Late Saturday afternoon, my daughter and I were driving home in horrific traffic from a friend's princess birthday party. We had plans to meet my husband and son for pizza, but it was taking so long to get home that I called and told them to go on without us. Pigtail was passed out cold in her carseat anyway.
There's a wreck in Hollywood, my husband warned, that's part of the hold up.
It's fine, I said. We'll grab something to eat at home.
Time consuming traffic snarls are an LA hazard, you'll age yourself into deep wrinkles if you let it bother you. Unless you're late for something very important, it's best to roll with the occasional delays. Sometimes I don't even mind the forced break, the quiet of the car.
As I pulled past the worst of the clogged streets and into my neighborhood, I noticed the police cars. More than seemed necessary for a fender bender and the resulting horns honking. Turning onto my street, another popo, up a few houses another one.
I glanced in the rear view mirror at my sleeping child and wondered if I should call The Gorilla back. My garage door swung open and as I pulled my SUV into the space I saw the door to the house standing open.