I was sitting in my car this morning waiting for the AC to kick in, meanwhile, with the window open letting out the heat from the early a.m. sun. I was on my way to music class in Portland, with plenty of time to spare so sititng for a minute or two was pleasantly relaxing. The butterfly bush had begun to bloom with great purple blossoms, and the bachellor's buttons, also purple were in bloom. I can hardly wait for the little humming bees and humming birds to return to enjoy their nectaring. My neighbor came out to chat and while standing there a rather agresive bee flew between us. She stepped back and the bee flew into the car. She said, THAT IS A BEE!" and I said, "I hope it finds it's way back out." But it already had. It was taking a short cut through the car to the butterfly bush. Smart bee.
When I got on the road I contemplated which route I would take. Of several ways from Scarborough to Portland, all have ongoing construction. The Maine Turnpike seems to take me too far afield to be a practical choice. SO, I opted for the shortest route, which I have navigated many times lately so I do know the construction routine: stay right here, go left there, watch for the shifting lanes, etc. Jersey barriers, (you know, those cement monuments to construction crews) orange barrels,signs that say Double Fines for Speeding.
At least this route would take me to an off-ramp which would put me on the correct avenue for my destination. Getting to the construction area, traffic stopped. A screaming police car passed in the "NO TRAFFIC" lane. (I am already thinking I should have taken the long way around.) We crawled several miles, and several minutes, finally coming upon a tank truck a quarter of a mile long (well, maybe that's a littel exaggeration) which had broken down. Once past it, traffic began to move at a normal speed. And then, at the off-ramp which would have taken me to Forest Avenue, there was an army of orange barrells and signs "Ramp Closed" . Now I had two more choices: the next off ramp which would necessarily take me through three lighted intersections; or the next one after that which would take me further away from my destination, but onto a scenic route on which to backtrack.
I chose the next ramp thinking it is, after all, the shortest route, and once again found myself behind a street sweeper going five miles an hour and leaving more dust than it was taking. So much for "short cuts." And speaking of same, I had my first grade grandchild and a four year old pre-schooler girl I was taking care of in the car with me. I asked my grandson how come he was not where I expected him to be and he said, "I took a short cut." The four year old said, "I had a short cut once and I was mad at my mother. I like my hair when she braids it." I still chuckle when I think of it. American English is hard to get around even for natives!
So, in the heat of July, and it is hot today and predicted to be hot for the next three or four days, I will avoid "short cuts" except at my hair dressers, where I am headed as I end this. I expect her to give me a very "short cut."