Let’s talk about traffic.

I’ve lived in Oregon for what, eight years? And I still don’t get it. Oregon drivers are either unfailingly polite, “Your turn!” “No, no, please go ahead!” “No, I insist, you go!” (meanwhile I’m banging my head on the steering wheel saying GOOO JUST SOMEONE GOOOO!)

Or they are rude as hell with no idea about the basics. “Um, par-done sir, but see this big semi in front of me? It’s in my way too. Getting all up on my ass and honking isn’t going to make him move faster.”

And let’s not talk about the fact that here in one of the most raintastic spots in the country, people can’t remember how to competently drive in the rain after any dry spell of more than, oh, 24 hours.

I’ve decided that if I got to choose a superpower (no, really, this is a relevant tangent, stick with me.) I would have to eschew the obvious (flying, invisibility, ability to make husband listen in a single bound…) and go with the power to bestow intelligence. And the first place I would start would be in traffic - with these following, oh so simple pearls of wisdom dropped ever so much like daisy petals among the aggravating and ignorant.

Merging: It is YOUR job to maneuver yourself into the flow of traffic. Not the other way around. I will gladly give you the go-ahead handwave to let you in, but if you can’t figure out I made a space for you after ten seconds, then you have lost your chance and I’ll close the gap.

Speed Limit: Okay, so technically this is the limit on how fast you can go on any given stretch of blacktop. But limit is so….limiting. Let’s consider this a speed minimum. You need to go at LEAST this fast to avoid a brain aneurysm in the person behind you. And when I pass you and give you the oh so effective, “what the eff is your problem?” glare, don’t pretend like you don’t know what you did. You know. You know all right. (and this has absolutely no correlation with why my son’s favorite car game is yelling ‘GOOOO!! GOOOOO!!” anytime we slow down.)

Lanes: I’m awfully possessive of my territory, and when I’m in my car, in my lane, especially when Colin’s riding shotgun, that’s MY territory. So keep your big ass out of it. I know that pesky wheel is distracting you from your latte and texting and cellphone, but let’s try a little harder to not be a swerving buttholio. Okay?

Signals: Use them.

Honking: Just don’t.

Tailgating: You cannot tailgate me. I will brake check you and go five miles an hour just to piss you off. I’ll also laugh openly at you when you give me the oh so effective, “what the eff is your problem?” glare when you pass me. I can, however, tailgate you if you fail to go the speed minimum and there is no traffic in front of you.

But only then. I promise.