Q: What's the best way to beat a Halloween party hangover?
A: Spend thirty grand.
I was forty minutes into my rainy morning commute last week when I started thinking about the cozy warm Nissan and how long I've had her and all the great times we've had together driving around aimlessly at three in the morning chainsmoking and having dirty sex in the surprisingly roomy backseat, and I thought about maybe selling her and having to watch her little paint-rubbed-off-by-a-cheap-ass-bike-rack trunk drive away, and I have to admit, my throat got a little tight.
Then my left windshield wiper cracked off and started screeching along the windshield like a baby Terminator's fractured arm, and when I turned the wheel to take the next exit something in the wheelwell made a horribly shitty and expensive sounding noise and I HATE THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT CAR.
So I bought a
new one. It's a little ridiculous how good I look in it.
I'll Have To Get Back To You When I'm Not On The Brink Of Throwing Up All Over Myself.
GIANT. PARTY. With about two hundred Almost Completely Naked Except For The Glitter seventeen year old girls. If The Jake hadn't eaten my camera, I'd have pictures.
More later. I was serious about that top part.
Some Things From My Desk.
Can you find...
The half a Hershey bar? From my boss, that all of the Training employees received with outstretched, wide-eyed arms and now lament and curse with every rip of foil?
The monster from
McPhee? I ordered, like, a thousand. Now I can't get rid of them. I send them to people in the stores; trainers who've helped me out, the print shop guy for... printing, etc. Very few people think they're funny. I've gotten a few back.
Ms. Kamikaze got some. She didn't send them back. Send me your address. I've got cocktail squids as well. No. Really.
All of my hair accoutrements? Because what's better than taking your hair down at one in the afternoon only to forget to take your hair-gathering shit home, and then riding in the next day all wrangly and wet and in desperate fucked up need of THAT ONE THING in your drawer? Your headrest says "Nothing".
All of R's loose change?
You can guess the rest. One thing is a little tin full of tea bags. It cost fourteen dollars. So I only smell them. Another thing is a Buddha pencil topper. one I haven't chewed the feet off of. Some lotion... you get the idea.
A Short Yet Potent List Of Seemingly Innocuous and "American" Products Which, If Purchased South Of The American Border, Will Kill You:
1) Afrin nasal spray. Liquid coke. Liquid
cut coke. Just jam an icepick up your nose. At least you won't get the shakes. The label reads "ADULTO". Yeah, no shit. If by "ADULTO" you mean "Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction". My grandfather tells a story about being addicted to Afrin back in the sixties, before the FDA stepped in and made them take out the Fiberglas and Everclear. He had to go through detox... slept sitting up for two months. That's what I'm talking about here. Hand me a goddamned Kleenex.
2) Marlboro Lights. It's been a while for this one. If you smoke Lights at home, buy Ultra Lights in Mexico. If you smoke Reds, buy Lights. If you can actually
smoke the Mexican Reds then you probably have a bunch of crumpled ADULTO Afrin bottles in your purse, you big fucking addict.
3) Playing cards. You're thinking "hey, cards can't kill you", but if you're in a bar in Puerto Penasco and some guy's got a gun to your temple and he holds up the Queen of Hearts and says he's pulling the trigger if you ALSO deal the Queen of Hearts, that's not going to be a chance you're willing to take. Trust me. There could be six or seven of those bitches in there. And not one nine.
As an aside, I'm officially off birth control. We're flying without a wing man here... for the first time in ten years. "Why?" you ask. "Trying to start a family?"
Fuck no.
The answer is much less idyllic and much more... typical. And it requires the patented "List Sort Of 'Within' But Really More Like 'After' A List" format. Concentrate:
a) I forgot to sign up for my company benefits after my probation period. So my window expired. I called them, and asked to be resubmitted, and they
did, in fact, resubmit me. Because The Machine is Good and The Machine is Kind. But I forgot to enroll again. And I have no health insurance. Twenty-nine and still rockin' "elementary school responsibility style". Let's hope I don't have to have anything amputated. Because let's face it... the only thing worse than losing an appendage is opening
that bill.
b) What's that you say? Just go back to University Health and Wellness? Yes. True, they help anyone. Anyone, say, except those who owe roughly $800 in library book fines.
I don't want to talk about this anymore. I just better not get pregnant.
A special shout out to
Dayment for the advice. What's better than screaming laughter about birth control with Ms. Dayment on a cell phone at a tailgate party?
If you answered ADULTO Afrin, you need rehab. Go. Now.
*sniff*
Two highschoool guys came to my front door just now and rang the bell, sending The Jake into a a fit of spitting and gagging and generally poorly trained behavior. They were from Teen Challenge, a Christian anti-drug, anti-alcohol outfit, and they had like forty different ID badges to prove it, and the one kid kneeled down to let Jake lick his face and the other kid handed me a photo of himself on life support after he had overdosed on virtually everything, so then I invited them in to see the other Magritte prints in the house because they liked the one in the hallway so much and wrote them a check for $25.00. For which I received a tidily printed receipt and two hearty handshakes. 96% of this was done because I had a fundamentally good feeling about these two kids, out on a Friday night showing pictures of themselves in Intensive Care and letting strange, poorly trained animals lick their ears. The other 4% was mainly just paranoid that they could smell the rum.
Possible Explanations As To Why R Made It A Point To Ninja Jet To The Gym
This Morning At 5:47 In The Corvette After It Had Become Painfully And
Embarrassingly Obvious That The Mighty Ni Had Developed A Crippling Case Of
Parkinson's:
1) The last time I drove the vette, I drove it 47 miles with the parking
brake on.
2) The last time I drove the vette, I accidentally jumped a railroad track
at about 80, catching Dukes of Hazard air and proving that the suspension
package has nothing on the General Lee.
3) R was riding shotgun (or "Luke") that day, and I may have given him the
wrong idea in terms of future safety judgement when, after we righted
ourselves, I screamed, "OH FUCK YES!"
4) The last time I drove the vette, I left The World's Worst Mix CD in the
stereo. Including "hits" by TWO American Idols.
I took the truck today. I drove the truck the last time The Ni called in
sick. I wrecked the truck that day, my friends. So. You know. I think that
says a lot. About something.
AND: Thanks,
Chip, for reminding me about
that post.
Some Fundamental Differences Between R And Myself:
or
If I Had A Penis I Might Not Be Deaf.
or
"What?"
You all know "The Mighty Ni", right? The 1993 Nissan Sentra that I bought new for $9,000 in... 1993? I thought I was pretty sly and cost effective until I saw an ad in the Sunday paper last week boasting that
new Might Nis could be had for ten grand. With all the paint and everything. Jesus. Overnight I went from "frugal, yes, but wiser than you" to "STAY OUT OF MY PENNY SOCK." I should post some pictures. But then you'd all actually SEE it and it wouldn't be funny. Just trust me. Here's a list of differences I've recently noticed between R's ride and mine:
R: When you push the knob on his stereo, the XM people tell you who sang the song and when. And on what album. And the name of the song. If you're trying to bluff like you knew what song it was all along by relying on your skills to read shit real fast, keep in mind that sometimes the WHOLE name of the song doesn't show. I'm not going into details.
ME: If you push the knob on my stereo, it shuts off.
R: If you turn the volume down on his stereo, it gets quieter in the car.
ME: If you turn the volume down on my stereo, absolutely nothing happens.
R: The dash isn't cracked open like a painful fissure, lending a smell of sand and fiberglass and old paper towels to the entire vehicle.
ME: Not that last thing.
R: Never smoked, thereby eliminating the frantic burnmarks in the "just under the window" leather.
ME: Uh, FABRIC. And fuck you.
R: Sometimes highschool boys will whistle and comment on the chrome wheels. R pretends not to care. I'm sure that's why he wrote the check.
ME: Sometimes highschool boys will approach me in an intersection brandishing the hubcap that just spontaneously SPRUNG OFF into the median. I pretend not to care.
The Mighty Ni rocks.
It has two hubcaps.
I totally can't hear you right now.
The next bitch who tells me that she wants to go to law school because
she's good at arguing gets punched in the fucking face.
And my mouse is a non-rolly computer tool of the satan. I just had to roll
it thirteen feet to select a line of text. I'm sure it has nothing to do
with using my mouse pad to hold my cheetohs.
About the font... I sent that post in via email, and font selection was out
of my hands.
Not the number of times it posted itself, though. That bullshit is ALL ME.
Someone in my office decided that a member of my department needs to stay
until 5:00 to "represent", as it were. Everyone normally bails at 4:30. So
I, being the "drag me out of bed by my hair" morning angel that I am,
volunteered to be the 8:30 to 5:00 girl rather than the 8:00 to 4:30 girl.
Today I got to work about 9:15.
Give me an inch, I sleep in like a cracked out stripper.
I can't believe that I haven't posted in over a week. Unreal. I'm so sorry. Every time I think about my neglect I sort of wince in shame and self-deprecation. More than usual, even. The Jumping Jake pictures aren't ready. SHUT UP.
1) My mom is doing wonderfully, thank you again for all of your concern and well wishes. She wouldn't hardly pick up the phone the day before she went to the doctor for the results... nothing says "family support chain" like your dad telling you seventeen times that your mom is in the bathroom. And, on the subject, hearing your dad lie straight to your ear is like catching Ward Cleaver all daytime squinty at the tittie bar. No good.
So
after the results, wow, I couldn't get OFF the phone with her. Everything looks GREAT, radiation instead of chemo... fantastic. Then she actually
starts the radiation and once again I'm listening to Ward explain why he's $200 light and smells like vagina. You pretty much have to hang out in front of the house underneath the oleander to figure out when her treatments are. We're a close family. I don't know my brother's phone number.
2) Wait, did someone order Joe Rogan to be
perky? I'm watching Fear Factor right now and Joe's jumping up and down like a bouncy little squirrel. He seriously just SLAPPED HIS KNEE. What's the problem, Joe Rogan? Stare at some big tits all blase and shit some more. Where ARE you, Joe Rogan??? Don't give in, Joe Rogan.
2.5) I'm not really sure that's his name.
3) My birthday rocked the house like only the solid desperation of a 29th birthday can. My coworkers decorated my cubicle to the inth degree... an inth which I refused to take down for five days. I beat some kind of annoying record. Somewhat backhanded, however... they sealed my overwhelming participation in the "Kissass Boss Office Decoration of '04". Because when someone asks you to come in at 5:00 in the morning THREE MORNINGS IN A ROW to decorate various conference rooms and offices for your boss's birthday, and you still have the guilty, self-indulgent and pretty listless by now banner hanging over your cubicle head like a scarlet fucking birthday letter, it's tough to back out. I'm pretty fucking tired.
I promise I'll do better about posting. I love you guys.
I talked to my mom again today. She was making chicken salad, which was the best news I'd heard all week.
"I have a terrible attitude," she laughed. "I'm mad about the scars, and they're not even that bad."
I laughed with her. "You can never go topless again," I pointed out.
"I know," she sighed. "Thank God I have all those pictures."
So I think we're okay. She gets the results of this, the Lancing of The Captain of the Lymph Nodes (also known affectionately as "Chief Node" and "Head Node") on Monday. Also my birthday. All I want in the world is radiation instead of chemo.
I can't even begin to thank you all for your comments and emails. Seriously. You're all friends to me, truly, and I'm proud and honored to be a friend to you.
Plus, the Jumping Jake pictures are in the process of being uploaded. Things aren't as tense and fucked up, and since Mom really loves The Jake (even if it is in a "please don't bring him over" way), I think she'd be proud.
As an aside, R is at some "gentleman's fundraiser" tonight, where a bunch of guys pay a couple hundred bucks to get together to smoke cigars, drink expensive liquor, buy raffle tickets for firearms and bid on fur coats worn by nubile, c-section-scarred strippers.
"You better get me a mink," I threatened. Because I live in fucking Phoenix. And mink is so unbelievably lame it's campy.
"Even if it was worn by a naked, sweaty hooker?"
"Jesus, '
even'? Try
only."
So maybe I'll get lucky. If everything goes according to plan I can give my mom a celebratory mink coat that smells like vanilla and whiskey.
