  There's a stoplight just past Wal-Mart on the way to Sackets Harbor on Route 3 where the four-lane becomes a two-lane about two hundred meters past. It's also just after the left everyone makes to Lowe's. I usually stick to the right-hand lane, the one that ends, because there's usually one in every crowd wanting to make the Lowe's left, and if you get stuck behind them, forget about the next light or two, you're Stuck like Chuck. Today I spent over $200 at Victoria's Secret (sounds excessive, but they make The Only bra I can wear, period) and on the way back, got caught in the right hand lane at the light.
I'd have to merge over. The car to my left was a little Neon, or the Dixie Cup of automobiles. They drive like a sewing machine, I rented one once. Behind the wheel a typical North Country character hunched--morbidly obese, long stringy hair, general look of disgruntlement on her face. Mind you, I'm not usually one of those jerks who floors it on the green light. I drive a four-door pickup truck, a far cry from a Camaro or some other hey-look-at-me sports car. I'm perfectly content to merge in behind someone else at that light. Today, however, was different. At the exact nanosecond the light changed, Miss Neon stomped the gas. Her tires squealed a bit.
Oh, hell no, I thought, and gunned my big V6. I glanced across at her--she actually leaned forward over the steering wheel, as if this would be a photofinish, and perhaps her glasses would get her across the wire first. Fortunately, my big bertha has a fierce third gear, got me safely into the left lane, ahead of Miss Neon...who then slowed to about twenty in a forty-five and made a left into a driveway about three minutes later. ??? I don't get it. Anthropologists have their work cut out for them. Once, at that same light, some jerk cut me off so sharply I had to hit the brakes HARD. He then slowed to about fifteen where there was no way to pass him, blowing his horn and flipping me off all the while.
And I wasn't even the one merging, the light was green, I was just driving along, minding my own business. He had those absurd silver silhouettes of naked, seated women with big hair and bigger boobs affixed to each mudflap, you know the ones. He was one of those. I didn't tailgate him, I know for a fact that those stupid Playboy girls go hand-in-hand with a large-caliber rifle in the backseat.
Or a readily-brandished lug wrench. I've learned that in most situations behind the wheel, if you just RELAX, quit viewing every driving transgression against you as a personal snub, be courteous enough to let people get in front of you, etc--you get there in the same amount of time and in a much better mood than if you'd tailgated, swore, showed people your middle finger, and cut them off. But I still couldn't resist once I saw that lady hunched over the wheel. She had to get left behind, and that's all I've got to say about that. 
