I don’t get people who tailgate.

And I’m not even talking about rush-hour tailgaters. Lord knows you leave more than a car length between you and the guy in front of you on 695 at five in the evening, people are going to take it.

No, I mean waaaaay up in northern Baltimore County, the rural area, the home of a country club every five miles and a golf course every two, where there are four traffic lights in an area the size of Baltimore City and nearly everyone has a rusted out pickup somewhere on their property, where “rush hour” is from 5 to 5:30, I’m talking about some punk in an Integra driving about half a foot off my rear bumper.

To an extent, I can understand the rich assholes in SUVs who tailagate there. I mean, let’s face it, they’ve got enough cash they can just pay me off without having to go through their insurance company, and no matter how hard they’ve hit me, the damage to their vehicle is most likely going to be limited to a dented license plate and maybe a scratch on their bumper. I might be in traction, but, hey, that’s what insurance is for, right?

Really, it’s the kids in the ricers I don’t get. If they’re not four inches off your ass, it’s like their car isn’t worth what they paid for it. “Look, I can follow you, and how close, too! Isn’t that cool?”

Dumbass: this is what is going to happen. A deer is going to run out of the woods. I’m going to slam on my brakes. Because you’re following too closely, you’re going to hit me. You’re going to hit me hard. You’re going to break my car, and yours. And, oh goody, your insurance company is going to be writing me a big fat check and hopefully the police will write you a ticket for being a dumbass.

(If I was a cop, I’d write a lot of tickets to people. “Officer, what’s this ticket for?” “It’s for being a dumbass. That’ll be twenty points, and, yes, I’ll be in court to tell the judge exactly just how much of a dumbass you are.”)

Nothing like having a bunch of people over to make sure you’ve got a fridge full of food. Thus eliminates my need to grocery shop before the New Year, although I think I might get sick of sloppy joe by next weekend.

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My kitchen “accessories” are very limited. Cookie sheet. Pot. I’m surprised I even have an oven mitt — it would be “like me” to use a towel. What are the essentials of kitchen-ware? (Yes, I have a bagel slicer).

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Haggis. Hummus. Like I’m the only one who gets them confused.

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An IKEA butter knife snapped in two while slicing cheddar cheese. Y’know, it’s not like I thought IKEA utensils would last forever or anything, but I just got the fuckin’ knife last week. Stupid fuckin’ IKEA butter knife. (Oh well, the furniture holds up better at least).

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New mothers can apparently fulfill a double-roll as “living scale.” I learned this as the new mother in question picked up Tippy. Sadly, even though its been about six months since both cats were weighed, the vet paperwork is lost in my junk drawer and I’m too scared to open it to find it and ascertain her accuracy. (She also makes a mean muffin).

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Paper plates. Must pick up paper plates. Must do this to avoid people having to wash just-used dishes to eat sloppy joe. Whooops. Why didn’t I just steal paper plates from work on Friday … ? Foolish!

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I gave directions from the city onto Warren Road, even though its north of Padonia Road. Listen, Warren is an extra three or four miles, but don’t forget - this isn’t the city - it’s the county. A few extra miles? Psh. It was also a total of like five traffic lights and fairly light traffic — you try getting anywhere on Padonia Road anytime it isn’t three in the morning — between construction, traffic lights, and angry suburbanites trying to get to Tarje’ so they can run shopping carts into each other … yeah, well, they shoot horses, don’t they?

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DVD Trivial Pursuit is like a million times better than non-DVD Trivial Pursuit. “OOooooh the wedge, press it, press it!”

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Watching someone who has never had to deal with a 5-disc DVD changer try to get a disc out of aforementioned 5-disc DVD changer is funnier than any funny movie ever made. “How do you … work … where the fuck is this fucking disc? I pressed ‘open’! Disc? Are you in there? Hellllooooooooo?”

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Tippy’s an attention whore, and she did quite well throughout the night, consenting to be picked up, petted, and loved by a variety of strangers. Her affection — especially towards a certain Zombie lover — is often misconstrued as “ooooh pet me!” and in actuality means, “Please, take me with you.” Towards the end of the night she got tired of being scooped up and played with and actually started hissing, but I think this had more to do with “Oh dear gosh all of you? Get out of my house! My house!” Either that, or she was tired of being compelled to head-butt people. I’m going to have to have a talk with that cat — she wants to claim this place as hers? Fine. She can start to chip in on the rent. (Or, alternatively, she can poop in the toilet and save me some $$ on cat litter).

Guy meanwhile — no doubt anxious to avoid being picked up all night — hung out under the couch although he did appear quite affectionate to anyone whose hands drifted under said couch. A few people managed to pick him up, but he’s lanky and can prove difficult to hold. After everyone left he emerged from hiding and started bolting across the living room, attacking stray bottle caps I hadn’t found and thrown out. He’s an ex-frat cat, he enjoys chasing bottle caps. He lives for it. (Well, that and laser pointers).