Monday, November 1, 2010

I am the champion of going home.

I work in a suburban office park. The kind they designed in the early eighties with all one-way, serpentine roads -- a mass of tangled figure eights with no stop signs. Viewed from above it must look like a bowl of Spaghetti-Os.

This is Minnesota and when it snows, the plows can't really see where one road turns and the next one starts, so in the fall they mark all the curbs with these little stakes. Tall and skinny with reflector strips at the top. They look just like those poles that slalom skiers whip around in the Olympics.

So as I'm leaving at the end of the day, it's hard not to imagine myself just sort of tapping them with my rear-view mirrors. Right turn - whap! Left turn - thwap!  Merge right - whap! thwap! I am Picabo Street in a Jetta. Racing for the gold. And Home.


  1. Hey babe - well done.

    You could add a rifle into the mix and make this sport into a kind of biathalon. There are those wild turkeys in your complex.

  2. Slap those flags! Go for the gold, baby!


    Worked in one of those myself. Downtown now, where the skyways afford me warm and leisurely glimpses of the peasants below. :-) HA!



Here's where you put your two cents.