's see, I'm crossing a bridge with six differentintersections and lights and my red light turned at least three seconds and two car lengths back. But nobody from the other sides have started into the intersection yet so I'll go ahead and make this left hand turn across four lanes.

My favorite, of course, was today. A situation I've seen coming for sometime and thank goodness for that! This is a very residential city. Houses and small streets everywhere. And the cost of putting stop and yield signs at every intersection in every neighborhood is beyond astronomical (not that it would change the actual asthetics of the place). But even if law doesn't dictate that feeder streets must stop or yield to oncoming traffic, common sense would. (Ah, common sense, I've heard of that. I believe it went out with S&H Green Stamps.) Several times on the road into the daycare, I've come across cars that barrell out of their little dead ends and feeder streets barely even pausing to look for traffic. Which I find kind of interesting considering there's a school at one end of the road and a daycare at the other. And it's not like there's not a fairly steady stream of traffic. Because of these people almost pulling out in front of or broad side to me so many times in the course of the last few weeks I was on the lookout and ready for the jackass who actually did. After somewhat stopping, turning both directions to look and staring into my face as he pulls out directly in front of me.

Did I mention the part where they stopped plowing the roads?

I would like to take this opportunity to thank my husband (who never reads these things) for putting new tires on my car last week. If it had been the old ones, I probably never would have been able to stop on the ice/slush patch in time.

Of course, the drive home was almost as eventful.

Matt and the kid are at the mall (visiting Santa for the 8th time) and I called to ask if he was stuffing their faces full of pepperoni pizza or should I make dinner? Of course I had to tell him that the drivers are even worse this evening and please be careful coming home. My incredibly sympathetic husband ("Just cause you had a bad day doesn't mean you need to freak out on me driving!"), while agreeing about the condition of drivers and roads here, tells me to just get over it. How can I?

How is it I grew up in the same country as everybody else and yet I cannot stand the general driving conditions of my compatriots? I don't understand the mentality of dangerous driving. I don't understand the need to run red lights, tailgate slower traffic six inches off their bumper, use sloppy driving habits that are a danger to not just the general public, but ourselves as well.

Hmmm...tailgates. I'm hungry now. Must go look for a slab of ribs and some charcoal. No need for a match, my temper will do.

Pretty Paper

I can't tell you how relieved I am that gift bags have become the norm. It makes it so easy for any odd or soft package. No longer do I have to request gift boxes from department stores. That is, if I were to still shop in department stores instead of online or by phone which is my ONLY method. I got skipped on the shopping gene, so sue me. But gift bags are like paper clips - why didn't they think of this earlier?

And yet, (you knew that was coming, didn't you?) while gift bags are indeed akin to Manna from the Wilderness, they present their own little dilemma.

Tissue paper.

There are as many different methods to using gift bags and tissue paper as there are Rednecks in Mechanicsville. I have been experimenting to find my preference and I have not found full satisfaction with any method employed thus far. First was my attempt at poufery (is too a word!). I lined each side of the bag with a full sheet, nestled the gift between and tucked it in with one more sheet, sort of like swaddling, then kind of tucked in and 'poufed' the sheets. And it looked fairly nice, but was a tad bit time consuming and didn't contribute to ease of travel.

Next, I wrapped the gift completely in tissue paper, taping the ends as if it were its own present, then nestled it in the bottom of one whole sheet and inserted it into the bag. Which worked very well for hiding the present from sneaky eyes, but left the bags looking less than festive.

I've also used all the papers from my shredder which is extremely festive, but very messy and much less 'poufed'. In this instance, I ain't too keen on green.

So all in all I have to wonder if gift bags are that much of a blessing, after all. By the time I figure out which way my tissue paper preferences lie, it might have been easier to just use half a roll of tape and some creativity.

Where I Come From

The other day I found out that one of the parents in my room originally comes from N. Kingstown, RI. That's a tad bit unusual for these parts. More unusual was my response upon finding out her origin. When she said she was from North Kingstown no one was more surprised than I when I blurted out "I'm from Rhode Island, too!" I'm not. I don't know why I said that. And as I've been thinking about that innocent enough remark, I have to wonder an even deeper issue: am I a Benedictine Arnold? Am I a woman without a country? Do I claim allegiance anywhere?

I spent the first 25 years of my life in Kansas City. I love KC. Loved growing up in its suburbs. Love the culture, the people, the aesthetics, the gentle, green hills of Missouri. I loved it then and I love it now, even though I've only visited once in 14 years. Given the right set of circumstances I'd happily set up the rest of my life there.

But I spent 12 years in New England, most of which were on Block Island. I did most of my growing up in the last ten years. I married on BI, I almost birthed on BI, my biggest heartbreaks are still on BI. I was not a fan of Block Island when first I laid eyes on it, but it slowly won me over until it was very difficult for me to leave. The reasons I left were bigger opportunities than Block Island could offer, but there was such an emotional connection, a place in the community where I actually was useful and appreciated. As the song goes "Everybody dies famous in a small town." I desperately miss a great deal of Block Island, although I don't think I could ever live there again. I miss the people most of all. The small, the great, the interesting personalities. I miss stopping by the Depot to catch up on the important events and attending school events that the island practically shuts down for. I miss playing for church and saying "I'm never doing another Cabaret again" - every year. I miss knitting with the girls, walking on the paths with Gimli and I really miss Sharky's Crab Rangoons with Red Pepper Jelly. Um, and the Calamari. Ask me if I can get a fried calamari here with banana peppers, olives and the right kind of spices. The answer, if you couldn't guess, is "Calamari? What's that?"

Yes, so much of my heart belongs to New England. The aesthetics, the people, the familiarity. But I am a Missouri girl, born and bred. Proud to carry the hallmarks of a Mid-westerner. But am I actually from either place? I barely maintain any of my ties to the city of my birth. There are no longer relatives living there. I don't own property or visit on any regular basis. And Block Island holds one too many heartbreaks for me to go back at this time. Not to mention the cost of a hotel room is beyond what I'm willing to pay.

I definitely am not from Rochester. Nor would I ever want anybody to think I drive like a native Rochester-an does. And that begs bigger questions. Where will I grow old? Where will I watch my grandchildren grow? Where will I be buried and will there be anyone to visit my grave?

I guess, for now, I'll answer those from New England that I'm from there, too. And when I meet a KC native, I'll proudly announce that "That's where I'M from!"