Passing

So today we headed to the HUGE city of Portland for some shopping and a lunch out. In a small town you end up with lists, lists that start "When I am in the big city, I need to buy. . . ." Since the post-it note was filled with what needed buying, we headed out.

It is a fairly nice drive. The summer is better since it is over some mountains and they can by icy/snowy up until July 22 and then they are clear until July 31 when the snow arrives again. Ha Ha! just kidding, sort of. Anyway, it is a pretty straight shot into Portland. Portland has horrendous traffic but the freeways are nicely marked and parking is abundant. The weather was going to be medium warm and they had a bookstore and coffee, ALL IN THE SAME PLACE. Plus, makeup and cut up pineapple chunks. You can't buy those in the same store, I so totally wish, but you get the idea.

First we had the trying to get out the door fiasco. Mostly the kid has to rearrange his clothing options for about a billion times, as if we are heading to meet some royal family not just enjoying some noodles and browsing a used book store. Only when the car is physically backing out the driveway does he fling himself into the car with a huge sigh that this day may or may not suck because he is or isn't wearing the proper attire. The fact that I just have clothes on is good enough for me, so I can be ready in 15 seconds, faster if only flip flops can be worn. I am so the perfect woman.

So driving, which is where this rant is going, it is one lane in each direction, occasionally one or the other will get a passing lane. We have a speed limit of 55, I think so we can actually count the number of bizarre bars that are located in the middle of friggin' no where. We have a new one called "Roadhouse." I really wanted to stop to see if I could pick up either Patrick Swayze or that yummy Sam Elliott but for some strange reason it was not opened at 10:00 in the morning. All the other bars were, I think the Roadhouse was being a bit snooty but I'm sure they will learn a valuable lesson and come down off of their high horse and open at 8:00 like the rest of the bars.

The passing lane . . . so here we are moseying right along, we talk like that in the country, doing a nice 40 miles per hour. All piled up behind the RV/logging truck, etc. We hit the passing lane. In a miracle hardly seen in this neck of the woods, we all increase our speed to just something under the speed of light. It is amazing, we are whipping right along. We could easily be in Portland in about 30 minutes if we kept this up. Alas, it is not to be, the passing lane ends and back down to a snail pace we go. Another passing lane, another warp speed, end of passing line, slug pace. All the way this goes until we hit the four lane road and then it all evens out.

What is up with this? It is like you will be receiving a letter in the mail that you were passed in a passing lane, and therefore have been awarded the nerd of the year medal. People have a huge problem with someone passing them. A huge problem. I don't care, which sends the kid into some sort of fit in the passenger seat. Sighing, small utterances under his breath and then finally the outright saying of OH MY GOD, you are getting passed! PASSED!!!! I tell you, OMG. I turn up the radio and start singing. Maybe it is a guy thing, I don't know, I just know that I didn't end up with the gene.

So, Pass away, people, pass away!