L o b a B l a n c a {dot} c o m

Want to hear how I temporarily closed down I-95 South and gave Sammy an early Christmas mud bath?

So today was a good day to travel, I thought. It’s the day before Christmas Eve, which I know is typically the popular travel day for people who travel for Christmas…which, thankfully, are far fewer people than those who travel on Turkey Day. I knew, however, that I should expect some rough riding at least until I was beyond the tenacious and ample mounds of snow that snaked up the I-95 corridor.

Truth. I sat for about 2 hours just trying to get onto I-95, then ended up in sluggish, sometimes stop-n-go traffic from the 495 merge until around about Kings Dominion. For those not in the know, that’s a hella long time. Thank goodness once again for my iPod and awesome podcasts.

Once I hit North Carolina, however, things were smooth as silk. The snow was gone, the temperature was wonderfully warm, and the sun was shining brightly and strongly down on Sammy’s sleek silver and salty frame. I cruised along at the lovely standard speed of 70 MPH (another reason to love NC!), listening to P!nk dissect her marriage and Suzie Plakson explain how she Didnwannadoit. Traffic had broken up and spread out, and I finally found myself all alone on my own personal stretch of the road.

This is probably the most serendipitous moment of my entire journey.

I noticed that a car was getting ready to merge onto the interstate, so I switched from the right lane to the left lane so that they would have a clean shot at the merge. Next thing I know, the driver is rocketing straight from the merge lane into my lane. While I’m right there.

Three things happened simultaneously at this point: I honked, slammed on my brakes, and swerved toward the left to avoid being side-swiped by the driver.

Know what’s kind of cool about I-95? Both north- and southbound lanes have these grooves on each shoulder that, when you run over them, they rattle your car just enough to shake you awake. Apparently, enough people were falling asleep at the wheel that TPTB decided this would be a good way to shock sleepy drivers back awake.

Sammy’s front left wheel hit these grooves as I braked and swerved, which startled me enough that I swerved back toward the right in what I have deduced in retrospect was a rather overcompensating manner, which started Sammy wagging his little tail like an over-zealous puppy. Cute on puppies. Not cute on cars.

The fish-tail motion started to increase and next thing I know I’m spinning. And angry. Not scared. Not panicky. ANGRY. Angry at the stupid driver whose ignorance has left me feeling like I’m trapped in the spin cycle of an industrial washer. Angry enough that I was saying things about said driver that I think would have made my Navy veteran grandparents blush.

Thankfully, my anger kept me focused enough that I did what I knew I needed to do: took my foot off the accelerator, turned into the spin rather than fight it, and started to carefully slow down until I could regain control. A couple of spins later and all was still. And Sammy was parked in the saturated sogginess of the ditch running along the side of the interstate. Facing the wrong way. But safe. As was I.

Of course, safe is a wonderful thing. But so is safe and not sinking into mud. Which I was quickly doing. Not even rocking Sammy back and forth was going to get me out of this. So after several increasingly frustrated attempts, I finally cut the engine and climbed out to assess the mess and call AAA. That’s when the awesome gentleman in the AT&T service truck traveling northbound pulled over and asked me if he could help.

I may not have always depended on the kindness of strangers, but this guy and the winch on the front of his truck were my heroes, fo’ shizzle. He told me to hang on while he went up and turned around so that he could come over onto the southbound side.

That’s about the point when I became the center of some very unexpected attention. While waiting for the service truck to return, I glanced back at the northbound side and realized that two state trooper cruisers with their lights flashing were pulling over across from Sammy. I also noticed that another car had pulled over further up the northbound side, and a Black woman was quickly running over toward me.

I only mention her race because this woman was about as pale as I’ve ever seen a Black person turn. Seriously, she was nearly as White as me…and that’s saying a lot. It wasn’t until she kept repeating “I’m so sorry…are you all right…I’m so sorry” that I realized this was the driver who nearly hit me in the first place. She had turned around at the first exit she found and came back, apparently calling the police as she did so.

I assured both her and the two state troopers that I was fine, just stuck in the mud and waiting for the nice AT&T guy to hook his winch up to Sammy’s bum and yank him free.

[Before any of you ask, of course I didn't refer to Sammy by his name or his gender. I didn't really need the added indignity of having the cops giving me a breathalyzer test...]

That’s when the county cruiser, the ambulance, and the two firetrucks arrived, blocking all lanes of traffic as they positioned themselves around my part of the interstate that was becoming increasingly crowded.

And that’s when I wanted to crawl under Sammy and hide.

This was also the point when I realized that, although I was semi-oblivious to the danger at the time inside my anger warp bubble, people around me witnessed something that they translated as “That’s definitely going to have a bad ending.” This woman who called the police must have told them to expect the worst possible scenario. What she saw in her rearview mirror as she drove away obviously left her shaken and afraid…and left me very grateful that I didn’t see what she and others saw.

I spent the next 10 minutes assuring her and all the officers and rescue people that I was fine, that Sammy was fine, and that all I really needed was the nice young man in the AT&T truck to do what he was waiting patiently to do. They quickly dispersed, probably equal parts happy to see that their expertise was not needed and possibly glad to have a little innocent excitement in the middle of their shift.

The AT&T guy and the county cop hooked up my car and pulled me out and helped me do a walk-around to make sure that Sammy was still really in one piece. I thanked them both profusely. I’ve also just finished e-mailing AT&T and letting them know that they hire some damned fine people down here in the Tarheel State. And then I was on my way.

Of course, anyone driving past that part of I-95 after the fact probably stared at the loop-de-loop streaks of rubber along the roadway and the big streaks through the muddy ditch on the side of the road and wondered what the frig happened there. Let me assure you, it was just Sammy leaving his signature across the interstate. Honestly, he’s turned into such a diva.

Seriously, though, thank you to whatever patron saint or universal glitch that’s out there, watching over white wolves and their anthropomorphized cars. Thank you to the stunningly fast response of the EMTs, firefighters, and police officers who, thankfully, were not necessary. Even thank you to the woman who started all of this mess. Thank you for coming back, for apologizing, and for caring, in stark contradiction to the opinion I had of you as I was spinning right round, baby.

And to the drivers who were caught up in all the excitement…believe me, I’m sorry. I know what I would have been saying if I’d been caught in the backup, no matter how short it may have been. So, sorry about that delay. I hope you all got to where you were heading without any further delays. I promise I will do my best to refrain from causing any further interstate altercations on my way home.

As for Sammy? He is almost perfect. Seems that his recent alignment is a little off-kilter now, but other than that, he’s just very dirty. So it’s a power wash for him in the morning, followed by a fresh tank of gas for lunch. As for me? I think I’m going to enjoy the next few days traveling no faster than my two legs can carry me. I’m quite through with my attempts at impersonating a dreidel, thank you very much.

I haven’t been eating bananas every day like I usually do. That’s the excuse I’m using for what happened.

See, potassium deficiency apparently runs in my family. Lack of potassium has certain side effects, one of which is horrible muscle cramps in your legs.

Like the one that woke me up this morning at 5 a.m. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I can sleep through anything. Almost anything. Having my calf muscle twisted into an Auntie Anne pretzel shape apparently does not fall under the “Almost Anything” category. The pain is excruciating but quick, although the soreness lingers. I can still feel the remnants of that sweet agony in my every limping move today.

It’s days like this that burst my mental image of me still being on the edge of 17 (guess no white-winged doves will be singing for me today, eh, Stevie?).

So I went back to my banana pattern this morning. Want to know a secret though? I hate bananas. Unless they’re barely ripe…skin still a bit green. Firm flesh.

Sorry, I really don’t mean to sound vulgar in my description, but that’s how I like my bananas. If they’re too ripe (what most people would probably consider “normal”), I can’t stand them. I’ll get through maybe half a banana at that stage before I simply can’t go on.

I especially can’t stand listening to another person eat a banana. Nails on a chalkboard? Don’t bother me. The gooey, viscous shlup of someone masticating banana bites? Oh, the humanity! I have left conversations in which someone was eating a banana. It’s either that or trying to explain why I just shattered a molar in an effort to refrain from sucker-punching them.

Is that normal? Of course not. Am I normal? If you can’t already answer that question, you need to spend a little more time perusing the lair. I’ll wait…

…

Done? Good. I suppose I could just start taking potassium tablets. But I hate the thought of taking vitamins. Isn’t it better for you to get your vitamins and minerals from natural sources? I also know that there are lots of other foods out there that are as rich with potassium as bananas. Bananas are, however, the most convenient to eat on a daily basis.

Just as long as they’re young and firm…

[Yeah, I was being unnecessarily dirty just then.]

Sat down last night after dinner to flip through the bajillion and one cable channels that usually don’t have anything on worth watching, and I stumbled upon a movie in which Jed Bartlet seemed on the verge of molesting Clarice Starling. There are just some things that I don’t want to watch. Ever.

So I completely forgot to mention that I was pulled over by a cop on Friday night for no friggin’ reason. I had been at a complete stop at a red light for about 10 to 20 seconds, when I saw a car pulling up on my right, in the “right turn only” lane. I noticed, however, that the car had stopped without pulling up even with me. I looked in my right side mirror and saw that it was a police cruiser. It kept inching forward uncertainly, doing the “I’m spatially challenged and have no idea if I can actually fit past this car next to me” two-step. I laughed and probably made some sort of innuendo-heavy joke at the cop’s expense.

A second later, the cruiser jerked into reverse and pulled in behind me.

The light finally turned green and I made my left onto the main road. And right onto the side of the road as the cruiser’s blue and red lights flared up and the cop pointed his spotlight in through Sammy’s rear window.

I’ve been pulled over numerous times in the past. I have a hereditary condition that causes my driving foot to be pulled uncontrollably to the floor, regardless of posted speed limits. I’ve sought physical therapy, which has successfully reduced the impact of this condition on my driving record (and my insurance premiums). However, this was the first time I was ever pulled over simply for the helluvit.

So the cop ambles up to my window and asks me for my license and registration. In a new twist, however, he asks me how long I’ve owned my car. When I tell him, his response is, “That’s funny. Your license plate comes up in my system as belonging to a 2003 Mercury.” And then he walks away.

So we sit there for like 10 minutes before the cop comes back, returns my information and says, “Yeah, your VIN checks out as belonging to this car, but your license plate is coming up as belonging to a Mercedes. I mean Mercury. Your name also isn’t coming up in our system.”

Okay, so you really can’t drop something like this on me and expect me to shrug and go “Okay, occifer.” My actual response was, “Well, that doesn’t sound good. I guess I’ll have to call the DMV in the morning.”

To which to officer quickly responded, “No, that’s not necessary. My system is probably just down right now. You’re fine.”

Anyone else smelling a rotten bacon stink right about now?

First he tells me that my license plate is coming up as belonging to a completely different make and year of car. Then he tells me that the VIN information is fine, but the license plate is still coming up for a different car…but he can’t seem to keep straight the make of the different car (personally, I confuse Mercedes and Mercury all the time). And that my name isn’t even coming up in the system. But he doesn’t seem to think there’s anything to worry about in any of what he’s saying. And he gets jumpy when I state that I’m going to call the DMV to clear everything up with them.

Plus, there’s the tiny little matter of me not really understanding why I was pulled over in the first place.

I wish I hadn’t been suffering from an extreme case of “Politeness to Those Who Can Arrest You” syndrome. I really would have liked to have asked WTF. Part of me feels like I was duped in some way. I mean, I saw the decals on the cruiser and recognized it as a county sheriff’s car. Officer Dolittle was also in a recognizable duty uniform. So what the dilly-yo? Was he just bored and miffed that he couldn’t figure out how to get past me at the stoplight? Was my bumper sticker or my “Jesus fish” spoof that offensive? Was this abuse of power by a rabid fundamentalist?

Ooh, maybe this had something to do with that crazy woman who bumped into me a few weeks back! That might be a possibility…but then I go right back to the fact that I wasn’t doing anything to draw attention to myself in the first place. Dudley Dolittle had no reason to run my license plate in the first place, beyond the fact that he could have seen me gesturing toward his sad attempts at spatial handling and laughing.

If that’s indeed the case, then I’m ever so glad that my tax dollars are helping to pay the salary of someone so petty and small. Thanks for wasting my money and my time, occifer.

No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting breast implants as a Christian. I think it’s a personal decision. I don’t see anywhere in the Bible where it says you shouldn’t get breast implants.

So said Miss USA contestant Carrie Prejean during a recent Q+A she did for Christianity Today.

I suppose that’s one way of interpreting the Christian’s call to stand “firm” in their convictions.

Poor Carrie. You sure do know your Bible rules when they’re spoon-fed to you. But when you’re allowed to speak based on your own knowledge of the religion you constantly profess to love, you kind of go astray, don’t you?

See, the Bible actually does say things that speak to your human vanity, your immodest apparel (I don’t think heaven has a swimsuit competition), as well as your tampering with the body you believe God gave you:

I Samuel 12:21—And turn ye not aside: for then should ye go after vain things, which cannot profit nor deliver; for they are vain.

I Samuel 16:7—…for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

Psalms 26:4—I have not sat with vain persons, neither will I go in with dissemblers.

Proverbs 31:30—Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.

I Corinthians 3:16-17—Know ye not that ye are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwelleth in you? If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy; for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are.

Philippians 2:3—Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves.

I Timothy 2:9-10—In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array. But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works.

II Timothy 2:16—But shun profane and vain babblings: for they will increase unto more ungodliness.

See? These are but a few of the examples of the guidance provided on vanity and modesty from your good ole KJV. Goes along with your own statement, made in this same interview:

If you read the Bible, it seems like everybody is trying to argue with the truth. It’s in the Bible, and if you believe in the Bible you believe it’s the truth.

From the mouth of babes, indeed.

Bottom line: Your additions to your temple are a boob boo-boo, according to what you profess to believe (unless, of course, God sent you a special permit to make those additions to His temple). After all, Yahweh has dictated, “Therefore shall ye observe all my statutes, and all my judgments, and do them: I am the Lord.”

Now you’ve gone and broken the manufacturer’s warranty, little sheep. Whatever are you going to do?

Of course, one must keep in mind that little bit of biblical advice about how even the devil can cite Scripture for his…or her purpose. Loba has been called a little devil before…

Courtesy of Dan Piraro's Bizarro

Christmas decorations are already being hung here in the city where I work. Yeah, I said Christmas. I know, I know…we’re supposed to say “holiday” instead of “Christmas” to be more inclusive. Sometimes I do that. But last time I checked, Jewish people didn’t hang green and red wreaths for Hanukkah. Red and green are the Christmas gang colors, thank you.

Remember the days when the barrier for Christmas cheer was Thanksgiving? No wreaths. No tannenbaums. No fat men in crushed red velvet (well, except for Uncle Mert, who still hasn’t left the 70s leisure suit era behind him). None of this stuff ever appeared on the scene until, at the very earliest, the day after Turkey Day. The day that is now celebrated here as “Black Friday,” when we’re all supposed to stumble out of our homes at half past way-too-friggin’-early o’clock, the stink of tryptophan and pie still clogging our brains, to shuffle with the other holiday-rage zombies and beat each other senseless for the last awesome deal on the hottest piece of breakable insipidness to hit the market this season.

Obviously, I don’t do this zombie walk. But I like writing the word zombie. Some of my ImagiFriends^TM have pointed out that zombie is a very popular keyword search. ZOMBIE. ZOMBIE. ZOMBIE. BRAINS!!!

Heh.

Wait. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Premature holiday cheer. Is it wrong to want November to be free of Christmas decorations? I don’t think so. I enjoy the oranges and browns of Thanksgiving. They’re reminiscent of the orange and black of my beloved Halloween. I like a little extra time with Halloween, mmkay?

Ah well. When have I ever tried to fight against the accepted norm? Oh yeah. Always

Anyway, I ran across this Christmas ornament during a recent search for something somewhat tangentially associated. This is the most horrible UM Testudo ornament EVAR. First off, it’s the new mascot (and by “new,” I mean the mascot that they started introducing the year I graduated…an undisclosed number of years ago). I hate this mascot. I’m so glad my aunt found an ornament for me with my Testudo. That ornament rocks.

This ornament, however, in addition to bearing the ugly mascot, also looks either like Testudo has a disturbing basketball-shaped hemorrhoid or the worst case of elephantiasis of the scrotum in modern medical history. Who on earth would want this dangling off their tree?

That’s how our local talk radio traffic reporter described the hella awful computer meltdown that’s been crippling the D.C. commuter scene since early yesterday morning. Seems that the computer system that runs the operation of all the county’s traffic lights took a massive nosedive right at the beginning of yesterday morning’s rush hour. What did this mean? It meant that the transitional program that switched all 750 stoplight systems from “normal” to “rush hour” mode was not there to perform its function. So all those stoplights remained stuck in “normal” mode.

And that’s when rush hour traffic became traffuck.

Can you believe this? An entire county crippled by what WaPo described as “a Jimmy Carter-era computer.” Are you kidding me? Jimmy freakin’ Carter? You mean that peanut farmer who was elected president the year I was born? For a human, that ain’t all that old. In computer years…well, let’s just put it this way: I think Bette Davis is in better condition than this computer system. My iPod can do more advanced technological tricks than a late-70s-era computer system!

The solution? Right now, technicians are driving around the county, resetting the stoplights manually. Yeah. They’re also keeping in touch with each other via smoke signals and Pony Express.

Meanwhile, HAL is still not responding to resuscitation. So this morning’s commute was even worse than yesterday’s. A drive that should take me 25 minutes but usually takes me double that time during rush hour took me almost 2 hours this morning. Can you guess how unhappy Loba was this morning? I couldn’t even stand listening to my iPod, I was so irritated.

I really hope the computer geeks figure things out before the evening commute. I don’t know how much longer I can contain my LobaHulk Fury. You know how temperamental red heads can be…

So in all my excitement over “the most wonderful time of the year” for me, I forgot to mention my traffic altercation.

Friday afternoon, my boss came in around 3 and said, “Why don’t you go home early?” Seriously? Early Halloween treat!! Score! So I packed up my junk and happily headed out to Sammy for the commute. I had dinner plans later in the evening, but I decided that I would just burn up some time perusing the books at a Barnes and Noble near where I was heading rather than trudge all the way home. Any excuse to look at books, right?

Traffic wasn’t too bad on the Beltway, but I reached the exit to the main thoroughfare I needed to get where I was going and things started looking grim. Apparently, I’m not the only one who got to bail on work early that day, fo’ sho’.

So traffic is snooching along at a sluggish pace with spurts of total traffic light stoppage. At one particularly long red light, I kind of zone out a bit, staring out the front window while listening to a podcast. Then I feel Sammy lurch forward. I immediately think that I’ve somehow become so distracted that I’ve let my foot slip from the brake a bit. I strengthen my pressure on the brake, but I happen to glance into my rearview mirror as I’m doing so.

Behind me, there’s a woman sitting in her car, gesturing at me with a “homeless crazy” kind of frenetic energy. She then gets out of her car and starts marching over to my driver’s side window. That’s when I realize that the lurch was not my error; apparently, Sammy just got bumper-kissed.

I roll down my window, prepared to say something like, “I don’t think you hit me hard enough to get that worked up,” but before I can say a word, she starts yelling at me!

“Didn’t you see me?”

Um. Didn’t I see you what? Hit me?

So I put Sammy in park and turn on his hazards. The light is still red, but I want to be cautious. “Homeless Crazy” is still yelling, “Didn’t you see me?” in a huff that indicates she truly believes that I was somehow at fault for being one of the four cars ahead of her, stupidly stopped at a red light.

So I turn to look her in the eyes and state as clearly and obviously as possible, “You. Hit. Me.”

She suddenly just stops talking to me and turns to go look at her car. Not mine. Hers. I follow, look at her bumper and then mine. Nothing. No dents. No scratches. Not even rubber marks from her bumper caps. Nothing. I didn’t expect there to be anything. It really was the most incidental of taps. Definitely nothing worth the hassle of having to deal with her.

I look up, prepared to hear her ask her ridiculous question again, and I see that she’s gotten back into her car! I decide that this is probably for the best since I don’t really feel like dealing with her anymore and having her kill my Halloween buzz, so I do the same.

Only, as I’m putting Sammy back into drive and getting ready to go, I glance again into my rearview mirror. “Homeless Crazy” woman is snapping a photo of the back of my car before zipping into the next lane and passing me!

WHATHAFU?

Now, believe it or not, I’m actually quite used to seeing people snap photos of Sammy’s derriere. I have two items on his bumper and trunk that people find particularly amusing. In fact, the other day I nearly backed over a teenager who thought that it would be a good idea to squat down to snap a photo right before I started to back out of a parking spot. Don’t they even pretend to teach common sense in schools anymore?

I don’t think “Homeless Crazy” was at all interested in Sammy’s baubles, though. I’m not sure exactly what she was up to, but you can bet that I immediately called my insurance company. I refuse to have some nutter try to scam me or Sammy. As I explained the altercation, my insurance agent actually started to laugh. Good sign, right? So she made a note in my file and promised that if anyone contacted them regarding an “accident” involving my car, they would let me know.

So, there you go. I continued on to Barnes and Noble, where I roamed about longer than I anticipated (surprising, I’m sure) and bought a book of favorite scary stories as listed by famous modern-day scary story authors. Not a bad ending to this tale, no?

And hopefully, this really is the end of it. I’ll be sure to let you know if it’s not…

It’s not a new thing for companies to resurrect deceased actors to plug their merchandise. Fred Astaire came back for one more dance…with Dirt Devil cleaners. His Funny Face co-star Audrey Hepburn was reanimated for some dancing as well, to advertise skinny black pants for GAP. And, as if their beer wasn’t reason enough to stay away from them, Coors did the ultimate in tacky by bringing back The Duke to hawk Coors Light. Really, guys? Do you think Marion Morrison would drink your skunky light beer?

But this latest one? It made my soul shrink a little bit from the sheer misery of it all.

What. The. Hell.

It’s one level of tacky to bring back long-gone actors for some forced product shilling. But Chris Farley has barely been gone more than a decade. Never mind too tacky…isn’t this simply WAY too soon? And David Spade? We all know that you pretty much lost your meal ticket when Chris died, but this really nailed that fact home in a huge, ugly way. You’re still riding his gravy train, man, and now it’s not just sad…it’s sick.

I love Tommy Boy. I think it’s one of the greatest movies to come from a former SNL cast member. Chris Farley was a brilliant physical comedian with demons far larger than even he could tackle. But what he left behind still makes me laugh (and occasionally cry out “Holy Schnike!”). To see his work reduced to nothing more than background noise to Spade’s Direct TV spiel? To quote Tommy Boy, “Richard, what’s happening?!”

I’ve heard of people who only have one thing on their mind…but this is taking it a bit too far, don’t you think?

No real explanation or reason for this one, denizens. October has been a pretty Trek-less month so far, and so I thought a little Janeway bounce would do the trick. I also wouldn’t mind some of that coffee she’s bogarting…