I Can See For Miles and Miles

This morning during rush hour and in the rain, I drove out to THE SUBURBS to meet my friend PC for a cup of coffee. It was on the way to a work appointment that I was obligated to attend despite the fact it was not nearly important enough for me to grace with my presence. It was like asking King George to hang out with the scullery maids and peel some turnips for someone else's turnip soup. He might be persuaded to help if he was going to get to eat some of the turnips that he was laboring over, assuming he likes turnips and they're going to be served at an appropriate meal, such as dinner or maybe lunch. I can't imagine King George helping with the prep work for a turnip omelette. And I think that it's only fair to admit that I have always found the whole concept of a scullery maid pretty sexy.

Go on, Horseface, tell us more about these scullery maids.
No, damn you! I have the suburbs on my mind.
Mr. Webster chimes in: Scullery: A room adjoining the kitchen, where pots and pans are cleaned and stored or where the rough, dirty kitchen work is done.

I got trapped on one of those long stretches of boulevard, 10 lanes wide with berms and turn lanes and access roads intersecting at crazy angles, warning signs everywhere: No trucks! No Right Turn! One Way! Do Not Enter! All of these warnings tempt me to see many traffic rules I can violate with one move. A U-turn from the right lane in a truck right into a one way street guarded by a Do Not Enter! This Means You! sign. That would be sweet. I wouldn't get a ticket for doing that.

I felt like I was in one of those Flintstones scenes where Fred and Betty are moving along in the convertible with the rock wheels -- this has to be a heavy vehicle -- that Fred is powering with his feet, and the background keeps repeating itself over and over in short intervals. Building - dinosaur - rock quarry - repeat. Walmart - Lowe's - Fridays - repeat. I passed what I hoped was the correct Starbucks, on the wrong side of the road, protected by a berm and several stern signs and an unending stream of traffic in the opposing lanes.

Apparently the entrance was off of an access road, deep in the bowels of a warren of smaller access roads and Walmart driveways. I circled it several times, like a deranged stalker taking the measure of a helpless, virgin scullery maid with a torn bodice and long skirt, also torn, offering a tantalizing glimpse of milky while scullery maid thigh. I could see it, I just couldn't get to it.

This was frustrating despite the fact that I was early and PC wouldn't have cared a whit if I had been a little late, even though he is an anal retentive compulsively prompt individual like myself. Luckily, I had my trusty GP Girl to tell me where to go.

GP Girl: "In one mile, turn right."
Horseface (muttering): "That's a residential street."
GPG: "Recalculating. Turn left."
HF: "The %$!! Starbucks is behind us, you dumb ass."
GPG: "Recalculating. Recalculating. Arriving at destination."
HF: "That's a %$!! field you %$!! piece of electronic %$!!.

PC bought my coffee. A three shot espresso drink. Clearly I was too calm for my own good.