On December 2, I was in a hurry to take Milo to school. I sat in my car at the light on 24th Street that turns left onto Guadalupe (and don't worry, this story has no accident-related drama). You know, the really short left-hand turn light because of all the effing pedestrians, the one that lets approximately 4.5 alert cars through before turning red? Well I was at that light, the fourth car in line to turn, and the person in front of me, this minivan that was moving in slowmo, like it was on a wildlife tour of the Drag, was about to make me miss the light. So I honked. A restrained "yo," as opposed to an all-out "movegetouttheway." But still, a honk. A rude-ass honk. The minivan moved.
So when I miraculously made the light behind this sloth, I saw the minivan SIGNAL RIGHT TO GO INTO THE PARKING LOT OF OUR PRESCHOOL. (Gulp.) What else could I do but drive around the block? I had to hide.
Milo said, "We not go school we go Pie house?" Busted. I said, "Uh, maybe. We'll see Pie, okay? We'll go to school in a few minutes." "Two minutes?" he said, which is the only measure of time he can articulate beyond now and never.
The shame! I drove around some blocks and called Pie. She laughed (a lot). We discussed the logistics of who I might have honked at. The associated politics. My frustration and remorse.
It didn't matter who I honked at. This moment was a fitting reminder of the persistent advice of Stacy's mother, the lovely Jane Lively (who collected coffee cups but didn't drink coffee): be sweet.
Oh, and be sweet all the time, apparently. Because Santa is watching you. Or maybe just the driver of a minivan from preschool.