Venting with a venti

When you are dealing with a crazed person, it's best to not get yourself all hot and bothered. A confrontation isn't going to set things right, especially if you are in a tango with a big gun and you are only a wee little fish. I know that. I'm not going to use foul language and spit fire when the gun is pointing at my forehead. I'm going to be docile and wimpy and do a quick retreat.

But when I get to my computer, I can let loose.

Bottom line: I think it was entirely inappropriate for Miss driving-huge-SUV to blare her claxon at little me and Mr. B, just because she did not like the fact that I was leaving the parking lot, holding on to a latte with one hand, and steering Mr. B with the other.

I admit it isn’t optimal to be biking and looking after a steaming latte, extra hot, especially when you have a sprained thumb so that the whole experience causes you great pain, at the same time that the Whole Foods sack is bouncing around your rear tire because somehow it got loose on the ride up Mineral Point hill. But the distance is short and few things bring me as much pleasure these days as the thought that I soon will be home, sitting back and enjoying my long deferred afternoon latte.

And really, what damage am I doing to anyone? I’m careful. The ride from the café home is uphill, so it’s not as if I can speed.

But the irony, the irony: me on my little Mr. B – what’s our horse power? Maybe a quarter of a horse, an old lame horse at that? And the SUV? How many horses does that one have under its hood? So there she is, Miss driving-huge-SUV, talking on her cell phone and driving this monster machine with one hand and honking her horn at me, and screaming that Mr.B, my latte and me – we’re an unsafe combination.

The nerve.