The Finger

I got the finger today from a 20-year-old Barbie in her mom's Cadillac Escalade. Too late, I thought of our outlet supervisor, the fab Ms T, who always crows, "That's right, I AM number one!"  when she receives the bird.

God, I love driving and drivers. And our warehouse folks. 

I was coming out of a store's parking lot, today, making a right on a busy street. I didn't have a mambo-trailer behind me, but still, I would have been prudent to use the two lanes and meridian-turn lane in front of me in order to make my turn. I'm always prudent.

I was taking up the driveway, waiting for traffic, worrying about lunatics behind me who might tuck themselves into various blind-spots and inconvenient 'holes'  ... when young Barbie with her well-manicured middle finger and her mama's pearl-white SUV pulled into the meridian. She wanted to make a left into the drive after I had already pulled into the driveway, effectively blocking it.

I waited for oncoming traffic and began gesturing for 'young-platinum-girl' to move her vehicle forward. "Move on down. Move on down," I chanted as I gestured on down the meridian. Using the index finger, not its neighbor. 

Imagine my surprise when she threw up her cheer digit! In 20-20, I wish I'd given her a double-number-one gesture, right and left in unison. Or jumped from my rig and explained to her in detail, with pictures and crayon-maps she might understand, the prudence behind asking her to move on down the road so that my 35 ton rig might make a safe right turn onto the boulevard. 

Instead, I gestured again and repeated, "Move on down. Move on down." So much for thinking on my toes. I did, at least, smile at her in a smirking, amused, elder-woman way.

And she Did move on down. 

Trucker, one. Number one, that is. ... Barbie, zip.