Member-only story
The Strident Voice of the Crone…
will be heard throughout the land.
Let’s just start with the day-to day stuff:
I just went out to get the mail. Because we live on a county-like road, the mail box opens right onto the road.
The speed limit on our road is anywhere between 25 and 65 (it’s legally 25). So getting the mail means standing in the road in front of the mail box, opening it up, and sometimes wrangling out a box that’s been stuffed in. Twice in the last week a white pick-up has sped down the street, barely missing me. I’m too busy saving my old ass to check the license plate but what’s one less old woman (savings for Medicare).
Stereotypical Complaining Old Woman
I am the complaining old woman. Something HAS to come with age — the strident voice of the crone may be it. I’ve complained to the Police Chief about the way people don’t do 25 on our road — and the way people PASS me when I do 25 — on the narrow road lined with trees and houses and a friggin’ double-line in its middle. Just a complaining old woman…
Yep, Strident Voice of the Crone!
And while I’m complaining — our insurance company’s phone for accident reports is either busy or not answered — just spent too much of what little life I may have trying to get them about a windshield…
