an Italian pizza oven.
an Italian pizza oven.
I was just so excited about having a good day in there, because I've worried about not being good with kids. Everyone has said, "Oh, they always put the newlyweds in there and it ends up being like birth control." But actually, these kids are like the opposite, whatever that is! I kind of want a 4-year-old! Skip the whole baby thing!
Lately I've been kind of ... I don't know the word for it -- anxious? Bratty? And I realized something that helps is to pretty much only listen to classical music when I'm in the car. Before, I listened to harder things, and I think that, combined with a touch of road rage, has been making me an unpleasant person, especially when I'm driving. Sometimes I have to remind myself, "That's a child of God in that car," or more effectively, "What if that's the Bishop in that other car?" Is that bad??!
I'm excited and sad to go on a weeklong vacation on Wednesday. I'm looking forward to it because I'll be going to one of my favorite places, Hawaii (!!!), but I'm sad to leave Neil! I wish he could go with me :( When I got my ticket it seemed like a good idea at the time, but now I am being pathetically dependent. Maybe we went a week without seeing each other when we first started dating, since we lived an hour apart, but I don't think we've been separated for more than a few days since we started seriously dating, and I've seen him every day since we got married. I'm really looking forward to having fun with the Robertsons (Jr. and Sr.), just chilling and getting my tan on, but it would all be infinitely more fun with Neil there. Plus, he'll be going up to NYC while I'm gone, and I wish I could go there, too. I'm so selfish! I've learned my lesson -- no more separate vacations!
I guess this trip will be like when I was in Hawaii two trips ago, Dec. 2006, to run the Honolulu Marathon. I went on my first date with Neil Nov. 14 and I really liked him, but I didn't know where it was going to go. The trip was kind of like a make-or-break thing: If we kept in touch while I was gone, we'd probably date some more, but if we didn't talk for that whole week, things would probably cool off, possibly irreversibly. Luckily, he txted and called pretty much every day, and I was quite impressed by that. He really cared about me and not just when I was nearby! It was so cute and thoughtful. Soooo let's hope he's just as good about keeping in touch now that he's "got" me :)
1) His quills (spiky shoulder hairs).
2) Yesterday's Washington, D.C., gun ban law that was reversed by the Supreme Court. (The best sign held by a supporter, which was in the main photo on the Nation/World News page I designed at work yesterday: "If guns kill people ... do pens misspell words?")
3) Obama. Or maybe that was my idea.
None of these is really something upon which I care to elaborate here. I do like plucking and Obama; not so sure about the whole gun thing.
I need to teach Neil how to whistle, and he needs to do a backflip for me. These were things we promised would transpire during the honeymoon, and they never did! Neil is also bitter that I didn't remove his moles, which was also something I promised him I would do, which is the only thing I've totally went against my word on with him.
He always reminds me that a CERTAIN family member of his has moles, and this family member's devoted wife removes them via the following method:
- Locate mole
- Tie dental floss tightly around base of mole
- Allow mole to die a slow, horrible, constricted death whereon it shrivels up and eventually falls off -- basically killing the mole.
That's sick, if you ask me. I promised I would do it, but I think I said that just so he wouldn't do it himself. The truth is, I like his moles. They're cute and not at all nasty or unsightly. He had one surgically removed from his neck shortly after I met him. Then he killed one of his moles in the above-mentioned way shortly before we got married. Sick. He wants me to get a couple hard-to-reach ones on his back. I think it's really gross and sad to kill them. He says I lied. I say it was to protect the moles. I'm just afraid he's going to cut them off himself. Is it an urban legend that you can't stop the bleeding from a mole?
Sunday afternoon as I was schooling a couple shallow counter-canter loops in each direction, Willow volunteered a lovely, balanced flying change from right to left at X. I cantered in the new lead for three strides, halted, gave her many pats, and let her walk on a long rein for a bit. It was her first flying change where she didn't leap three feet into the air.
The second-level conundrum: how hard to school the counter canter? Of course, we all know you never punish a flying change, no matter what the circumstances, but the question is how much do you reward it when you're trying to confirm the counter canter? I'm of the school of thought that says: reward like crazy. Unfortunately, most people in this school of thought already have their bronze medals :) I, on the other hand, still have to slog through second level before getting to the fun stuff.
I've read advice that says, just school counter canter and flying changes concurrently! Easier said than done, IMO. Second-level counter canter is pretty darn challenging for the horse, and once they discover--hey, I can just switch!--it's hard to unbake the cake.
This conundrum falls into the category of "good problem to have." If nothing else, it's a sign that Willow's balance in the canter has, indeed, improved. I do wish there was some way to provide an allowance for accidental changes during second level.
I'm currently sitting in the Denver airport waiting to board my plane to Bismarck, North Dakota. It turns out my brother is bringing along the whole clan to the funeral, so I'm going to get to meet my six-month-old niece, Chloe, for the first time tomorrow. I'll also get to see how much my two-and-a-half-year-old niece, Julia, has changed since last Labor Day.
After the funeral, I'm off to San Antonio for a conference, and then I'm hanging out with former clinician Wolfgang, his wife Suzanne, and friend Ted (whom Willow dumped in February) for a few days. Ted said I could get on his part-draft gelding Sterling. Perhaps Sterling will dump me in revenge.
It is a beautiful present from my lovely uncles Joe and Dave, who are always so kind to me. They mean me to write, come hell or high water, or children clamouring around me.
To make a good start, I christened this journal with a list of my favourite words. Obviously, this list is a mutable thing - constantly in flux and never fixed.
This particular list was swimming around in my head as I woke up one morning last week: fully formed, as if from the mind of Zeus. I'm afraid I lost half of them by the time I got them written down, but here are those that remained. All are there simply because I like the sound of them...not necessarily what they represent.
Leave your favourite-word list in the comments. Could be favourites for any reason - that you like what they stand for, like how they make you feel, or you just plain think they're euphonic. (Oooh, euphonic! Must add that one.)
I stayed until a firetruck came. A utility guy was there, too, and I heard him tell the firemen this is the second street lamp on Jeff Davis to have fallen in the past month! Dangerous! They just rust out at the bottom and fall. I figured it was time for me to continue to my next errand, which was to purchase a gecko.
PetSmart didn't have any, so I went to PetCo. They had one "House Gecko" left. Perfect. And he only cost $5.99. We don't want a pet -- this gecko has a job: This is so, so nasty, but we've seen a few roaches in the apartment. It's weird -- we didn't have any during the winter, and it's just been in the past few weeks, since it's gotten warm, that they've infiltrated our fortress.
In Hawaii, we had geckos roaming in the house that ate the bugs. So that's what this little guy's job is. His tail is growing back and is just a nub, so I call him Nubbins.
If you didn't know, now you know: Geckos are chameleon; they can change color with their mood or environment.
I brought Nubbins home and released him beside the AeroGarden. Hopefully he noticed the little dish of water I set out for him and he'll be able to find it again. He was behind the dresser for a couple days, but now I don't know where he went. Yesterday he came out from behind a picture when he saw his new gecko friend I got at another PetCo a few days later! His friend is a little bit bigger and has a long tail and no name. He is hiding behind a mirror on the wall, but he ventures out in the evening across the wall near the ceiling and even across the ceiling. They're both pretty much nocturnal. I just hope they're doing their job at night.
Grandma R. was a great lady. She was tough as nails but had a great sense of humor. She was a farmer's wife--not an easy thing to be--but she managed all the hard work and never complained. Having lived through the Great Depression, she knew what really tough times were.
On a couple different occasions as a child, I spent part of my summer vacation with her and grandpa on their North Dakota farm. They had a little gray pony named Sparky, so these visits were pretty awesome. Grandma R. was an excellent cook, and always served up a huge farmer's "dinner" at lunchtime, consisting of wonderful stuff like fried chicken, creamed peas with real cream, lefse, and strawberry-rhubarb pie. It's a good thing I had a fast metabolism as a child.
I'm off to North Dakota on Wednesday for the funeral on Friday. North Dakota in late June is absolutely gorgeous, and I'm looking forward to seeing family members I haven't seen in years. Funerals are for the living, so they say.
I had a call from the assistant trainer at the barn tonight, letting me know that Willow's leather halter had broken and fallen off in turnout, and nobody could catch her to put another halter on and bring her in. She always wears a leather halter in turnout for just this reason. She's fine with anyone clipping a lead under her chin, but trying to put a halter on her in the pasture is pretty futile for anyone but me (that darn ear phobia!).
So I threw on my breeches and hurried out to the barn. I grabbed an extra halter and headed out to the pasture. Willow happily trotted over to me and let me put the halter on. I have to admit, I find this very sweet. I popped her in the cross ties because I planned to ride, but in picking her hooves I discovered a small gouge just above the coronet band on her right front. Eek. Perfect for causing an abscess. I doctored it up and said a prayer. We'll see how it looks tomorrow.
Remember my rant about the Cindy Sydnor article advising us all to stop being poor if we want to get good at dressage? It's still generating letters to Dressage Today. In the latest issue a woman writes to agree with Sydnor's advice to forego a fancy car, noting "I deliberately chose not to get a Mercedes because I am saving for an upper-level dressage horse." I had to wipe a tear away, thinking of this poor, Mercedes-less woman. Then I got in my eleven-year-old Honda and drove to work.
I know, I know -- I chose a rich person's sport, and I need to get over it.
Whatever it is that your daughter excels in, encourage her. One day, maybe I'll hear your daughter playing the piano at the Chan Center in Vancouver. Maybe she'll perform my hip replacement surgery, 50 years down the road. Maybe I'll totter over to her veterinary clinic with my sick Teacup Poodle. (Okay, maybe not that one.) Perhaps we will watch her dive, or sprint, or win the long jump during the 2020 Olympic Games. Maybe your daughter will grow up and teach my grandchildren grade 7 Socials. Maybe she'll be the one who offers me her seat on the bus.
My hope for my daughters is that whatever they turn out to be -- a dentist, a hairdresser, a tree planter, an obstetrician, a stay-at-home mother -- whatever it is, that they will love what they do, and do it well.
Of course, there are a few drawbacks, too...you get your giant banana slugs, your prehistorically-sized spiders, and you spend a lot of money on umbrellas and absorbent doormats.
Not to mention the disembodied PARTS that keep WASHING UP ON THE BEACHES.
My double bridle arrived today (a Theo Sommer on closeout at Dressage Extensions), so I took it along to the barn tonight for a preliminary fitting. My first time introducing the double bridle, and my first time attempting to fit one from scratch! It was a big night!
I rummaged through the drawer of extra bits in the tack room until I found a simple loose-ring bradoon that looked to be about a quarter-inch wider than my snaffle. Then I found a low-port curb bit with curb chain attached. I attached the two bits to the bridle, and then hung it side-by-side with my snaffle bridle. I adjusted the bridle so the bradoon appeared to hang even with the snaffle bit on the other bridle. I adjusted the curb bit to the highest hole, but I could tell it was still going to be too low in Willow's mouth. I need to seek out a leather punch tomorrow night. I decided to try the bridle sans reins for my first attempt.
All this time Willow was dozing in the cross ties (I think she would happily stand in cross ties for, possibly, weeks at a time). I unsnapped the cross ties and moved the halter down her neck. Then I carefully balanced the bradoon bit on top of the curb and asked Willow to open her mouth, wondering if the clanking metal would bother her at all. Nope. She let me bridle her like she's been in the double for years. (Thank goodness her ear phobia is a thing of the past).
The curb was obviously too low in her mouth, but the bradoon hung just about right. I attached the curb chain, and Willow went right to messing with the bits, chomping them and shoving them around with her tongue. I gave her some sugar and she started to drip saliva everywhere (Rocky the barn dog loves sugary horse saliva. Eesh.) I let Willow get used to the feel of the bridle for five minutes, then took it off. No big deal. Hurray! Once I get a couple more holes punched so the curb can ride higher, I'll attach the reins and start lungeing her in the bridle once a week. I eventually need to buy my own bits, too, but I hope I can continue to borrow these for awhile.
After that mini-triumph, I rode as usual in the snaffle. I really feel like things are clicking these days. We're down to solid 15-meter canter circles. Next stop, 12 meters. I'm able to do counter-canter approaching what's asked for at second level. Tonight my only frustration was simple change through trot, right to left. When I asked for the left lead, Willow said, "How about a trot extension instead?" Three times in a row. On the third try, I got a little irritated and replied, "Trot extension? OK! Three times around the arena!" Willow was huffing and puffing after that. I let her walk for a bit and tried the simple change again. Bingo. Willow's no dummy.
The centre of the Cap Shawl is almost complete. The rounds are now 738 stitches long so one round takes a fair bit of time, especially now that I've got these six purl rows to do. Purling doesn't feel any slower to me, but when I look at the clock I can tell it is. It takes me almost half an hour to do a round on this, at the moment.
Lace in progress is pretty boring stuff to look at, which is why I've spared you too many progress shots. There you have it, though: round 170 of 172. Feels like these next 2.5 rounds will take for-freaking-ever. (Aside: thank you Megan for formally introducing me, all those years ago, to the concept of the expletive infixation. It has validated all kinds of linguistic outrage for me. By the way if you have the time, do read that entire article - it's hilarious.)
And as promised I am showing you a picture of Charlotte's stocking. It was kind of a knit-centric week (trying oh, so hard, to get that stupid Cap Shawl done) so I didn't do much......if it sounds like an excuse, it is.
Is it enough, O most enlightened reader? Or does the sun appear dark in your eyes because of my slack-freaking-assedness? I know which one I'd choose.
I'll do better next week, I promise.
Here's the peony, in full blowsy bloom. This is one decadent plant: between its scent, its glorious plumage, its syrupy buds, and its almost instant progress from bloom to decay, it is the Roman Dinner Party of the perennial world.
And that's all we have time for today. Catch you on the flip side, my fan-f*cking-tastic darlings.
Reread - Constantly
The good news: I passed the final review.
The annoying news: My name has been added to a list of candidates to start anywhere between now and 18 mos. from now.
I am really excited to start this job, so I hope I get called up sooner than later.
In other news, we had our second day of leading nursery today. The kids sang the "Daddy" song in Sacrament, which was very cute. They were really fun during nursery, but it took me a little while to warm up to them and vice versa. I just don't know how to "get in there" and join what they're doing when I first come in. I feel idiotic trying to talk to them in a chipper, high voice about whatever they're doing. One of the moms was there for a little while and she probably wondered why I was even there. I did, too. But it got better.
In news news, I have only worked two Fridays in the past 6 mos. (I love my schedule -- except that it means I work Sundays) and one of them was last Fri. 6/13. At work, we're all tuned to CNN, so I heard the news break about Tim Russert's passing.
I never watched "Meet the Press," but he was definitely recognizable from the commentary and correspondence he provides on other programs. This was one of those things I wished could be taken back. From my limited knowledge, he definitely is an irreplaceable figure, and was a really great, smart individual.
In old news, I'm always a little startled when I see this infomercial guy on TV:
Because he looks alarmingly like my old boss:
And the deer have been around, as my beloved Northern Spy apple tree and my dwarf sumac can attest.
Now, you know I am careless about the inside of my house, but I am vigilant about untidiness in the garden. I weed like a crazed woman, hunting the beds for any sign, no matter how teeny, of an aggressive intruder. When I see a little sprout starting, I ruthlessly jerk it from its nurturing soil and toss it, roots-up, onto the concrete driveway in the blistering sun. Once it's dead and dried and wilted past saving, it goes into a garbage bin to be taken to the curb on "Yard Waste" day. I have no mercy. I am grim-faced and methodical.
I am a weeding Nazi.
I've lived here for four years and each year I struggle with this one particular weed, which keeps coming back behind my front bed. It's got kind of a furry, floppy, large leaf and it is pretty hard to get rid of. It must grow from root fragments or something.
Well, this year I did my first weeding day a little earlier than usual. I pulled out all the mystery weeds I could find. A month or so later, I noticed that two more of them had started up after I left, and were at a good distance from the edge of the bed. Hard to reach. I felt a fury and a hatred rise up within me, but I also felt something else - defeated. Demoralised. Woebegone.
I kept meaning to get out the long-handled cultivator and chop out those weeds, but got a little distracted keeping up with the perennial beds (and keeping Piper from uprooting and devouring them) and forgot about them.
Yesterday I went out to spend the afternoon in the front garden. I had to edge the front bed, tie up the peonies, deadhead the bachelor buttons, pull out the recurrent buttercup that is the scourge of my life and threatens to choke out the shrubbery, and weed the corner heather. I cleared out a meter-high collection of buttercup and stinky (but beautiful) pink weeds whose leaves look a little like bleeding heart. I stood back to admire my work, and that's when I saw them. Saw the weeds I have been pulling out for four years in an attempt to keep my front perennial bed beautiful and tidy.
While mourning the fact that I don't have enough money to buy any more lovely perennials to beautify my flower garden.
And here are the weeds.
And now I think I shall take up stamp collecting instead.
A frisky cat scared Willow into a flying change tonight.
So, a month ago I ordered a double bridle from Dressage Extensions. I got an email saying the bridle was on backorder. Today I emailed to get an ETA on the backorder. Three more months, I was told. (Dressage Extensions, I love you, but four months on a backorder sucks.) I cancelled the order and am now trying to decide how much more I can afford to spend.
The VIP "Reserved Parking" spots where I work -- Gannett/USA TODAY headquarters.
L-R: Mercedes, Aston Martin, Porsche.
I decided to do one of these book meme things instead of actually writing a post. YEAH BABY.
I wasn't tagged, but thanks Tara for the idea.
These are the 106 books most often marked as "unread" by LibraryThing’s users. I've read the bold ones, underlined the ones I've started but not finished, and italicised the ones I plan to read.
Also I should note that I have never before been so tempted to lie in a meme.
Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell
Crime and PunishmentCatch-22
One Hundred Years of Solitude
Life of Pi: a novel
The Name of the Rose
Pride and Prejudice
The Tale of Two Cities
The Brothers Karamazov
Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies
War and Peace
The Time Traveler’s Wife
The Blind Assassin
The Kite Runner
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius
Reading Lolita in Tehran: a memoir in books
Memoirs of a Geisha
Wicked: the life and times of the wicked witch of the West
The Canterbury Tales
The Historian: a novel
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Love in the Time of Cholera
Brave New World
The Count of Monte Cristo
A Clockwork Orange
The Once and Future King
The Grapes of Wrath
The Poisonwood Bible: a novel
Angels & Demons
The Inferno (and Purgatory and Paradise)
The Satanic Verses
Sense and Sensibility
The Picture of Dorian Gray
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
To the Lighthouse
Tess of the D’Urbervilles
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time
The Sound and the Fury
Angela’s Ashes : a memoir
The God of Small Things
A People’s History of the United States : 1492-present
A Confederacy of Dunces
A Short History of Nearly Everything
The Unbearable Lightness of Being
The Scarlet Letter
Eats, Shoots & Leaves
The Mists of Avalon
Oryx and Crake : a novel
Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed
The Catcher in the Rye
On the Road
The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Freakonomics : a rogue economist explores the hidden side of everything
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance : an inquiry into values
In Cold Blood : a true account of a multiple murder and its consequences
The Three Musketeers
More on this fuzzy fellow later. Click to embiggen.
We have called the local beekeepers' association, and they gave us the names of five beekeepers who would probably love to come and collect the hive. I don't know how long it will take but the bees are not bothering us - I quite like having them there actually.
Let me tell you about when I was a girl, my grandfather says.
I knew from page one that this book would be getting as many points as I could give it. The first line of Girl Meets Boy slapped me right in the face...and stayed slapping me until I turned the very last page.
This is the second volume I have read from the Canongate Myth Series, which I had feared would consistently disappoint. Remember The Penelopiad? Well, Girl Meets Boy did not, in fact, disappoint. It clobbered me. It busted my cogs. It blew me out of the water and left me perched precariously on a tiny rock, shaking with adrenaline, my linen tunic soaked and seaweed in my hair.
I was small, our grandfather says, I was nineteen, but I could pass for twelve or thirteen. And I looked a bit like a boy.
Yeah, Midge says, cause you were one.
You may have heard Ovid's tale, from the Metamorphoses, of Iphis and Ianthe. Iphis' mother dressed her as a boy to prevent her dynastic father murdering her because of her sex. Raised as a boy, Iphis falls in love with the beautiful Ianthe. On the eve of their wedding, Iphis and her mother beseech Isis' intervention. Isis transforms Iphis into a man, the wedding is a success, and they live happily ever after.
Midge, my sweet fierce cynical heart, our grandfather says. You're going to have to learn the kind of hope that makes things history. Otherwise there'll be no good hope for your own grand truths and no good truths for your own grandchildren.
My name's Imogen, Midge says and gets down off his knee.
This retelling does interesting things with the original myth, but that's not the best part of the book. The best part is this: characters in Girl Meets Boy transcend and challenge their gender repeatedly - sometimes subtly, sometimes obviously. Nearing the end of the book, gender as an identity ceased to have meaning. The girlness of boys, and the boyness of girls, made it irrelevant.
Way back in the Celtic tribes, our grandmother says, women had the franchise. You always have to fight to get the thing you've lost.
There is only one thing in this book that I wish had been handled differently. The heroine's sister, Midge, is appalled by her sister's emerging sexual identity. I wish that the author hadn't endowed Midge with quite so many hangups, issues, and baggage. I think the reader is meant to feel a certain way about her - namely, that she is tiresome, ignorant, selfish and narrow-minded, and that her homophobia is all of a piece with the rest. It's all too easy to see that she is going to be the fly in the ointment: she is exercise-obsessed, bulimic, repressed, success-crazy, and intolerably superior. I would have liked the resident homophobe, who is obviously headed for an enlightenment, to be less typecast.
He was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.
But he looked really like a girl.
She was the most beautiful boy I had ever seen in my life.
I won't pretend everyone will love this book. The fact that I love it only proves that few others of my acquaintance will. But, if you think you can handle the feeling of being upended and shaken until your culture falls out, and feeling your mind expand to consider new ideas, by all means seek out Girl Meets Boy.
One last quote, from the opening page before the book begins:
It is the mark of a narrow world that it mistrusts the undefined.
(HalfSoledBoots Highly Specialised Book Rating System [see what I did there?])
Girl Meets Boy gets:
Reread? Hell, yes.
Given as a Gift to Others? Yes. Carefully.
Bookplate? Yes because if this book walks I'll have to shell out for another one. Or two, just in case.
Neil and I drove up to Boston this weekend to visit my friend Mwashonga. We had a great time on our whirlwind tour. Mwashonga is a huge soccer fan, and one of his girl friends works for Harvard, through which she gets cheap tix to sporting events. She got us $60, 10th-row tickets to the Brazil vs. Venezuela game at the Patriots' stadium. It was our first pro soccer match, and it was awesome!
There were 58,000 people in attendance; a sea of green and yellow. Which made it all the more ironic Brazil lost, 2-0! The game was awesome, but even more exciting were the fights! There were about 3 of them in our section alone, with a couple fan ejections. On the field, unfortunately, two players got carried off on stretchers -- it's a rough game. There was also a half-naked (top half, fortunately) "streaker" who ran out and hugged one of Brazil's usually amazing players, Robinho, before security threw him to the ground and escorted him, handcuffed, off the field. Soccer has trumped basketball in my opinion as the ultimate spectator sport!
Saturday we toured around the city, and the weather was absolutely gorgeous. Do you remember the book "Make Way for Ducklings"?
I never realized it is set in Boston. I bought the book for posterity and got our picture in front of Duck Island. In the Quincy Market square, we happened upon a breakdancing crew that was drawing a huge crowd. We made our way to an opening where we could see them, and crazy enough, it was a crew we have seen now in 3 cities! We first saw them last summer in L.A. at the World Hip Hop Championships. Then we saw them this spring in VA at the Circles 9 battle, "one of the largest hip hop charity events on the East Coast." They hail from Boston, so I feel like we're stalking them, but they are pretty amazing!
This is some of them in-between amazing breaking.
The whole way up, I was craving a lobster roll. I'd heard about them, and knew they're available in Maine, but hoped I could get one in Mass., too. I was obsessed! I like to experience new places through my stomach, so I got one for lunch and felt I could go home having experienced New England to the, um, fullest.
I also saw a shop selling popcorn. Shout out to my uncle Dale and cousin Thomas.
Sorry if you guys had plans to open an eponymous popcorn shop.
I'm a pretty wild driver, so I never thought I'd say this, but drivers in Boston are the worst I've ever seen in my entire life. It's not that they drive crazy or fast -- I do that, but other than speed, a cop would be hard-pressed to actually cite me. It's the utter lawlessness with which Bostonians drive. Pulling out into oncoming traffic? No problem. Cutting other cars off? Hey, it's a free-for-all. Using a turn signal? Never heard of it. Picking a lane? Two is better than one. Terrible, terrible stuff. I was completely dumbfounded by the abundance of this:
Driving on the shoulder!!!! And everybody was doin' it! I was appalled and flabbergasted and every other thing like that, all at once. Until I saw roadsigns that said something to the effect of it being OK to drive on the shoulder in certain areas. Still, totally weird! No wonder they drive like maniacs, with state-sanctioned crazy driving!