Here's what I need to do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss. Blogging just gets in the way.
I Will Not Be Ignored
When Jamie first moved into her house, Enid, the elderly woman next door brought over a jar of homemade sweet pickles. I will eat almost anything pickled provided that it is not a part an animal. Also, I won't eat pickled okra.
I ate all of Enid's sweet pickles standing up in front of Jamie's fridge. I threw away the lid of the cute jar, rinsed the jar with water, and poured a beer in it. It became my favorite drinking glass.
For weeks, Enid dropped by to see if Jamie needed help settling in or if she wanted some extra bulbs for her nonexistent garden. They would chat in the yard in a nice neighborly way. One day, Enid asked for her jar back. Jamie said that she would bring it to her directly. Moments later, Jamie called me to see where the lid was. I forbade Jamie to give Enid my favorite drinking glass. If she had wanted to give Jamie just the pickles, she should have brought them over in a baggy. Jamie, because she is only happy when I am happy, informed Enid that she must have lost the jar. Enid was not happy about this and the climate between Enid and Jamie and I has changed.
Enid ignores us.
Usually, I love it when people aren't talking to me. It gives me a break and a chance to talk about them rather than to them. For some reason, it bothers me that Enid is ignoring us.
It started out as a game. We tried to get Enid to notice us. Jamie checked her mail wearing her bathrobe and curlers with a bottle of wine clutched in one hand for a week. We choreographed an interpretive dance and performed it in the front lawn (with tambourines). Jamie trained the dog to crap in Enid's yard. And still, Enid ignored us.
Then, we forgot about the game, but we started doing things unintentionally to get Enid's reaction. Jamie decided to drive her recycling out to the curb at two in the morning. She carefully placed the bin of bottles and cans on the hood of her car and headed down the driveway. Naturally, the bin slid off and landed with a crash that sent all of the neighbors out of their homes in their pajamas. Everyone, that is, except Enid.
We set Enid's bushes on fire one night grilling oysters. Jamie had loud sex with the windows open. The dog ate most of her cat. And still, Enid ignored us.
Saturday morning, after a long night, Jamie drove into Enid's mailbox. Enid was outside, trimming the rest of the singed bushes. Jamie did not stop driving. She dragged Enid's mailbox twenty feet. Sparks flew up around the mailbox. Enid did not look up.
Determined to get a reaction, Jamie slammed on the brakes and emerged from the car. In a mini skirt and heels, she took the cigarette from her mouth and waved. "Mornin', Ms. Enid," she called out in her perfectly southern neighborly drawl.
Enid is still ignoring us.
Maybe we'll get a reaction from the mailman.
Earlier this week, I mentioned the names of some of my favorite hotels on this blog. As a result, an employee of one of the hotels sent me an email to thank me for the good PR. She invited me to meet her at the hotel for a gift of appreciation. I thanked her, but told her how much I hate trying to find parking downtown. She said, "valet park, I'll take care of it." I cannot resist anything as long as someone will "take care of it." I would probably have a root canal if my dentist said, "I'll take care of it."
I met her at the full-service Starbucks (Dear Starbucks, I really, really like green tea lattes with soy milk). She bought me a latte and handed me a box of hotel soaps and a little green notebook with a pen, "keep writing," she encouraged me. I wish that I had written about how much I like those little tiny bottles of vodka in the wet bar in the room. Then, maybe she would have given me the notebook and pen as well as a box of tiny vodkas as a token of appreciation (Dear Ketel One, I really, really like your vodka). Regardless, I am pretty happy with the gift because I love free stuff and the pen even works. I am pretty sure that she skimmed the soaps off the little housekeeping cart or from a storage room, which makes me like it even more. If anyone who works at the Doubletree hotel is reading this, I really, really like the fresh baked cookies, especially when they are still warm.
Another place that I really like is Target. There is nothing in Target that I don't need. Even if I don't think that I need an item, if I don't buy it, I am sure that I will need it in under a week (Dear Target, I really, really like your gift certificates. They are the gift that always fits).
I went to Target and had a blue Icee. I don't know what flavor blue is, but I like how my tongue changes color when I drink them. I was in the specialty light bulb aisle when I suddenly had to pee. I detest public restrooms. I can pretty much determine my emotional state by my reaction to public restrooms. When I am living in a state of denial, I will wait until I am home to pee. When I am feeling obsessive compulsive, I will refuse to touch anything and wait for someone else to open the door to avoid touching anything. When I am feeling ADD, I will apply a fresh coat of lipstick and make a phone call and test out all the soap dispensers. Public restrooms are a good gauge of mental health.
The restroom was spotless and as I am apparently feeling disabled, I choose the handicapped stall near the wall. I love the big stall. I especially love it when there is a sink of my own in the stall. I make a big production of washing my hands in there in the event that someone else in the restroom thinks that I didn't wash my hands after using the bathroom. I always announce something over the stall door like, "hey, there is really great water pressure in the sink in here. I bet you wish that you had a sink in your stall." I don't want anyone thinking that I am a disgusting individual.
The handicapped stall at Target is right next to the diaper changing station. There is a friendly reminder to never, ever leave your baby unattended while using the diaper changing station. It is very polite and does not seem like nagging at all. Does the men's room have diaper changing stations?
As I was splashing about loudly in the private and yet, accessible sink, a woman entered the restroom to change her baby's diaper. She let down the changing table and spread out a changing pad and lovingly laid the baby on it. Through the stall door, I could hear her pull open the little adhesive tabs on the disposable diaper. I turned the lock and opened the stall door to exit. I couldn't get out. I was trapped by the woman who could not leave her baby unattended. The table blocked me from exiting the stall. I made awkward smalltalk. "There is a sink in here," I said. She gave me a look of pity as though she could tell that I was retarded and that was the reason that I was using the handicapped stall. "No really, want to see?" I gestured to the sink. She gave me the same look. I was making things worse.
She was a doting mother and even warmed the wipes in her hands before wiping the baby's pink a$$ which was pointed directly at me. I fumbled in my purse for something to entertain myself with so that I wouldn't be forced to watch the procedure. I didn't want her to think that I was a perverted retard.
Finding nothing, I went back to my private sink and washed my hands 26 more times.
Maybe I am feeling obsessive compulsive after all.
There Will Be No 2nd Date
Here is what I said to Sue (who is dating Robb, a TV producer):
"Hey, you should have Robb hook me up with my own show. I want to be a star."
Here is what Sue (who is dating Robb, a TV producer) heard:
"Hey, you should have Robb hook me up with one of his friends. Let's meet at a bar."
In all fairness, Sue (drop dead beautiful, yet dumb as a post) has dropped her phone so many times that she has to slap it seven times in rapid succession and then blow three quick breaths into it before she can hear the person on the other end speak. This seems to be the magic equation. When I call her, I wait 20 seconds before holding the phone to my ear. I suppose, it's possible that she misheard me.
When she came over last night, she looked at me in my tank top, panties (sequined), and flip-flops (also sequined) and rolled her eyes. "Get dressed, we're going out" she said. Ordinarily, I would have squealed and made her sit on big chair in my bedroom as I got dressed. But, I have an ear infection and a cough that makes people cringe when I am around them, so I'm not in a squealing mood.
Still, I have a new pair of camel toe jeans that I have been dying to wear, so I got dressed. When I came down stairs, Sue looked at my jeans and said, "you're going to get a yeast infection in those." She always knows how to make me feel sexy. She had made me a cocktail (amoxicillin and vodka) so I couldn't be mad .
I love it when Sue drives me places. She is terrifying behind the wheel. In her head, she is a getaway driver. I am sure that she can see flashing blue lights in her rear view mirror as she weaves in and out of traffic. Sometimes, I feel like taking off my seatbelt, leaning out of the open window, and screaming, "you'll never take me alive, coppers!" I don't want to mess up my hair in the wind, so I fix my lip gloss instead.
I knew I was being ambushed when we walked in the bar and Sue craned her neck to get a look at who was there. She grabbed my arm and began walking toward the dart boards. Under her breath, she gave me the details, "31. Never married. He works in HR or PR or the ER...something with an R. Likes dogs. Can't remember his name. Smile."
I had been set up. I'm not sure why people continue to set me up on dates. I have a good time, but no one else does. I am obnoxious. I talk all the time and because tell how loudly I'm talking due to my ear infection, I talk too loud. I demand complements on my shoes. I do not care about baseball. I need a few dollars to play Golden Tee Golf. I need a few more for the juke box. I scratch my a$ in public. I am all for public humiliation, even my own. Instantly, I pitied the poor man. He had no idea what I was going to do to his bar tab. Most importantly, he had no idea that I was going to tell him how much I hated his shirt. Also, he was carrying an umbrella. It was not raining. I didn't know his name yet and it wasn't going well for him already.
After a few drinks, Sue suggested that he drive me home. I agreed because the pressure in my ears was unbearable and I could hardly hear myself talk. We walked out to the car and I said, "I really appreciate the ride. It's almost time for my next dose of antibiotic." I can turn sexy on and off, just like that.
We drove back to my house in silence. At least, I think it was silence. I really can't hear at all in my left ear. A block from my home, he drove through a red light and we were pulled over. The officer ran his license and returned to the car. My date was asked to get out of the vehicle slowly. Apparently, he was not aware that there was a warrant for his arrest. I think the officer offered to drop me off at home before taking my date downtown, but I'm not good at reading lips. I told him that I would feel uncomfortable with a fugitive of the law in the backseat. I wouldn't want him to know where I live. I asked if I could just take his car and drive myself home instead. I had a coughing fit and the officer thought carefully about the possibility of me spreading my infectious disease in his squad car. He gave me the keys.
Sue called me about an hour later. It turns out that my date had written a few bad checks in college at a local pizza place. He was broke and hungry and it was years ago and that I should totally go out with him again because he was really interested in seeing me again. I didn't mention that I still had his car and told that I was surprised that he still had a warrant from that offense. "I know," she said, "never f*ck with a pizza place. They're all tied to the mob."
Yes, Sue. Probably.
I love email. I especially love it when people who read my blog consult me regarding serious concerns in their lives. If you have left me a comment, I am here for you. If you are a lurker, I will give you extraordinarily bad advice.
A fact that few people know about me is that several year ago, when I was an insomniac, I decided to make stuff. The difference between a person who can't sleep from homemade speed and a true insomniac is that people on homemade speed take stuff apart while insomniacs make stuff.
I learned to knit. I took a correspondence watercolor painting class. I wrote a book of redneck haikus. I refinished furniture and reupholstered my chairs. I mosaicked a tabletop with fragments of broken dishes. I built a loom and wove a rug. I beaded my own jewelry. I made candles. I collaged. I made my own paper. I studied aromatherapy and began making my own soap.
I love making soap. There is something about playing with caustic chemicals that makes me feel smart. When I make soap, I casually throw around words like pH and saponification value and sodium hydroxide. I wear an apron with a picture of Totoro on it and plastic safety goggles. I do not feel sexy, but still, I love using my candy thermometers and essential oils. It makes me draw upon everything I learned from Mr. Glock in chemistry class and incorporates my knowledge from the day spa.
Yesterday, I got an email asking me if I knew of or could blend a soap to protect against poison oak. I have never had poison oak, I know nothing of the chemical properties of poison oak, and I would never assume that I could combine the perfect mix of essential oils to prevent a nasty rash. Still, I felt as though I could help.
The best way to prevent poison oak is to stay in a hotel and avoid the outdoors at all costs. I prefer the Omni hotel, but I also am fond of the W hotel. I like Doubletree hotels for the cookies and I have never had a bad experience in a Westin. Clearly, all of these hotels have an anti-poison oak agent in their soap. I cannot vouch for the La Quinta Inn or the Red Roof Inn or any of the motels in the Super 8 chain. While they offer free HBO and a continental breakfast, I have never seen anything on their signs about soaps that protect against the outdoors.
I wasn't asked, but I would like to add that I have never been attacked by bears or killer bees or encountered a plague of locusts in any of these hotels either.
Extreme Bumper Cars
I am always looking for a hobby. I have tried lots of things in my hobby quest. I have tried knitting and yoga and convincing my friends to break up with their boyfriends so that they can spend more time with me. I still do all of those things, but not enough to qualify as a hobby. In my mind, a hobby is something that I make time to do every weekend. I think I have found that thing.
Yes, it involves beer. But it involves so much more than beer. It showcases my skills. It involves driving while doing other sh*t at the same time. I am really, really good at that.
Whirlyball is a combination of basketball and bumper cars. While I have never considered driving or basketball one of my talents, it is clear that I am a natural at whirlyball. When the attendant at the whirlyball place explained to me that the sport involved driving while doing other stuff and crashing into other drivers, I knew that I had found something special.
I may have found my perfect pastime. I can do lots of things while driving and still manage to crash into people. According to my auto insurance company, I have a knack for running into moving and non-moving objects alike while putting on mascara, talking on the phone, touching up my pedicure, searching for My Anthem of the Moment on the iPod, tweezing, keeping an eye on two tarantulas in their cages, looking under my seat for the remote to my stereo, kissing, and trying to get the b*tch in the front seat to shut up. I find that running into a city bus is an excellent way to prove a point.
I finished my beer and climbed into my car. There are no seat belts and no helmets. There is also no stereo in the bumper car. Suddenly, I wished that I had ordered another beer for the road.
After the game, I asked the attendant how They think of this stuff. "Pot," he said. "Lots of pot." This pretty much synced with my thoughts. I wonder how many hybrid versions of bumper cars and other sports They tried before stumbling across whirlyball. I imagine that the creators of whirlyball scoured college campuses for volunteers in clinical trials of all sorts of extreme bumper car sports. "Dude, there will be beer and pizza," was all they had to say. They had my interest at beer.
I bet golf and bumper cars seemed like a good idea at first and probably made it to stage two of testing before someone got knocked out. Synchronized swimming bumper cars never made it off the drawing board. Billiards and bumper cars testing ended in injury and darts and bumper cars was all fun and games until someone lost an eye. Bumper hockey, while popular in Canada has yet to take off in the States. Archery and bumper cars only works if you have a certain skill level with bows and arrows. Anything with a net is out. I have seen what happens to the human body when it is hurtled through a net. The possibilities are endless; checkers, juggling, flame swallowing, bowling, swimming, and horseshoes all seem like plausible options. I am holding out for bumper polo. It would make me feel classy.
I totally killed my opponents. I am a gracious winner and insisted only that my bar tab be covered and that I be referred to as the Holy Queen of Whirlyball when spoken to for the next 72 hours.
I plan to play again soon. But, next time, I will totally stick my tongue down the attendant's throat for an additional 14 minutes of play time.
If only bumper cars had a back seat.
(Queen of Whirlyball)
One Fork at a Time
I hate moving. I hate moving almost as much as I hate camping. I have acquired several years of shoes and accessories and candles and crap that I am now packing up and moving into a condo that as of the last time I checked, the internet still does not work. Unless it works soon, I am going to be the neighbor that comes over, not for a cup of sugar, but to ask for a wireless network password.
Still, I have found a lovely condo on the right side of the tracks for a price that I cannot refuse. I tried to offer my blog as a down payment, but the agent just tilted her head to one side and asked, "what's a blog?" I informed her that according to Technorati, my blog is pretty damn valuable and that if she played her cards right, I was willing to consider incorporating an ad to her place of business on it. She tilted her head to the other side and told me who to make the check out to. My blog will remain ad free.
I am taking my time moving. There is no sense in living in just one place when I can have half my stuff in one place and the rest of it someplace else. In fact, this has solved all of my shoe storage problems. Open toe shoes and sandals are at the condo. Slingbacks are at the townhome, unless they are open toed, and then they are at the condo. It takes me a little more time to get dressed now, but in my wisdom, I have a full length mirror in both locations.
Yesterday, as I sat in one of my living rooms surrounded by boxes touting names such as Bacardi and Stoli and JD, I began to feel overwhelmed. I wrapped a fork in bubble wrap and placed it in a box next to a vase of marbles and an incense burner and a bottle of plant fertilizer. With a marker, I labeled the box, "Sh*t That I Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With."
Needing a break from packing, I brought the box over to the condo to unpack it. I was only able to score three boxes from the package store, so I have to unpack every box with each trip. I placed the items in a drawer in the kitchen. With my labeler, I designated this drawer as "Sh*t ThatI Don't Need, But I Own Anyway and Can't Seem to Part With." I printed six more identical labels for the rest of the drawers in the kitchen.
As I was leaving, a burgundy Cadillac pulled up. A man got out and asked me if I was moving in. He told me that his mother had lived in the condo until she died about eight months ago. He didn't say, "my mother lived there until I put her in a nursing home where she died." With that, he convinced me that the woman died in my new bedroom. Rather than ask him which bedroom she died in, I said, "I'm so sorry for your loss." He replied, "She was 75," as casually as he could have said, "What the Hell, let's go get some beers." I am pretty sure that he murdered her in the bathroom of my new condo. Her angry ghost is just waiting for me to take my first shower there.
He told me that I had a really good spirit looking over me there and that he still drove by every day in case I needed anything. I flashed him that smile that says You-Are-Creeping-Me-The-F*ck-Out-Dude. We shook hands and he drove away.
I went back to the town home and drank, surrounded by my three liquor boxes. I surfed the internet for exorcism practitioners and wrote the first draft of a novel in which the protagonist hits rock bottom in her town home surrounded by empty liquor boxes and decides to change her life one fork at a time.
I didn't have a cell phone for a long time. Everyone, seriously, everyone had a cell phone before I had one. Now, I'm not quite sure how I lived without one. It's not that I didn't want the convenience of talking about the intimate details of my life to my mother while filling my prescription for birth control, it's just that she always told me that if a man wanted me badly enough, he would pay for my expenses. I never questioned her reasoning. I didn't even bring up that 15 year period in which Dad was a stay at home dad.
I got my first cell phone when I was in a long distance relationship. After a few weeks of being apart, he sent me a cell phone. I bought a furry case for it. I was in love. Of course, now that adorable furry cell phone case would be large enough to hold my laptop, but back then, it was divine.
I was responsible with my phone as He was paying all of my bills. I only used it in emergencies, like when I needed a tow truck or a weather/time report or needed the input of a friend about whether my toe nails should be pained Rich Girl Red or Merlot.
He broke up with me years ago. We had a big blow up about whether or not living hundreds of miles away from one another meant that I could sleep with the DJ in the bar that I frequented or not. It was complicated. I felt that it was only natural that I should sleep with him and He felt that it was only natural that He should call the DJ (since He got the phone bills) and curse him out. Turns out, I was wrong and He was right and so, He dumped me.
For four years, I have been living without a cell phone bill. Then, unexpectedly and without notice, my phone was cut off yesterday. I called the customer care line at Sprint because it was the only number that I could still call and asked just what the Hell was going on here. The customer care agent informed me that my contract had terminated and that all services had been discontinued.
At first, I was shocked that He thought that we had the potential to last four more years. A four year contract with a cell phone company is almost like a proposal for crap's sake. I almost teared up because it was the sweetest thing that He had ever done for me, unless you count the time that He violated the terms of his parole to see me. That was pretty sweet too. Suddenly, I wanted to call Him and tell Him how much I had been thinking about Him since my cell phone was cut off. I would be sure to mention that I hoped that He was doing well in all of His endeavors and maybe we could have dinner and maybe He could call me sometime. But, of course, that would require reactivating my account.
So, I called Him from my home phone. Okay, in truth I called one of His friends because He has changed His number in the past four years (Mom always said that He was unstable and couldn't provide for me). When I finally reached Him, we talked. We caught up. He is doing better than when He left me (read: not on parole). He has a girlfriend and so I backed down. I have had enough of complicated relationships.
Finally, the conversation turned to my cell phone. I played nice. Then, I argued. Finally, I begged. I am not proud. He told me that He doesn't feel that He should continue to pay for my phone bill as I am The Queen of Text Messaging and also a b*tch.
Still, I feel like I have grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Surely, any judge can see that.
I am suing for cell phone alimony. At least until I get on my feet.
Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?
I've been ignoring it for awhile. It seems that some lovely, albeit confused people think that I am a Thinking Blogger. I have let them know that I am a Drinking Blogger. It's an easy mistake to make. Clearly, they are Drinking Bloggers too.
I have tried not to let this, as well as the other lovely nominations for a variety of other blog awards (none of which have to do with my outstanding shoes) get to my head. At first I was confused by the whole Thinking Blogger thing, but now, it seems so obvious. Of course I'm a Thinking Blogger. Thanks for noticing.
I think a lot. I would venture to say that I am almost always thinking. If I am not thinking, I am thinking about thinking. Or I have passed out from thinking.
I think socially. I like to think with my friends. We have several preferred places to think. I'm very open minded when it comes to thinking. While I have stuff that I prefer to think, I will think just about anything. Sometimes, this works out well for me and I discover new things that I like to think. Sometimes, I think something that makes me sick and I swear that if G*d will let me live through the night, I will never think that much again.
I don't try to hide how much I've been thinking and I don't lie about my thinking habits. I admit that I think alone. Thinking is part of my blogging process. I sit down at my computer and I have a good think. Then I have another. Then, I write. I also smoke when I think. I try not to smoke in the house, so I have to stop writing and go outside. Sometimes, I think while I'm out there. My neighbors know how much I think but, they are polite and don't mention it to me.
I have some rules about my thinking. I don't think in the morning, unless I was up late thinking the night before. Usually, I don't think before noon, but I've heard that it is the cure for those kind of situations. Also, I don't think and drive. I am a naturally bad driver, I don't need to add thinking to the mix.
One day, I hope to learn not to call people when I am thinking. I am guilty of making the annoying middle of the night phone call in which I say stuff like, "Woo hoo!" and "Dude, I'm thinking tonight. You should totally be here," and "I love you, man." I also send inappropriate text messages and humiliating emails when I've been thinking.
I come from a family of thinkers and recovering thinkers. Family gatherings can be awkward. I congregate with all the thinkers and we think together while the non-thinkers sit in the other room and judge us. They say things about how we are powerless over our thinking. It only makes us think more.
Sometimes, my thinking gets me into trouble, but generally, I'm a happy thinker. I like to think. In fact, I am thinking right now.
This blog is driving me to think.
Paper & Cuts
I used to subscribe to more magazines than anyone I knew. All that changed a few weeks ago when I put my wine glass down on top of a stack of unread magazines creating an avalanche and spilling wine all over all of my tax documents. As I sucked the last drops of Shiraz out of my receipts, I swore that I would not be renewing all of my subscriptions. I also swore to start drinking wine from a cup with a lid.
Yesterday, I had an appointment with the gynecologist. Ordinarily, I am not impressed with the magazines at her office, but due to my recent decision to cancel my subscriptions, I was happy to sit in the waiting room and pour through magazines so old that the perfume samples had all been rubbed onto the wrists of other patients.
As other women arrived, I found myself feeling territorial over the magazines featuring what to wear last fall and how to get the best beach hair. I hoarded a pile of magazines. I ignored the nasty looks of the women in the waiting room. I gestured to the nurse behind the desk. I wanted her to keep an eye on everyone in the event that they staged an uprising. I discarded an old Newsweek onto the table to distract the masses.
Finally, the nurse called out, "Ms. Mist." I scooped up the magazines and brought them back with me. I followed her down the hallway and stepped onto the scale. "Ms. Mist, I'm going to have to ask you to put those magazines down while I weigh you." The nurses know that I don't take off my shoes to be weighed. They don't even ask anymore. I calmly told her that by my precise estimation, she should subtract six pounds to compensate for the additional paper weight.
She left me in the room to change. I kept my shirt on because it was chilly, but I stripped from the waist down and draped the paper sheet over my lap. I sat on the end of the examining table and continued to read about what drives men wild in bed.
The February 2003 issue of Elle slipped from my lap and landed on the floor. I leaned over to grab it. I slipped. I plunged face first off the table, still clutching a stack of magazines. I caught myself with my jaw on the stirrup. I dangled there, with my bare a$$ and everything else in the air for a moment trying to catch my breath. That's when the doctor walked in with a student.
My doctor helped me back onto the table while the student picked up the magazine. I didn't snap at her even though she had lost my page.
After the exam, my doctor smiled and said, "everything checked out okay, now let's take a look at your jaw."
It's not the first time I've left the doctor with a sore jaw, but usually there's anesthesia and a subsequent law suit involved.
I am not allergic to nuts. I've had a lot of nuts over the years, but so far, I have not had any adverse reactions. At least, not anything severe. I have been irritated by the man attached to the nuts, but it was a mild reaction; nothing that a little "space" couldn't cure.
A few years ago, I developed an allergy to bananas. I have never liked bananas. When I was a kid, my dad believed that bananas were the cure for cuts and scrapes. If I asked for a Band-Aid after skinning my knee, he would give me a banana instead. I am beginning to think that either we didn't have health insurance or that he was just too cheap to buy Band-Aids.
My banana allergy was a bit of a shock. I had a friend staying with me for a few days who decided to stock my home with food. Food goes bad in my home, so I rarely buy it. On the day that she left, I stared at all the food in my house and decided that I had better eat it all so that my kitchen didn't turn into a large, indoor compost heap. My intent was to start with the produce and then to continue my way through the fridge eating cartons of stuff in order of the expiration date.
I ate the bananas after eating everything in the crisper drawer and consuming the half ripened avocados in a brown paper bag with an orange on the kitchen counter. The reaction was instant. I wheezed and itched and continued to eat the bananas. By the time I got to the emergency room, I had hives from head to mid-thigh and my tongue was the size of a small Volkswagen. The attending physician declared that I had a food allergy and shot me full of something which made me shake worse than the time I ran out of wine on Sunday. I was asked to list all of the foods that I had consumed that morning. The list resembled the menu for a hippopotamus at the zoo. The doctor made a note in my chart and referred me to a dietitian and a therapist to deal with my abnormal eating patterns. I learned a lot from that experience. I can still hear my therapist saying, "fat is not a feeling."
A few months later, I had a cranberry smoothie when I was shopping. Cranberry smoothies used to be my favorite kind of smoothie, although the peanut butter and jelly smoothie ran a close second. I wheezed and gasped for air in the shoe store, but refused to seek medical attention until I had purchased the shoes (pink snakeskin, open toe, silver buckle, 25% off). The lovely woman in line ahead of me let me go first. My eyes were swollen shut and snot ran freely down my chin. I still wear those shoes.
That's how I discovered that bananas were the offending food. I have avoided bananas ever since. People discover allergies in all sorts of ways. You just never know when you might have a reaction to something.
Last night, I discovered that I am allergic to coyotes. Maybe I have always been allergic to coyotes. As I haven't had many opportunities to be face to face with a coyote before now, so I have no way of knowing. I may also be allergic to grizzly bears and peacocks and sloths. I fear these animals now, because I don't know if I am allergic to them or not.
My friend's dad fancies himself to be a hunter. He is always dropping off carcasses of various animals that I wouldn't ordinarily eat. Sometimes, he brings me gifts of snake rattles because once I admired his rattlesnake boots. This time, he dropped off a hat made from coyote. The entire coyote. The head of the coyote sits directly on top of the hat. The front legs drape down near my shoulders. The hind legs hang close to my neck. The tail nearly reaches my butt.
It is stunning. I wore it for quite some time last night. I had Jamie come over and take pictures of me wearing the coyote on my head. I posed proudly with a glass of wine in front of the fireplace. I felt dignified in that outdoorsy way that one can only experience with an entire dead animal on one's head.
Suddenly, I wanted to get naked. Apparently, nothing makes me feel like getting naked like a dead coyote. I asked Jamie to take nude photos of me in the coyote hat. I could see the scene perfectly. I would sit demurely on my knees with the paws of the coyote covering my nipples. These were to be tasteful photos. I imagined the look on His face as He opened the attachments and saw me looking coyly full of wanton lust at the camera with roadkill on my head. Surely, He would be aroused. Men like naked chicks and dead animals.
I slipped into my robe and repositioned the coyote on my head. I looked into the mirror and touched up my lip gloss. I pouted. "You sexy b*tch," I said to my reflection. And then I saw my red, puffy eyes.
Tonight, I will take a Benadryl before I get all sexied up in my dead coyote hat.
P.S. I would post a photo of the hat, but I seem to have hidden the My Pictures file from myself. Anyone who can help me find it will receive a photo of the hat via email. I may or may not be wearing it, depending the level of customer service provided. Thanks in advance.
I love my parents. They are funny and quirky and very clever folks. They also live very far away from me.
I talk to them all the time. Sometimes, I call Dad more than once a day. I call him in the middle of the night. He almost always answers. So, when I couldn't get in touch with them all week, I got worried. I called Mom's attorney and made sure that I was still her primary beneficiary. He assured me that I still stood to inherit an assortment of dead houseplants, two cats, and her collection of refrigerator magnets. My sister gets the ottoman although, I am pretty sure that I can swindle her out of it. I have always been good at taking her stuff. I thanked him and got a good night's sleep for the first time all week.
Last weekend, Dad finally returned my calls. It seems that they went to Vegas. Apparently, cell phones don't work in Vegas and hence the saying that whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. I think it's awfully clever of the Vegas Bureau of Tourism and Convention Sciences to use the dismal telecommunications system as a brilliant marketing tool.
I think I should mention that my parents are divorced. I don't remember them vacationing together when they were still married. Even when they got arrested at a hippie boycott, they didn't share a cell. When they visit me, they stay in an adorable B & B together. They have dinner together several nights out of the week. I am starting to think that they lied to me about the whole divorce thing. I am having flashbacks of when I was 12 and Dad was taking Sociology and Psychology classes. He probably based his thesis on the effects of divorce on adult children. I hope he gets his PhD soon, because I am starting to feel confused by this all.
After I talked to Dad, I called Mom to get her side of the story. She didn't mention the trip at all. I happen to know that she came home with considerably more money than she started with. I'm not dumb. Someone is lying to me.
She didn't talk about the trip to Vegas, but she did mention that they had gone to an auto show together. They came up with several clever names for new automobiles. I wish that my parents were in charge of naming cars. They weren't so good at naming kids (I have a hippie name, my sister has a hillbilly name), but seriously, the automotive industry has no idea what kind of a creative force my parents are. I would probably drive the Suburu Slut, but the Jeep Libido is good too. I wouldn't even test drive the Dodge Gigolo. Please, I am way classier than that.
"Mom," I said, "what kind of auto show was this? It sounds like an auto-erotica show."
"What's that?" Mom asked.
I couldn't tell her. It was worse than the time she asked me what 40s and blunts were.
I can do lots of things with dental floss.
I can make a tripwire just outside my front door. This provides endless amusement for me. I set the trap and then I go inside and call people and invite them over for a glass of wine and a Tarot reading. Then, I stand with my eye pressed to the peephole and wait. The other night, Jamie walked unsuspectingly up to my door. I threw open the door to welcome her. When the cat ran out, I expected him to trip and fall on his little whiskered face. Of course, he is much too graceful for my clever prank. I darted out after him and naturally, fell flat on my face. Jamie laughed at first, so I made her go to the drugstore to buy Neosporin for my scrapes.
If Jamie had fallen, I would not have laughed. Or at least I wouldn't have laughed for as long as she did. Rather, I would have offered to suture her wounds with floss (unflavored, unwaxed). I am pretty sure that it wouldn't leave a scar.
I am so good with floss that I can reach my teeth way in the back of my mouth without gagging myself even once. I leave nests of used floss on the table next to the couch. This practice repulses many of my guests, but when I show them how all my cat's little craps lift neatly out of his litter box like pearls on a string, they see the genius behind my slovenly habits.
I love floss so much that I have stopped getting my eyebrows waxed in favor of having them threaded. Every few weeks, I stop by my local Pakistani beauty salon and Abida shapes my brows to perfection. She always asks if she can do my upper lip. I decline, but it is starting to give me a complex. Other than that, I love having my brows threaded. It reminds me of going to the dentist only I can talk while I recline in the chair. Abida holds a length of floss in her teeth and weaves the other end into an intricate Jacob's Ladder. She moves her fingers like a puppet master and plucks my stray brow hairs. We talk about my pores and the best place to get Pakistani food and and the many, many uses of dental floss.
Abida is different than my dental hygienist in so many ways. She has perfect brows and also she is never pregnant. My dental hygienist is always pregnant. I call her Pregasaurus behind her back because she likes to wear scrubs covered in tiny dinosaurs. She's never slightly pregnant. She is always very pregnant. She can't get close enough to me to reach my molars due to her round (and remarkably adorable) belly and the last time I saw her she burst into tears because I told her that I am never going to part with my wisdom teeth. She thought that was beautiful and told me that she feels the same way about three of her seven kids. My dental hygienist never mentions any trace of my alleged upper lip hair.
The last time I saw Abida, I asked her if she only threaded facial hair. She informed me that she is available to thread all sorts of body hair by appointment only. I promised to make a bikini appointment soon.
Yesterday, I had a dental appointment. Apparently, after a little nitrous oxide, I dropped my pants and asked Pregasaurus to clean up my bikini line.
I have been asked to find a new dentist.
I'm Here To Help
I encourage people to reach out to me when they need help. Mostly, because I like to talk about them behind their backs. But, also because I am a caring and deeply compassionate person. My favorite kind of phone call to get, is the one that starts with, "Mist, I have a Situation." I love Situations. I can be sure that whatever follows that sentence will be good.
I am not a helpful person by nature. The last time that I was helpful it was by accident. I still feel like the Mayor should have recognized me for single handedly stopping a purse snatcher by almost running over the guy with my car. Yes, I was putting on mascara while driving, but he had no business snatching purses and not looking both ways before crossing the street.
I wish that I had listened to the entire Situation before I offered to help. Now, I have a Situation of my own. I have promised to help my friend clean out her father's house. He'll be away until next March unless he is released early due to good behavior. This, according to my friend is the perfect time to get his house in order.
I was warned in advance that the condition of the house. The police removed several of her father's belongings as evidence, so we wouldn't have move anything heavy. She failed to ask me if I like the sensation of cat urine burning my nostrils. I could smell the house from the driveway. "How many cats does your dad have?" I asked. "One," she said and headed for the door as though she couldn't detect the smell.
I decided to roll up my sleeves and start helping clean out the house. I started in the liquor cabinet. Once I had cleaned that out, I decided to take a break.
I found a trash bag and spread it out so that I could sit down. My friend was steam cleaning the curtains. Always helpful, I told her not to waste her time cleaning them. It seemed to me that the only thing to do with the entire house was to burn it. And then, burn it again. Surely, her father has insurance. She ignored me. I whined that it was hot. Naturally, all of the windows had been painted shut years ago. I begged her to turn on the air conditioner in the window. "Trust me, you don't want me to do that," she said. "He got it from his neighbor, it smells like cat when it's on."
I was going to ask how that would make the situation worse, but I was overcome with the need to puke.
The toilet bowl had a delicate fringe on the inside. It fluttered like eyelashes when I flushed.
I am supposed to help her again on Sunday. Clearly, I cannot back out without a bigger, more important thing to pull me away. Someone will need to have a heart attack. But who will it be?
Pork, It's What's For Dinner
Go ahead and call PETA now.
When I think about my relationship with Wiggy, the albino guinea pig who lives with me, I am always reminded of that children's song about the old woman who swallowed a fly. She swallowed a spider to catch the fly and then continued to swallow a whole bunch of other critters to get the damn fly.
It's no secret that I'm not overly fond of Wiggy. I rescued her five years ago and I have been waiting for her to die ever since. The first thing I do every morning is check my email. Then, I check to see if Wiggy is still breathing. Guinea pigs can live to be eight years old. By my calculations, Wiggy is living on borrowed time. A few months ago, when I noticed that Wiggy was still in perfect health, I got a cat.
This plan seemed flawless at the time, but it hasn't worked out the way that I had expected. Hissy seems to have no feline instincts. He lounges around the house and attacks my ankles. Once an hour, he gets up to smack Wiggy. Wiggy seems to like the attention.
The problem is that Wiggy is huge by guinea pig standards. There is no way that Hissy could eat Wiggy all at once. I knew that I should have adopted a boa constrictor or a cougar, but Hissy's spots looked so good with my shoes and my furnishings that I was instantly smitten.
About three years ago, I stopped bathing Wiggy. I pretended that I didn't notice that there was crap stuck in her fur. I was able to ignore the four pound clump of wood shavings that clung to the crap stuck in her fur. But, I couldn't overlook the problem any longer when her food bowl (with a carrot in it) became adhered to her rear. Wiggy loves carrots. She chased the carrot in the bowl stuck to her a$ around in circles. It was amusing at first. Eventually, the noise of her overgrown talons scraping the bottom of her cage and the clunking of the bowl against the sides of the cage irritated me.
Last night, I decided that it was time for Wiggy to have a bath.
I ran a few inches of warm water in the bathroom sink and slowly eased her into her bath. She squealed and shrieked. I lifted her up out of the water and examined her butt. The bowl had come free, but several years of crap were still firmly glued to her fur.
I massaged the soap onto her butt. Wiggy cooed. I massaged and Wiggy cooed. And then I got it. She was enjoying it too much. I retched and rinsed the soap from her fur. I hastily dried her fur and returned her to the cage.
As I type this, she is standing up on her hind legs, staring at me between the bars of her cage. Her red eyes are saying, "Mist, you're not gonna leave a pig hanging, are you?"
I am disgusted with myself. I feel used.
In Friday's comments, I was notified that I have been nominated over at I Miei Pensieri as the blogger most likely to shoot up at a 7-11.
At first, I was a little confused by this nomination. Although, I am thin, I am not thin enough to be cast in Trainspotting II. I have relatively scar free arms (my right forearm has a small scar that I swear is from when I got monkey pox, but looks suspiciously like a cigarette burn). Then, I reread the category. I have been nominated as the blogger most likely to shoot up a 7-11. That makes much more sense.
I have felt like shooting up a 7-11 before. Actually, it was a BP, but it really makes no difference because my inner conspiracy theorist has told me that They are all part of the same foreign oil dependent animal.
I would have shot up that BP for not selling me beer because I didn't have my ID on me, but I got distracted because I was rather flattered that he thought that I was under 21. I gave him my phone number instead and told him to call me.
All this somehow reminds me of a crush that I had on a boy years and years ago. Jason is still in prison for shooting the gas station attendant for $20. I found his prison profile online a few months ago and I thought about writing to him and telling him about the crush that I had on him as an awkward teen. But then, I looked at his photo and noted that I'd have to learn how to braid his hair and knew that it was too big a job for me. I can't braid. Still, I wish him all the best upon his release in 2017.
In the meantime, I am still trying to figure out what I will wear to shoot up a 7-11. Clearly, I can't wear flats. My ankles don't look their best in flats and the surveillance camera will add ten pounds to each ankle. I will need a sensible heel to wear while fleeing the scene. Then, there is the weapon to consider. Am I an automatic kind of girl or an old school revolver chick? Naturally, either will be unloaded (I know the law).
Do I wear a mask or just large sunglasses? Should I get my hair colored now or after to throw off the cops?
Also, I will need a driver. I am afraid that I will not be able to speed away fast enough and check my lip gloss in the mirror at the same time without popping a tire or stalling out. My driver should be able to make the tires smoke and squeal too. That would set the mood.
I never knew that there was this much to consider in leading a life of crime.
P.S. Thanks, Miss Ann Thrope for the nomination. Why can't I link to you here?
One side of my family is Czech. I love my ethnic last name. I am proud of our heritage and beer.
Like everyone else on Earth, we have our own unique traditions. For example, the first one to leave the dinner table on Christmas will be the first to die in the new year. My uncles have applied this superstition to every meal throughout the year. The One family may not be large in numbers, but we are a very, very large family. My metabolism has not yet caught up with me, but I am deeply afraid of when it does. I am holding out for the right marriage before this happens.
I take the wisdom of my Czech elders seriously. One of the best things that I have learned from my grandmother is the old Czech proverb, "if a guest comes to your home, grab a stick." I do not believe in the saying, "don't go to the pub without money," as I am pretty sure that this has been mistranslated from the original saying, "don't go to the pub without a vagina."
My grandfather once asked me what an aborted Czech fetus is called. He replied, "a canceled Czech." Grandpa, if you are listening up there, I thought of this the last time I was pushed down the stairs after a false alarm. "A bounced Czech" is a pretty good punchline too. Also, I thought that you would be proud to know that whenever a relationship is over, I declare that the former object of my affections and I are now Separate Czechs. It cracks people up Grandpa, I swear.
Spring is an important time for Czechs. The Monday after Easter is my favorite day of the year. On this day, Czech men throw water on Czech women. Then, they spank us with the pomlazka, which is much like a cat o' nine tails, only not as sexy. It's supposed to help us retain our health and beauty in the coming year. So far, all the spankings seem to be working. I still get carded buying alcohol and my only major health concern is my hypochondria.
So, while many of you are having egg salad sandwiches, I will be sitting here in all my Czech splendor and glory, waiting to be spanked.
Am still waiting.
P.S. Thanks, Michael (who makes these lovely flogs) for the photos. Be a sport and give a Czech girl a free flog for this special religious rite, would ya?
I get lost. A lot. Although, I've lived here for years, I only know how to get to the beer and wine store, two sushi places, the spa, my local adult novelty store, and several shoe stores in my area. I rarely travel more than 6.5 miles from my home.
I pretend that I know the directions to lots of other places. I always think that I'll be able to find where I need to go. I always think that I should turn left. I have learned that this means that I should turn right. Terms like East and West mean nothing to me.
A few months ago, Mom gave me an atlas. She smiled at me warmly and told me that she would rest better knowing that I kept it in my car. Now I have an atlas in my car. I feel like one of those people with a Bible in their cars. I always think that they drive around with Bibles because they don't have insurance. I try to drive extra carefully when I am around them. Although, for a few years, I had a piece of turquoise in my car in lieu of insurance. It is supposed to to have protective qualities. I totally believe in the power of turquoise because when I rolled that vehicle down the side of a mountain with a recalled seatbelt, I walked away with only one little cut caused by the large knives that flew up from the backseat. I had a perfectly logical reason for having knives in the backseat.
I also have an almanac in the car. I like almanacs. It's fun for me to know at a glance the local currency, what the language of choice is and if people can read that language or not, and how many people have toilets in their homes in any particular country. I like to know how old people are when they die and how many people live per square mile. I keep it in my car in the event that I have to wait in line at the Post Office and need people to think that I am smarter than I really am.
A few weeks ago, I found myself lost in another state. I pulled over and reached for the atlas. It turns out that Mom gave me an illustrated comparative atlas of surgical techniques. I didn't even know that there was such an atlas. Mom knows that I love medical conditions due to my hypochondria. The book 101 Diseases You Don't Want to Get was one of the best gifts Mom has ever given me. I refer to it all the time. Especially when I am planning travel to developing nations or making an appointment with my doctor.
After reviewing a few hundred pages in the book, I decided that I was in dire need of an esophageal resection. I called my doctor. Dr. Kilmer (sexy name, not a sexy guy)assured me that my esophagus was just fine and then gave me directions. I have very good health insurance and I ended up safely at my destination.
Yesterday, at my doctor's appointment, I thanked him for his roadside assistance. He winked and gave me a compass. He even answered my questions about how to install it. It turns out that even if I stick it to the windshield upside down, it will still tell me which direction I am traveling. What a clever device.
I got lost on my way home, but at least I knew which direction I was going.
Why doesn't someone get me GPS?
I had dinner with a woman that can't remember my name last night. She calls me Summer and Savannah and Rain, but never Mist. Once, she almost got it right and called me Missy. We are not very close.
Because my voice is still a little scratchy from talking myself hoarse, I ordered a cup of hot tea. The server brought it to me on a tiny plate. I asked her for honey and she returned a few moments later with a tiny bowl of honey on a tiny plate.
I ordered a salad with the dressing on the side and the salmon (rare). My salad arrived with a tiny bowl of dressing on a separate tiny plate. The table was starting to get crowded with tiny plates. When my entree came, I had to scoot aside some of the tiny plates to make room for the salmon (on a huge plate) and the asparagus that came on another tiny plate.
I eat mustard on almost everything, so I asked for a side of the garlicky stone ground mustard. The server brought the mustard to me on yet another tiny plate. I was beginning to notice a trend. I looked around at the other diners. Their tables were covered in tiny plates too. I counted the plates. Between the two of us, there were 18 tiny plates on the table.
I know that it's wrong, but I enjoy having fun at the expense of others. I decided to see how many plates I could acquire throughout dinner. I dropped my fork. "Oops," I said feigning clumsiness. The server brought me a clean fork on a tiny plate. I giggled to myself, pleased with my new game. "What's so funny, Stormy?" my dining companion said. I ignored her and asked for extra butter.
At the end of the meal the server asked if she could tempt us with dessert. The woman (who cannot apparently say the word Mist) ordered the orange chiffon cake. "Order something, Star," she urged me. I do not order dessert. I am the kind of girl who insists that I cannot possibly eat another bite, but maybe I'll just have a bit of someone else's dessert.
The server smiled at me sweetly and asked, "I'll just bring you an extra plate, so you can share."
The possibility of her bringing me a plate on a plate was too much. I ducked my head to hide the grin on my face.
"Sunshine, you must really like orange chiffon cake. I've never seen anyone get so excited over cake."
I ignored her and counted the plates. Final count: 31 plates.
I went to Six Flags yesterday. I am proud of myself because I didn't puke on a single cuddly mascot. I did make Porky and Petunia Pig kiss. That really amused me, because I was certain that it was two men wearing those costumes. "That was hot," I said in my best Paris Hilton voice.
There were lots of celebrities there yesterday. Evander Holyfield had his own reserved train on a ride. I was going to say something about how unfair it was to those of us who had paid extra to not wait in lines with the ordinary people, but I didn't want to get into an altercation and have to bite off his other ear, so I kept my mouth shut and waited an extra turn.
When Lisa and I finally boarded Superman (the ride, not the superhero), we sat motionless for several minutes. The operator came by and checked my harness. Twice. Then, he came back with a special tool and tightened up a screw holding me in place in my seat. I didn't know whether to feel safe or worried. I told Lisa that I loved her and that I wanted to be buried with all of my shoes just in case. "There is one thing that I need to know," Lisa said. "Did you sleep with my brother?" I couldn't believe that this was the last thing she wanted to hear from my pouty lips before I potentially plummeted to a horrible death. I deflected the question by asking her if she felt like her harness was secure and wondered out loud if the operator should have tightened hers as well.
After the ride, I really needed a beer. It is simply impossible to me that Six Flags does not serve beer. The words "Family Establishment" mean nothing to me. As I looked around at all the parents at the park with seemingly infinite numbers of children, I knew that they were thinking the same thing. Beer is a family value.
I keep a flask in my car. It is full of water, but I really enjoy taking a swig of it in traffic. People just stare and stare and give me plenty of space on the road. Yesterday, I secretly wished that it held more than water. Finally, Lisa suggested that we smoke to take our minds off of the fact that we hadn't had any beer since breakfast. We lit our cigarettes and were approached by a park employee who informed us that we couldn't smoke and walk. I told her that I thought that we were doing just fine, but that she should see Lisa try to chew gum and walk. It is a hot mess, I assured her. The park employee informed me that we could be ejected from the park for that kind of talk. I asked her how long we would have to wait in line to be ejected. She didn't laugh as she escorted us to the front gate.
I hate parking lots because I never remember where my car is parked. I lost my convenient alarm clicker a long time ago, so I usually have to wait for the parking lot to clear out before I can find my car. After a long search, we found the car in the West lot. I screeched out of my parking space to demonstrate my great displeasure with being ejected. At the stop sign, I took a swig from my water-filled flask for effect. The people in the minivan stopped across the intersection stared in horror and gave us the right of way.
I let go of the clutch and sped off.
Lisa and I laughed and felt immensely cooler than the people in the minivan. Then, I drove over the spikes in the parking lot. It turns out that those signs that warn of severe tire damage if you drive over the spikes the wrong way are not lying.
We debated about what to do for awhile. I called my auto club while Lisa spelled out "Send Booze" in stones and pieces of funnel cake that she collected in the parking lot.
Why I Drink Vodka and Wear Pants (Sometimes)
I am more of a tea drinker than a coffee drinker. There is something about coffee that makes the buzzing in my head louder than normal. Shortly after I drink a cup of coffee, I need a glass of red wine just to balance things out.
I am also more of a local, independent, shade-grown coffee shop kind of girl than a big chain coffee shop kind of girl. Mostly because I dislike paying for the internet. I dislike paying for all kinds of things including parking, drinks, dinner, cable, and oil changes. I go to great lengths to avoid paying for stuff like this because they seem to be intangibles to me. I mean, after dinner, I will only be hungry again and after drinks eventually, I will sober up. What's the use in paying for stuff that I think should be free?
Sometimes, I have to have an iced soy green tea latte. Because I am a lovely person, every time I am in a coffee shop, I call a friend and ask if I can bring them a beverage. I try my best to listen to the order. I swear, I listen. But, I always f*ck it up. Once, I get to the counter, I can't remember if it's skim milk or sugar-free or hazelnut. I just hope that they won't notice when I get there with the wrong drink.
Yesterday, I ordered two beverages and decided to browse all the coffee accessories on display. I love accessories. The coffee grinders were an additional 20% off. I already own a coffee grinder, but is is shiny and not a matte steel finish like the one on the shelf. I knelt down to examine it more closely.
I heard the barista call out, "Grande Soy Chai Latte! Tall Caramel Macchiato!" and stood up to fetch my drinks. I think this is a good place to mention that I was wearing a pair of adorable brown eyelet peep toe shoes with a wrinkly brown skirt.
I stood up without my skirt, which was pinned to the floor under my heels.
The barista handed me my drinks and a few dollars from the tip jar.
I don't experience road rage. I suppose, I should be honest. Sometimes, I get a little cranky with people who don't give the gratuitous wave when I let them in traffic before me. Generally though, I don't get enraged in traffic because I am the one who is driving like an a$$hole.
I don't need to be driving. I'm not good at it. I want someone who will drive me places. All I want is to sit in the front seat like a grown up. I won't even touch the stereo. I will just sit there and look cute and talk and talk and talk.
Yesterday, Jamie was driving me downtown to a concert. Jamie gets angry when she drives. It doesn't matter what's on the stereo. Music does not soothe the savage driver. She is perpetually angry when she drives.
I am used to her road rage and it doesn't bother me anymore. She calls me when she is driving to tell me about the cocksucker who just cut her off. I am not offended by her misuse of the term cocksucker, although it seems to me that the term should be sacred and used only in the purest form. If the Cocksucker Party decides to lobby Congress for exclusive rights to the term, I will sign every petition. I am not ashamed. I would be their spokesmodel if they would only ask. I would proudly attend legislative sessions with my nametag, "Mist 1, Cocksucker."
But, in Jamie's car, yesterday, I had a revelation. I think driving with Jamie is a lot like having sex with her. I've never slept with her that I can recall, but I think I know what it's like. As we sped down the street, weaving through traffic she yelled;
"Not there A$$hole!" and,
"Can't we go any faster?" and,
"Jesus f*cking Christ moron, let me get in front of you!"
I closed my eyes and imagined her in a sexy negligee. I didn't speak another word until we got downtown.
I asked her to stop at Victoria's Secret before we got to the concert. I needed dry panties.
"All of this happened, more or less." - Kurt Vonnegut
Location: Dirty South, USA
Yes, it is about me. Thanks for noticing.
123 Valerie Strikes Again
A Day in the Life
A Day in the Wind
A View From The Watter's Edge
BNR - Blog Name Removed
Burnett's Urban Etiquette
Burt Reynolds' Mustache
Carnival of the Mundane
Dan's Blah Blah Blog
DKY Bar and Grill
Exorcise My Devils
Fantasy and Sci-Fi Lovin' Blog
Fresh Air Lover
Guilty With An Explanation
How to go Insane
I Am Woman, See Me Blog!
It's Go Time!
It's No Picknick!
Jen (and Andrew)
Ketchup With My Fries, Please
Little White Liar
Maiden New York
Mindy Does Minneapolis
Much Ado about sumthin!
Single Life As I Know It
Secret Suburban Misfit
Southern Circle of Hell
The Assimilated Negro
The Death of Retail Price
The Dragon: 050376
The Morning Meeting
The Post College Years
The Wonderful World of Nothing Worthwhile
Tiny Voices in My Head
No Love, Courtney
Change of Pace
Pants and Entertaining
Inner Ear/Alien Spawn
Header image photo by Alison.
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