The countdown has begun … it’s T-minus 20 hours and counting until my vacation begins.

Gone will be the buckets of paint and drop cloths that have invaded my house, gone will be the paintbrushes with crusted-on paint pervading every faux bristle of the overpriced brushes that are found lying around in various locations around my bedroom, and taking their place will be sand, sun, and splendorous housing on the North Carolina coast.

I’m just bubbling over with anticipation, I tell you!

It’s been a crazy few days here in the land where the monsoons never stop. I’ve begun writing an entry at least 3 or 4 times a day, each time being interrupted by pesky little things like email, work, phone calls, meetings, and what may have been a moderate case of food poisoning. (I’ll leave it at that.) As such, posting was minimal. In my absence, though, I now have a lovely blue bathroom and a lovely light blue bedroom and a lovely light-blue body. Seriously, people, I have found paint on places on my body that I didn’t know even existed. While I’ve always been more than a bit flexible (you hear that boys?), I cannot for the life of me figure out HOW I got paint in some of the places that I did.

But enough about that.

What I want to talk about today, as my brain is bouncing around making a mental list of things I can’t forget to bring to the beach and trying to plan a self-rewarding event this evening (because I finished painting, you see…) and trying to get everything done that I need to before I kick it outta this waterlogged town, is basic driving rules.

Now, we’ve heard my rants and raves about Atlanta drivers and the municipal back-assward driver’s license system (so back-assward, in fact, that I waited 3 years to get a GA license because it is THAT big of a hassle). I’ve screamed and yelled about people that don’t use their turning signals, sworn up and down that one of these days I will rear-end the dumbass who is driving 25 mph in a 55 mph one-lane road, and tried very hard to quell my overarching road rage-ness that is so prevalent when riding behind the El Camino with eight men in the back ogling me in my convertible.

And now I have a new gripe. Blinking lights.

Unless the rules are different in Georgia than they are in, say, Ohio (where I so successfully took driving classes with the pervy student driver teacher) or North Carolina (where all residents fully accept the NASCAR mentality of speed driving) or DC (where Georgetown streets lead you to be the best parallel parker alive), red blinking lights mean stop. Yellow blinking lights mean proceed with caution.

HOW HARD IS THIS TO REMEMBER?

Every day that the lights near my house become discombobulated from the howling winds and Noah’s Ark-inspired Hurricane levels of rain and end up on the ‘blinking pattern’, I want to personally get out of my car (stopped, of course) and hand each driver a pamphlet on driving and light signals.

Let this be a public service for all of you driving morons, all of you Georgians who seemingly grew up in a patch of kudzu eating collards & black eyed peas, smoking behind the high school instead of taking any driving lessons, YOU DO NOT STOP AT A YELLOW BLINKING LIGHT. YOU DO STOP AT A RED BLINKING LIGHT.

Got it?

And on that, I’m off to find some highly caffeinated drink to keep my eyes open for the 2 1/2 hours that remain of my day. If you’re headed to the NC/Wrightsville Beach-ish coast this weekend, call my cell and we’ll play. Until then, enjoy your time off, wear sunscreen, and leave me comments and send me things. After all, I just provided a public service message and deserve to be compensated, don’t you think?