As you all know, I’ve been helping out an art gallery in the West End. You may have inferred that to get there I have to drive (or transfer busses downtown which I may figure out if I do this much longer). In traffic. I haven’t driven to work in traffic in YEARS and it’s all coming back to me now. Please, if you’re out there and you drive to work while having remotely convenient bus service, tell me for the love of god why!
Arrival time is 8:30/9:00am and for the first few days, traffic has been a breeze on the way in. About 10-15 minutes this side of the Squirrel Hill tunnel and about 15 more after. Although sometimes people are just mean and I don’t get it, because we’re all in this together and with just a little cooperation, it can be a bit better, no? This morning there was an accident at the 2nd Ave off-ramp. When I passed the two people out of their slightly dented vehicles I wanted to stop and tell them to look at the mess they caused. LOOK! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID! You have fucked up the morning of all of these people, possibly gotten someone fired for being late, probably a few were reprimanded (or “written up” which is apparently some sort of regionalism), someone may have been late for an exam that they can’t make up, or late to a meeting that will cost them . . . I don’t know, whatever being late to a meeting can cost, I’ve never been in that kind of meeting.
But that’s the easy part. Coming home is a nightmare. I’ll not belabor the point. Something good did come out of today’s drive home though. Red was extremely excited to be in traffic next to the MooZoom. Yes, that’s Red. Named Red because he’s tall . . . like a redwood. (Name the movie and win a prize, maybe.) And that's the MooZoom, as indicated by the license plate and the fact that it's a white care covered in cow spots.
So, I get home and start the cat-tuna-feeding-process. They are circling, maowing, demanding. I’m mixing up tuna – because they don't like it in chunks – and the container in which I am mixing slips from my hands, landing sideways on the floor, scattering bits of tuna. Now, if these were normal cats, they’d be all over it. Oh, no. Ebi scrambles to the other room, terrified of the sudden tuna movement. Armando is oblivious and when the tuna is pointed out to him, he snubs it, waiting instead for his tuna on his special plate, like an autistic kid.
Gah, I need a drink. And not a moment too soon - it's 63B girls night. They've not made me sit at a different table because I'm not on the bus any more. Which is nice.