8:22 p.m.,
Oct. 10, 2002
I just finished making eggplant parmesan. I worry that it's not very good, but I'm waiting for my fella to show up to find out.
So tonight, I rushed back to the neighborhood after work because I was supposed to have a dress fitting. Guess who left the dry cleaners before I got there? The tailor. So now I am going in on Tuesday. They felt really bad and swore that they'd keep her late on Tuesday and make my dress a priority, but I couldn't help but feel a bit ... annoyed. I don't think I showed it, though. I just smiled and said it was okay. All that matters is in 15 days (jeepers) the dress can be worn comfortably for a long time.
So I am going to have a contest. I was inspired to have the contest today by a driving exchange I witnessed during my lunch half-hour. I know I write too much about terrible driving in this city, but it's really too mind-boggling not to document.
The contest is to choose the worst driver ever. My pick goes to the two people I watched square off today. You gotta vote? Leave your answer in my guestbook or email me.
Anyway, back to my inspiration.
A black sportscar pulls up in the right lane of Chicago Avenue. It screeches ahead to LaSalle, cutting people off. As it gets to LaSalle, a washed-out blonde in a Range Rover pulls to its right. The blonde pulls way in front of the white line. The black sportscar inches ahead of it. It gets to the point, like this, each one outdoing the other, until they are in the middle of the lane. During a stoplight.
Who is the winner here? Who deserves the prize? I would say the giant fucking Range Rover with the strung-out-looking blonde purely on obnoxious appearances alone, but no, the man in the black sportscar takes the cake. Why?
Because in the back of his car, totally un-ironically, is an embroidered pillow. It reads "It takes a special man to be a dad."
It also takes a special man to be the worst driver I've ever seen. Congratulations, sir, that's quite the honor.