Watch out Californians; Wyomingites in Santa Barbara! I’m not relocating here or even trying to blend, I’m just enjoying warm weather while we paint my boyfriend’s aunt’s house to earn some extra cash for this trip. We have the giant Dodge Ram and the trailer which we drove out here and the ONLY place to park is on the street. The ‘streets’ in this neighborhood are these tiny hedge-lined paths that are only wide enough for one-way traffic but not only does traffic go both ways, but people park on both sides of the street. Since there is beach access nearby, the streets are inevitably used frequently.
We were trying to go to the paint store and JT leaves the truck running, (which is frowned upon by Californians) while it is pulled out halfway into the street when he realizes he needs to move his aunt’s car into the driveway. In the meantime, a Mercedes driving woman with a sour expression on her face whips around the corner and glares at me as I stand in front of the truck which is blocking her way. But now she is blocking the driveway in which JT is trying to pull into. I try to explain to her that if she would just back up, JT could park the aunt’s car and then we would be leaving in the truck. Sour-face just glares at me and doesn’t move an inch. Maybe all the botox has temporarily frozen her whole body. Then someone else starts coming down the street in the other direction. Since I’m standing in front of the truck; I am the target of these people’s annoyance for taking up their time. JT yells at me to JUST MOVE THE TRUCK!! But where the hell am I suppose to move it? The road is blocked with unhappy drivers on either side. Trying to fix the problem fast, I tried to move the truck to the front of the trailer which requires me to wedge the truck between a parked car and our trailer with an inch to spare on either side. Long story short, I ran the truck’s mounting rack into the side of our trailer and wedged it so that going forward or backward would damage the truck rack. My bicycle was mounted to the rack so there was also the possibility of damaging my only outlet for exercise. Too stressful under the evil glare of sour-face, Mercedes woman; so I happily handed over the wheel to JT. Happy Ending: NO damage done to my bike and I guess Sour-Face probably got to her colonic appointment.
Ah, yes. The ubiquitous sour-faced, Mercedes-driving, coastal Californian. They are an angry race. I pass them frequently on the freeways on the way to work. This is their world, apparently — we’re all just in it. They especially don’t like it when you make them late for their latest round of chemical peel/fat suck/collagen injection. It really chaps their bleached ass.
I find there are two tactics for dealing with them: either make use of wild and crazy gestures including but not limited to an aggressive jabbing of your middle finger in their direction, or smile sweetly (but with a noticeable deranged glint in your eye) while making sure all communication is delivered in a decibel MUCH higher than normal.