The Mister locked his keys in his car yesterday at work. My husband seems to do this more than other people, but not chronically. I went about twenty years between — both times in my own driveway, because I am very special.
Ironically, I have asked The Mister to carry the spare set of keys because I’m afraid this very thing will happen to me. But instead it happened to him.
He was not carrying the spare set, so I had to go to his work.
He works about 4381929 hyperbolic miles and 284932308 exaggerated traffic circles away — AND WEST.
I was not excited.
Since The Roundabout Incident last summer, I have been finding MORE traffic circles, and they are not my friends. I have been trying to adjust, but they are not my friends.
I remind you, I live in THE CIRCLE CITY and lived directly off a traffic circle for seven years. While I am not uncomfortable in every single traffic circle, many of these newfangled ones are gloriously filled with fuckery.
What’s in my brain while I drive through the newfangled traffic circles:
Screams. Just screams. Sometimes I vocalize them.
Do you know that feeling when you want to take a sedative so you can drive, but you can’t take a sedative because you hafta drive?!?
I clicked the address to his work and pressed Directions and then Go. Off I went, norther and norther and wester and wester still.
I needed to go north on Meridian, but one cannot exit the interstate and head north there. It’s part of the city’s new fuck-you-make-a-u-turn agenda. I was about to make this u-turn when navigation tried to send me east.
“Head east on 96th Street.”
“Head east on 96th Street.”
“NO! That’s not right, Siri!”
(What, you don’t talk to your GPS?)
I turned her volume off and pulled into a parking lot. The meddling map app in my super-smart phone was obviously deluded. Do you know what it had done? At some point, it decided it was the time of day I go to work, so it altered the address to accommodate me. It was trying to send me to my job at go-to-job time. How fucking thoughtful.
I went back into The Mister’s text, clicked the address again. Directions. Go.
“Turn right onto Meridian Street.”
After much traffic-circling I arrived. I gave him the spare set of keys.
He sure did look handsome, walkin out to my car. I thought, if i wasn’t married to him, i’d totally want soma that. His power over me is strong. so handsome i’d drive to carmel for you, baby.
The Mister and I discussed whether I should leave left or right. He suggested left, with fewer traffic circles. He reminded me “465 EAST.”
I typed in my work address, chose the left option, and headed out.
“Enter the traffic circle and take the second turn to US 31 South.”
There was no sign for US 31 South and the second turn was Main St.
I took Main St.
But I could see US 31 South. AS I PASSED IT. I planned to turn around.
Siri had a similar opinion.
“Complete the traffic circle to change directions.”
But then, some asshat tried to crash me in the roundabout! I was in the outer lane and he was on the inner lane and he exited in front of me.
“No car! No! Bad driver! Bad!”
I fucking hate Carmel, and roundabouts, and asshats.
Fuckfaces, the lot of you!
In case you think I am exaggerating the frequency of roundabouts in Carmel…
This photo says it’s the 100th roundabout. For a population of 86,000.
Heading west to US 31 South, there is a sign.
I exited as indicated.
Y’all, there is no sign for 465 EAST for miles. There is a sign for 465 SOUTH, and another, and another, and then finally, at the split, 465 EAST.
This is reason 904 why I think the signage in this city is terrible for out-of-towners.
I made it to work. Shaking. Visibly pallid and disturbed.
I talked to my boss about traffic circles, “Do you traffic circle well?” I asked. He assured me
asshats people are not supposed to turn from the inside lane.
Leaving work, I stopped at the post office.
The post office has feathered parking. It’s ONE WAY.
Imagine my surprise when as I backed my car up to exit my parking space, some dickhead sped in, the wrong way, and parked beside me.
“Safety First Motherfucker!” I screamed, but he didn’t hear me, cause I wasn’t louder than my soothing classical music set to full blast.
Bonus points are given to anyone who can guess the make of the asshole’s car. Extra bonus points if you knew he wore aviator sunglasses and boasted a man bun.
I’ll be takin the scenic route to work today. Closest I can get to a sedative.