Assimilation Setback

I’ve been in a bit of a jam for the last few days, and I’ll tell you why.

See, I am generally a bit of an idiot. Seriously. And I happily share my state of idiocy with you, because I figure if you keep coming back to read this stuff you’re probably a little bit like me. And at least if I’m going to be an idiot, I want to be a funny one, because being a boring idiot is a little like being... stupid, I guess.

A few days ago, though, I wrote something not to make anyone laugh, but to make everyone smile. My extended family of sisters lost one of our own, and it seemed really important to put aside the dumb stuff long enough to give a tiny little tribute, best I could, to someone who is important to so many people, has touched so many lives, and will always be missed and remembered.

The problem then, is where to go from there. It always feels awkward, a bit jarring, to switch gears. I’ve been unsure about how to go back to my normally frivolous ramblings. What should I write about? Will I disappoint? What if now that I’ve written something serious I can’t ever write anything funny again?

Lucky for me, for all of us, I went right ahead and did something ridiculous today. It’s like God was gently reminding me, “Not to worry, my child. You’re still an idiot.”

As you know, I’m back in Ohio for awhile. It’s been a fantastic respite from the hustle and bustle of nine years in New York, and I’m loving all the fresh air, the warm spring days, and the generally slower pace. I’ve had more people say “hello/good morning/how are ya” in the past two weeks than in the previous two years. I’ve chatted with my neighbors, waved at the mailman, and told the dude behind the counter where I buy my beer to have a great weekend. (If I’d done that in Hoboken he either wouldn’t have understood what I was saying or would have stared blankly at me until I flicked him off and chucked an f-bomb at him.) But the best part? I can drive. Everywhere. Anywhere. Ask any Midwesterner who’s made the move to Manhattan what they miss most, and they won’t say their families. They won’t say common courtesy. They won’t say being able to take a deep breath outdoors without smelling urine. They will say how much they miss their cars. The freedom that comes from being able to hop in, crank the radio, and hit the open road at a moment’s notice. (Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you I don’t really have all that going for me exactly quite yet. Because I don’t actually have a car. I have to drive my dad’s. It’s a lot like being seventeen again, only without as many stickers on the back window.)

So it was in my dad’s car today that I pulled off my little street onto the main road, drove about a half a mile or so, and pulled up behind a monstrous black Cadillac in the left turn lane, waiting for the red light and seemingly driverless. And when the light changed, giving us the green left turn arrow, I gave that tiny old woman about an eighth of a second before I laid on the horn. I mean, laaaaaaid on the horn. Because that’s how you do it in Jersey. We don’t really say fuggedaboudit, we don’t all live by the GTL credo, and we don’t all have fake nails, big hair, and horrible accents. But we all honk. People, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that about twenty cars came to a screeching halt. Loud, skidding, tires burning rubber kind of stoppage. Because, apparently, the only reason you would ever lay on your horn like that around here is if some kind of imminent, life-threatening danger was upon us. Like an ambulance coming through, perhaps. Or the apocalypse. But no, in Jersey, you just do that when the light turns green (the second the light turns green) to alert the driver in front of you that you know they are slow, and stupid, and not paying attention, and that you’re just generally more important and off to someplace infinitely better than wherever they are headed.

I think I might have given that poor old shriveled up little Cadillac driver a bit of a heart attack. It was mortifying. Naturally, I just did what everyone else was doing, and looked around frantically to see who was responsible for the chaos. They probably all knew it was me, and were just too nice to make me feel bad. At least next time they see me coming they’ll just get their slow Ohio asses the hell out of my way, if they know what’s good for them.

And at least I didn’t flick her off?