Los Angeles has impacting my driving in very bad ways. I’ve always been a slightly aggressive driver. My first bumpersticker ever read “So many pedestrians, so little time.” At 16, I thought this was really funny. My parents, who also had to drive the little white hatchback Mazda 323, did not.

LA has made my driving even more aggressive. It’s sort of a do-or-die driving environment. You either run the red to turn left, or else you sit through six rotations of the light. If you let all the assholes who decided to drive on the shoulder merge in front of you, you’d never get anywhere. If you slowed down for children, they might get the idea that it’s ok to get in the way of moving vehicles, or even worse, get might hair and baby teeth stuck in your grill!

I also have also learned the evil ways of measuring units of time by stop lights. One rotation of the light equates with enough time to put on all my make-up, which is only lipstick and blush, but still. One rotation of the light is enough time to find my cell phone, find a number, press talk, and get my hands back on the stickshift and steering wheel. See? This is terrible, terrible behavior.

Andreas, meanwhile, remains the excellent cautious driver he’s always been. While I sit in the passenger seat squealing, “Go, go, go!,” he patiently waits his turn at lights, lets people cross the street, and allows assholes in SUVs to merge in front of him. He’s smart.