Bumper stickers confuse, yet intrigue me.

Why, for example, would anyone feel the need the need to advertise that they heart their English Springer Spaniel? Does such a person live in the eternal hope that another English Springer Spaniel fan will see their bumper sticker, and approach them in the parking lot of a CVS for some mutual English Springer Spaniel bonding?

The worst are the politically themed bumper stickers. You love the president, you hate the president, whatever your position. There are people out there, driving cars — half of them completely insane — who possess the polar opposite point of view. At best, you’re going to get cut off in traffic. A lot. At worst, someone is going to want you to participate in a reenactment of Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Why risk it?

And then there are the people who like to express lots and lots of points of view. They think Mean People Suck, and love Nine Inch Nails, and are pro-recycling, and want Calvin to urinate on all Ford trucks, and are fond of their granddogs, and believe that the defense department should be holding bake sales to raise money.

These drivers are giving away a lot of information about themselves. I have close friends who don’t know half as much about me.

Shouldn’t we be playing a little harder to get? I may — or may not — have run a marathon. I may — or may not — have a child who is an honor student. I may — or may not — be carrying a concealed handgun.

Wouldn’t you like to know?

North to drop off, asshole.

I still can’t believe this happened.

I was sitting in car line on Friday afternoon, innocently checking my texts, and as a result, a small space opened up between my car and the one in front of me. About three car lengths, give or take. And about thirty cars back from the point where you actually get your child.

And another mother drove around me. Thereby cutting me in line.

Two days later, and I’m still reeling.

It’s not exactly a large school. I sort of know everyone, at least by sight. And since, once she cut the line, I pulled my head out of my ass and moved forward, I got a clear view of the bitch, and now know exactly who she is.

(By the way? Total bimbo. She even has a bimbo name, although that’s probably not her fault. Unless, she was once a stripper and changed it. Which would actually make sense on a lot of levels.)

It’s not like I’m a stranger to school car line road rage. And yes, I do get annoyed by spacey chicks who are more focused on their phones than on progressing forward. I think we’ve all been there. I’ve sat there, stewing, and contemplating a toot of the horn to get things moving, but have thus far resisted.

But to actually cut in line?

It’s unheard of.

It’s an asshole move.

Clearly, she should be punished and shunned.

I went to a cocktail party that night, and lost no time telling everyone who would listen about this. There were a few (gratifying) gasps of horror, and one outright denial.

“I know her, and she would never have done such a thing,” a friend said.

Huh.

Would and did, baby. Would and did.

Moonshine’s up to over $15 a jar?

Damn economy.