There's a block long stretch of street near my house that has potholes large enough to have their own zip code. I drive the street 2 or 3 times a day and have learned to dodge the clunkers in a zig-zaggy way that reminds me of driving in Nicaragua.
Or I should say the street WAS pocked with potholes.
I noticed this afternoon that someone had filled in the craters with blacktop. The holes are gone and so is my need to weave between them while mentally composing a complaint letter to the City.
I actually miss the the stupid potholes. They had become such an integrated part of my life that I miss them now that they're gone. We are such creatures of habit that even when something we don't like is taken away, we long for its return.