I have an issue.
I know you are shaking your head, looking sideways at each other, muttering, "How uncharacteristic of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to have an issue. It must be the blue moon last month that set her off."
Let me assure you that I did not go looking for an issue. No more than I would go looking for a Harvestman in my basement NASCAR toilet. Issues find me. There I'll be, minding my own old-lady bidness, when here comes an issue careening out of nowhere, bearing down on me with the speed of a hungry lioness on the savanna, just itching to sink its glistening pointy issue teeth into my rumpus. It's a wonder I have enough buttocks left to sit on.
Today the issue found me at the roundabout. Yes. The wizards of the Hillmomban Highway Department decided that in place of the old stoplight that guaranteed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom safe crossing from her road over the interstate, Hillmomba needed a pretzelly, acreage-gobbling exchange to confuse all non-native Hillmombans and torment the regular folks. Access ramps and exit ramps over a half mile long, weaving amongst each other like the strands of a poorly-woven wicker basket, or tufts of hair in a Whoville coiffure. And there are TWO! Two roundabouts which I must navigate daily. FOUR total! I might as well move to Europe.
The thing about a roundabout is that once you're in, you're in. You can drive round and round and never leave. It's a roundabout, see? You can go around as many times as you'd like. It's the Hotel California of roadway interchanges.
The second thing about a roundabout is that in place of jamming on your brakes to come to a halt at an intersection, you have a chance to never stop at all. I know, right? It's like a lottery for your brakes. Just pay attention to the yield signs. Oh, yes. You must yield to any vehicles already coming around the roundabout. They may keep going in front of you, or they may veer off before they get to you. You never know. Because signals are not used in roundabouts. That's what makes them so advanced, I suppose. So progressive.
This afternoon, some dude in a blue uniform shirt thought he could barrel off the exit ramp at 75 mph and not yield. Or stop. I kept going, of course. Because I was in the roundabout. I had the right-of-way. He had a yield sign, after all. Those are legal and binding, aren't they? That dude jammed on his brakes and slid to a stop. His red face complemented his blue uniform shirt. It was either law enforcement or corrections officer.
Those guys really need an outlet for their anger.