Beep Ditty F’in Beep Beep

Did you get that? You know, Beep Ditty Beep Beep (Beep Beep) That hideously annoying pattern is the car horn of a man who lovingly picks up his wife from the same commuter train that my daughter arrives on each evening.

I am pretty sure it is just a matter of days before sweet Jana unloads the misery of her entire work day upon this psycho spouse for beeping this pattern not once, not twice, but three times when he picks his wife up at the station. As if she does not see his car, front and center in the parking lot. As if he is not there in the same place EVERY day. As if they do not have a make and model that no one else in the lot has.

Here’s the thing; commuting is a pattern. There are basically the same people on each train, give or take, and you get to recognize the ebb and flow of their task of going to work. There is a sort of sedated routine respect that everyone falls into. Every morning we see tie not tied yet guy. And we see freshly curled hair woman. We love the familiarity of the groundhog’s day way they pass in front of our car. It is comforting to know that if we leave the house just after the school bus passes on the :39 we will comfortably make the :45 (unless of course the garbage truck is in the station lot blocking our way – can’t THEY figure out to come 4 minutes later and not disrupt the commuters?). We know we are cool if we pass the auto body shop before the gate is opened. And the second turn is better than the first because there is no traffic light.

Now I am sure that Mr. Beep Ditty is practicing this same kind of routine with his lovely wife. It is probably something that he has been doing forever and she finds it sweet and sort of cute. Or not and one day SHE will unload the misery of her day on him. But he has to stop and think for one moment that perhaps this might get on the last nerve of the other people getting off that train.

The thing is, I would normally advise Jana to just roll with it. But I am sort of into witnessing her haul off and shout “Are you KIDDING me?” just once.

Bad mothering or sport? You decide.