So you know those giant multi-level trucks that are used to transport cars to dealerships and whatnot? And all the cars are all chained up there and when you're little and in the backseat you look out and think, "AGGGHHH ALL THOSE CARS ARE GOING TO ROLL OVER US!" but then your dad says, "Not possible, Squishy. No way no how. Never never never never happens." So then you continue on for years in your automobile-centered existence, secure in the knowledge that, though anything from a jet airplane to a fuel tanker to an asleep guy to a chicken could come raging straight at you at any time, those trucks with all the cars on them? Yeah, those are ABSOLUTELY NO THREAT, BABY.
On my way to work this morning I saw one of those trucks... and all of its car babies were sorely scattered across the freeway, all those chains loose and just blowing in the wind.
I've based my entire behavioral existence on some fundamental "possible" and "not possible" facts. "Cars Falling Off The Transport Truck" is one of the core NOT POSSIBLE principles. "
Light As A Feather, Stiff As A Board" and "Normal And Healthy Couples Who've Had A Threeway" are close seconds, but that truck thing... that was my nucleus. I'm not sure what to do now.
I mean, besides invite some random chick over to fool around.
And then try to levitate her.
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The
hardest thing about dating someone
new is remembering what side of the airport "arrival" curb that person stands and waits and whistles for you on.
And by "new", I mean "almost five years, and I'm a self-absorbed dork with the short and/or long-term memory of a salad fork".
And by "hardest thing", we're of course subtracting anything involving sexual relations.
Wait, no we're not.
The moral, you ask? You may be fifty apologetic minutes late getting picked up from the airport, but you're with a different apologetic woman every night.
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I spent much of my holiday trying fervently to establish an internet connection with a wire hanger and a whispered prayer.
Now I'm home and, thanks to one little brother and one unbearable, hair-shrieking layover (
scene: The two of us packed into a smoky airport lounge, him sucking back Guinness and me sucking back anything but Guinness. The local news interrupts the football game... "And will travelers stranded at Charlotte-Raleigh
ever get home? US Air promises to have all stranded passengers home by mid-week. More, at ten."
ME, sort of laughing because impetus hits later when I've sucked back this much Not Guinness:"Hey...
we're on US Air..."
HIM: And... wait... isn't this Charlotte-Raleigh? Or Charlotte? Or... Raleigh?" After a certain number of ounces of Guinness he magically transforms into Rand McNally himself.
ME: "I'm gonna go check that board gig thing." The rest you can probably ascertain.) I'm hung over at 11:40pm. I'll talk to you tomorrow.
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Sorry, I don't have a lot of time. I have plane to catch in, like, four and a half hours. I haven't packed, I had to race to the mall at ten fifteen in my pajamas (not good for anybody), and I'm pretty lit. The good news is that all the octopi are safely in the UPS Holding Tank.
I'll get back to you. I'm taking my laptop to Charleston, so I'll be here.
My mom called a little while ago... she wanted to know what kind of sandwich I want for the plane. Oh my god. I may infant-cry with relief when I see her. Maybe I can pretend to be sick for extra attention.
More later.
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Spreading Christmas Cheer... Of The Completely Invisible And/Or Liquid Variety.
Here's a breakdown of the Christmas Progress: please bear in mind that I'm leaving town on Thursday, so multiply any requisite panic by fourteen degrees. If for some reason there
is no discernable panic, multiply
that panic by sixty-eight degrees.
Presents purchased thus far:
a) boots
b) purse
c) seven smallish stuffed orange octopi
d) two largish stuffed blue octopi
e) $210 worth of MAC makeup
Number of presents which I am currently wearing on my feet or face and/or using to carry all my stuff around: three.
Bottles of wine purchased as hostess gifts: three.
Number of hostesses who have received bottles of wine from me thus far: zero.
Number of orange and/or blue octopi currently squishing around in my car: nine octopi.
How much I love typing the word “octopi” on a scale of one to ten: eleven octopi.
It Pays To DISCOVER.
These boots are fucking
hot.
Octopi: They’re Everywhere You Want To Be.
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I think I'm officially over my clench-fisted, cold-sweats, mutated peripheral vision "New Car Paranoia"; I was on the freeway this morning when I narrowly (NARROWLY.) missed hitting some woman in a sedan as I was jerking myself out of the insufferably slow lane. The woman started screaming at me through the driver's side glass and over the expanse of my hood that was really very (VERY.) near her door.
"Whoa," I said, smiling. Hands up, palms out. "Chill. You're okay. Damn."
In other news, I'm a big bitch.
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I'm in love with
Erin Lady. No bones about it. I keep shamelessly checking back for Magic Marker Tummy Baby updates.
And my third and fourth tattoos are so incredibly designated for my perpetually exposed whorish breastbone, you don't even know.
In other news, I didn't win the Christmas Spirit Award at work. Unknown whether or not this has anything to do with a) the near constant bitching about the Mandatory Christmas Angel Tree, or b) the yarmulke.
Whatever. But I still think that nineteen-year-old Angel Tree kid needs to GET A FUCKING JOB and buy HIS
OWN "size 11 skateboard shoe, pref. black and purple".
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Have you ever gotten really drunk when your man is out of town and you get on Amazon and order every book that Patricia Cornwell ever wrote, some of them twice, one of them
three times, and then you go to sleep and completely forget the frenzied, slack-jawed, ice-cube rattling Amazon fiesta until weeks later when the books start arriving? And just when you think you've gotten over how ridiculous you are you get
another yellow media mail envelope containing yet
another copy of "Cruel and Unusual"? And you wince? Again? And then wonder just how many fucking books that woman has written anyway?
And then you open the mailbox and there's a
Jenga in there? And now you know your Amazon situation is way,
way worse than you could have imagined, and you tell yourself that next time you're left alone you'll just pay-per-view some porn like usual and save yourself the fucking cash?
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This is seriously an addendum I received from my car insurance company today.
"The following is added to What Is Not Covered:
a. THERE IS NO COVERAGE FOR BODILY INJURY THAT RESULTS FROM EXPOSURE TO FUNGI.
b. THERE IS NO COVERAGE FOR BODILY INJURY THAT RESULTS FROM:
1) NUCLEAR REACTION;
2) RADIATION OR RADIOACTIVE CONTAMINATION, OR
3) THE ACCIDENTAL OR INTENTIONAL DETONATION OF, OR RELEASE OF RADIATION FROM, ANY NUCLEAR OR RADIOACTIVE DEVICE."
I don't know that I can rest at night knowing that I'm not covered in case
of mushroom.
Or, you know, the nuclear holocaust.
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What's up.
I'm sitting in a co-worker's office this morning to participate in a completely "seat of my pants" conference call (including two people who are infinitely more corporately important than I am) when suddenly I'm overcome with a sense of deja vu that is so unbelievably overwhelming that when the guy whose office I'm sitting in begins to ask me to print up a certain document, I actually beat him to the verbal punch.
Somebody explain that shit.
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I’m on the freeway this morning on my way to work when I find myself behind one of those behemoth polished chrome tankers that you know deep down are carrying pure unadulterated poison. The shinier the chrome, the more deadly the cargo. I see one and I immediately think of Terminator 2. The driver is probably wearing hazmat approved overalls and neoprene underwear. He’s no doubt whistling through the cold sweats and wishing he could momentarily take his hands from the ten and two position to turn the radio on.
Anyway. So I’m behind one, and I find myself staring at the eerily clear reflection of my car in the shiny, shiny dome ass of this truck. Ooooh! Wow, it doesn’t
look like I’m going 135 miles an hour… hey, can I see myself waving? Maybe if I get closer…
I don’ t really think that trucks carrying literal
tons of explosive toxins should have interactive, hypnotic fucking
holograms on the back. Unless I have a liquid metal Terminator clinging to my hood, that’s just not going to be good for anybody.
And to Senator Shady in the spray painted Toyota? I’m not sure that just
writing some numbers and letters on a piece of paper with a magic marker and sticking it in the back window constitutes a license plate. I haven’t seen anything official, but I’m pretty sure it’s not cool. Whatever, though. Nice hat.
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I'm a sure thing.
The devil smirked to himself last night as I became more and more
open-mouthed enraptured with the hour long Discovery Channel show "Two
Hundred Pound Tumor".
But it wasn't until I started making fun of Two Hundred Pound Tumor Woman's
name that the devil pumped his greasy hot fist in the air and yelled
"CHA-CHING!"
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I'm always 110% behind "
Romancing the Stone", particularly when it's on TBS and I'm couch-watching it with my most infected ear mashed down on the pillow. And I'm completely there through all the green jungle machete slashing and the flimsy cotton skirt swirling and the alligator drug lord dancing drinking waterfall statue cracking love making bullshit, I am... but that finale 42' sailboat? Parked on, what? Like, 5th Avenue? With all the street traffic of the ninthteenth day of a nuclear holocaust?
No.
Absolutely not.
"That's just romantic crap," mutters My Slightly Better Ear.
"I think it could happen," reckons Seriously Fucked Up Ear. "Like on Christmas Day. Or New Years Day. Only in the evening, though."
"You're a bastard," announces Slightly Better Ear.
And he's right. Seriously Fucked Up Ear is, in fact, a bastard.
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