Look, if you happen to be little, or old: I’m not making fun of you here.
Just this one guy.

I just took a walk at lunch to loosen up a little after sitting in front of the PC all morning long. Happily eating my energy bar I strolled past the nearest construction site (I am fond of construction sites) and watched the dump trucks and cranes for a while.

The street past the site has a “no entrance” sign on it. Normally I drive down that street on my way home from work, it’s a short cut that lets me avoid a congested intersection. I still use it despite the sign because it’s never busy – the site closes down before I go home, so no one is ever there, and the street is otherwise nearly empty.

But I am, technically, driving the wrong way down a one-way street. I get a small charge out of doing it, it makes me feel Italian.

A couple weeks ago this little old man was standing on the corner as I approached the no-entrance part of the street. I immediately knew he meant trouble, because he was

1. little, and

2. old.

With a look on his face like he wasn’t getting anywhere near enough, he watched me approach, waved and pointed at the sign, whereupon I made a la-la-la-I-can’t-see-you face and pretended to look for a parking spot and continued on, whereupon he turned and continued to wave, obviously upset at my cavalier disregard for the sign, and watched me until I was completely out of sight, at which time he had shrunk to the size of an ant waaay up the street.

I guess he was memorizing my license plate so he could turn me in to the police for my infraction. Oddly, I’ve only seen him that one time, although I drive down the street nearly every day, although since then only if no pedestrians are around. Because people really do that here, turn drivers in for going the wrong way. And the driver has to either prove they were no where in the area or pay the fine, or fight it in court. What a hassle. Alpha got a ticket like that once and, although her car was

1. a different color and

2. a different model and
3. a different make

they still required her to prove that she hadn’t been in Vienna that day, which she managed to do but it was a big hassle.

So far, no ticket has arrived in the mail so I’m hoping it was too much trouble for the old guy. Today, walking past the spot, I thought how much difference it would make if there were not only a national health system everywhere, but also a national mental health system that paid for people like him, who aren’t getting enough, to engage in satisfying sexual activities with a person ultra-attractive to them. Everyone would be so relaxed, and wouldn’t have to feel guilty. “Well, I’m off to the doctor’s, honey,” a person could say. “Okay, pick up a quart of milk on the way home, darling.”

Not that I, personally, would need that, because I take ballroom dance lessons.

I also take cello lessons, though, and I sure feel sorry for my cello teacher. I have made great progress in the past year, I sound merely very bad now. The other day he was sitting there rubbing his head the way a person does when they have a headache.

I was watching “Mary Poppins” with the girls last week on TV at their grandparents’ and when Dick Van Dyke started dancing around, tall and skinny and cheerful, I said, “That is exactly what my cello teacher reminds me of every day.” Of Dick Van Dyke, before he started having all his alcohol problems.

At my last lesson, I even told my teacher, “I really feel sorry for you; you have a long day and then I’m your last student.”

“It’s not *that* bad,” he said.

I stumble into my cello lesson, head full of potential blog posts, and sometimes try them out on him in conversation. “Boy, my back sure is sore today” or “that muscle relaxant I got for my back last time made me suicidal so I stopped taking it” or some other physical complaint. I hear my voice, and recognize it as mine, but still can’t believe I’m saying things like that to someone. Poor guy.

We’re currently working on some 17th century pieces. Very nice.