Honey put on that party dress

Yesterday morning I drove across town, to the place where hillbillies and the like build plywood houses for refuge against the bustling demonicity of The City, to drop my car off for repairs. I wouldn’t have chosen this particular body shop had it not been for my last experience with bumper replacement. A year and a half ago I let the insurance agent suggest/coerce me into going to XYZ body shop, the body shop that is run by my ex-employer. This wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, except the last time I saw my old boss I was screaming Fuck You and other obscenities. I also might have mentioned his tight pants, and that he might want to take his miniscule dick that he so loved showing off and put it in his ass. I was having a very bad day. And he deserved it.

There was nothing so awkward as running headlong into the aforementioned previous employer, because even though we both smiled and shook hands, there is no doubt in my mind that while I was thinking Coked up fucktard he was thinking Raging bitchface. I crossed my fingers and prayed that my Honda came back with a recognizable paint color and intact upholstery. It did, but still. I figured it was best to be on the safe side this time around.

Which is how I ended up among the cast of Deliverance in bumfuck Little Rock, waiting patiently in their trailer-turned-waiting room for Enterprise to make good on their commercials. Twenty minutes later I was greeted by Joe, my friendly car rental representative. Joe had obviously had a hard life, one that involved a lack of teeth-brushing and a possible head trauma.

During the fifteen minute drive back into town I was serenaded with none other than Joe’s highly deviated septum. I kept wondering if it was possible that he just couldn’t hear it, that steady stream of whistling air bringing oxygen to his ancient bloodstream and expelling germ-tainted nose breath into the confines of the vehicle. But there was no way possible, no way in hell, that he was oblivious to the ceaseless sound. People thirty miles away were turning their heads to the side and asking each other, “What’s that sound? Is it the wind?” NO. It’s just Joe and his whistling nose.

Joe also liked to make small talk, whereas I am much averse to the stuff. I thought I had finished with my polite overtures when I climbed into the van and nodded politely, asking him about his day. He responded in kind and we settled into, what I thought, was a peaceful silence. It’s a long drive back to town and there’s only so much chitchatting a girl can handle. But Joe wanted to make comments on everything, from the silvery purple color of a Cadillac to the possible conspiracy of five white sedans in a row on the interstate. He intimated that the sedans were probably with the FBI and on their way to some secret rendezvous. Only when Joe said it, it came out as randy-voos.

About halfway through the journey, Joe turned to me and asked if I was sulking. He thought he’d heard me sighing at some point and had probably mistaken my unconscious verbal expression of annoyance with general sulkiness. I haven no idea how he heard it over the 1820 Overture playing steadily from his nostrils, but he merely nodded his head sagely and asked how long she’d been hurt.

It took me a good five seconds to respond. And five seconds is a damn long time for car silence when someone is paying no attention to interstate and waiting breathlessly for your response. Only I hadn’t the damndest of clues what he was talking about. A ‘she’ had been hurt? And I knew about it?

Then I realized he was talking about my car, with its bumper hanging pathetically from the rear driver side. My car was a ‘she.’ This was news. So I told him it had been a week since the accident and ‘she’ would be fine. But of course Joe couldn’t leave it at that, he had to regale me with stories of his vehicularly challenged wife and her propensity to wreck his brand new truck, over and over and over.

To which my only response was, “Perhaps you should stop handing her the keys.”

Love me, Love me- Go on and love me.

I’m not one of those girl who lights (or even buys) candles. I’ve got a green mottled one that has moved with me since 1999. I know this because, well, I just do. Leave it at that. I always intend to light it, I intend to utilize its forrest-scented-ness, but I end up spraying some febreeze instead. Because spraying a bottle of overpriced smelly water in the air is wicked easier than finding a lighter.

The other day I was shopping with Amanda for some apartment accoutrements. She is moving into a two-bedroom duplex that gives her and her new husband roughly forty times the space of their current living arrangements. No one is happier than Amanda with this development, except for maybe Senora Robin. This is very selfish of me, but the thought of sharing a space the size of my bedroom with another living, breathing, excreting human being makes me want to claw out my eyeballs and serve them as appetizers.

So along with helping pick out curtains and table covers, I was suckered into throwing a super spiffy oven mitt in the buggy. I should have done this a long time ago but I’ve always been relatively content to wad up paper towels to protect my fingers from the oven’s flesh-searing metal. But after a near-miss on Saturday when the pizza pan became unbalanced and almost landed on my delicate and unprotected feet, I decided it was time to take a big girl pill and pony up.

After the kitchen aisle came the candle aisle. I am normally loathe to stop here, a) because the mix of honeysuckle, vanilla, sage, rose and patchouli makes me want to hurl, b) I am indecisive about candle scents- do I really want my house to smell like Jasmine and Honeydew? and c) TWENTY BUCKS FOR A FUCKING CANDLE? ARE YOU HIGH?

But there was a sale aisle, which was right next to the Relaxing Music display, the kind where you get to push the buttons and hear tracks from each CD play somewhat obnoxiously over cheap speakers. Amanda had already gotten onto me for making the oven mitt talk (it looks like a puppet, dammit) so I had to keep my excitement to a minimum. I was busy switching between Inspiring Salsa and Big Band Classics when I noticed a sale shelf of candles.

So I bought one. And now my house smells like cake, just like the ad said it would. I am also very hungry because of said candle.

Wears dark glasses like the cops in Texas

I would show you a picture of the back of my car, the bumper hanging so precariously from its plastic and styrofoam sheath, but I will not. Mainly because that would constitute physical proof of my poor luck, but also because the car is outside (obviously) and I am inside. Also inside is my camera. Hence, due to some very simple logic, I will remain inside.

I started my taxes on Saturday night but they asked such ridiculous questions. It’s worse than filling out the form to give blood. Did you ever have sex with a man who had sex with another man before 1978 in the Congo region of Africa? Did you ever engage in questionable acts with a primate from the Congo region of Africa? Have you ever kissed a transvestite? Similarly, the tax software I use wants to ask silly questions about my personal property taxes, as if I would be so organized as to keep that information. Did I purchase a large item this year, such as an auto, but not a boat or RV or jet ski? Yes I did! I get a tax credit! BUT WAIT. Please enter the selling price of the vehicle minus the sales tax plus the commission, less the depreciation and adding the cost of after-market items. Please put that number HERE in this yellow flashing box. It’s all very simple, didn’t you know.

I gave up finishing that project because I have a mind to become a fugitive from the law. I will wear dark jeans and learn to live off the land. I will lure fat squirrels into my lair and roast their pitiful bodies over bic lighters. I will rob convenience stores for Dr. Peppers and Oatmeal Crème Pies.

Randomly, I am thinking of getting a new phone. I have been thinking of getting a new phone for a year now but it’s such a grand commitment. I become overwhelmed by all the features and options and buttons. What if I purchase this one but realize three months from now that I really should have gotten the one with mp3 capabilities? What if I realize I needed unlimited internet access? So I’ve decided that my current function-less phone and I are just stuck, stuck together like Dolly Parton’s breasts. I will upgrade only when the current model truly fails to deliver. Presently it is only cranky and I cannot in good conscience put it out to pasture.

Anyway. It’s been a long time since I updated this poor thing, hasn’t it? I reread some of the crap from the past few months and realized I had to cut myself off. It was for the benefit of mankind, really.