FLASH POST! Driving Blind.

Quick post so I can go nappy-bye.

My frequent readers know that most my days are weird because I have my freak flag stapled to my chest BUT today had an extra sprinkle of “hmm…how unusual.”

I woke up in a shit mood because I had love dreams and I woke up and didn’t have a love reality. I didn’t feel so hot between a headache and my morning acid reflux so I threw back some alka seltzer and made a coffee (I’m REALLY GREAT at balancing acids and anti-acids!). I don’t remember getting dressed but I was in my car, peeling out on some wet leaves, burping up some hot remains of whatever acid I ate before bed.

It was rainy while I was driving to work so I had my new windshield wipers swishing. SWISH swish SWISH swish SWISH swish SWICCRRRRKKKKKKKKKKKKK.

My driver’s side windshield wipe cracked off and the jagged metal remains propelled it off into the road and under my back tire. GuhBUMbum.

I could see the car behind me crunching it under their tire. Cya later windshield wiper! RIP! Have a nice life! Drop me a line!

It was raining pretty heavily so I couldn’t stick my head out the driver’s side window. That and it’d get ripped off by the renegade MBTA buses they have Tokyo drifting in the streets. I’m pretty hunchy as it is (did I tell you a potential suitor asked if I had scoliosis? HE THOUGHT I HAD SCOLIOSIS) so I craned my neck to the passengers side.

I was in panic mode until I got to work, when I burst out laughing at the absurdity of annihilating my own new windshield wiper. Pulverized. Crunched to smithereens. Swish Swish Swish CLUNK annnndd there she gooooes goooodbyyyyeee!

Thankfully, I had my old wipers in the trunk in case of emergency. I spent 45 minutes searching YouTube for videos until I just read the (5) steps in the instruction manual- 3 of which include making sure you shut your car off before you run yourself over.

I changed it, crisis averted, christ has risen or something.

It was horrifying not being able to see or even pull the car over. That being said I’m really sorry if your pet cat, dog, or maybe even your husband don’t return home tonight, I forgot to check my wheel wells. My panic mode shuts down my peripheral vision and I’m pretty sure I was chanting something in Sanskrit. But I’m ALIVE and changed my own wiper because I’m big and strong.

OKAY! Flash post over. Thank you for reading.

k love you byyyee why do you always smell like bread?

You’re a Big Yatch

Oh, my dear little bloggerinos. How are you?

I just got back from NEW YORK CITY the other day and I’ve been laying around ever since. I walked 10 miles in one day in my big combat boots so now I don’t have feet anymore. Buuuuut I DO have a rash on my eyelids! I bought Nana Creme (Gold Bond) and have been smearing it across my eyes. I somehow did not expect it to burn. I imagine it’s what putting peppermint toothpaste on your eyelids would feel like. Très great.

In other news, I swapped cars with my mom so now I’m driving the yacht, or as the layperson would call it, “a Subaru.” I also just spelt yacht “y-a-t-c-h.” YATCH. Sounds like an insult or some kind of vaginal infection.

It’s fun blowing out the speakers on a car that isn’t yours. I listened to Miley Cyrus’ “Bottom of the Ocean” about 50 times. After the 4th or 5th time I forgot I was singing it and would zone in and out and start wondering if I was singing that whole time. After the 15th or 20th time I started messing up the words because it all starts to blend together. WHICH PART OF THE SONG AM I AT? WHAT SONG IS THIS? SHOULD I BE OPERATING A MOTOR VEHICLE?

Anyways, I bought another Oprah magazine ANNND I forgot I get Oprah Radio so I’m ready to let the healing begin. I’m also ready to let the sweepstakes entries pile up. LET ME WIN, BABY JEESUHZ! Or just let me win baby Jesus! I’ll brush his hair and feed him hay. Cuz that’s what babies like.

Okay my little key lime pie crusts, GOODNIGHT! I LOVE YOU! TELL GRANDPA YOU LOVE HOW HOT HIS FEET GET IN HIS LOAFERS!

Crunchy the Car

There were a few days there that I didn’t post, eh?

If you MUST know (yeesh, get off my back already), I was in a car accident the other day.

Nothing major but it was one of those moments much like finishing school forever,  or getting dumped, or death of a someone you know. Just an Ooh. So this is what this is like. Hmm. Proverbial check mark made.

Now that I’ve self medicated with leftover* Halloween candy (*candy I bought for myself while I sat at home with the lights off) I’m ready to talk about it without feeling like the girl who cashes in on all her terrible experiences. Although if I could get cash to talk about my terrible experiences I would promptly send you my bank number.

Because I am a sick person, I cackled during most of it while the other driver sobbed. Maybe because it was her fault and I haven’t had the ability to cry since 2008 but hey I can’t pinpoint with all these variables.

The abridged version is I was dressed in a tight as fuck, spandex, Deadpool costume heading to an 80s dance party (held on a boat). My friend was desperately trying to change into her Jessica Rabbit costume in the back seat (all parties except for the boat were wearing their seat belts, don’t fret).

A few cars ahead of me, a car had its tire hanging off, hazards on, nothing happening. The girl in front of me sat for 5 minutes until the honking started. Did I mention we were at a 4-way intersection during rush-hour in Boston? That was a thing too. Anyways, the girl backed up into the intersection so she would have enough room to go around Mr. Brokeydown. She had enough room. Then not so much. Then none. Then OH GOD NONE NO ROOM NONE. I beeped just to let her know that she hit me (not a big deal, it was tap). Unfortunately, the beeping scared her and she stepped on the gas and careened backwards. Crunch, crunch, crunch. She straightened her self out, put it in drive and we were able to find a space where we could both pull over.

She came bombing out of her car (in her jammies) with tears streaming down her face. She was so concerned about my well being I started cracking up and ended up consoling her. I remember that teenage fear of what…have I done…WHERE IS MY MOM, PLEASE HELP.

I hope her parents let her take the day off of school the next day.

It’s all I could think about the next day. Close calls always jolt you back into the reality that anything could happen at any time. That’s also the beauty of it. Anything could happen at anytime. Let’s just hope it’s good, like being able to stand on the side of the road in your Deadpool costume telling a stranger you are 25 and have no idea who your car insurance provider is even though you pay the $130 bill every month.

C’est la via, ammiright?

We ended up skipping the boat party. Our adrenaline was through the roof that I might have just driven straight into the harbor and wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

***

I hope everyone had a cavity inducing Halloween. What did you dress up as? Did your costume give you a rash? I want details.

k love you.

L.L. Bean has nice boots.

Coke Whore

I’m sorry, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the cracking of my sweet, delicious Coke.

The cracking of the can, the first sip of crisp liquid love.

I’ve fallen back into my old habits.

When I was in 6th grade I would have a minimum of 5 cans per day, along with 2 meatball Hot Pockets. I stopped drinking it and lost a bunch of weight, but now over 2 years out of college I find myself standing in front of the display at CVS wondering which package will come home with Mama.

I touched that one, but I saw that one first. Well I can’t just choose between my children. You both can come home! (Cue me walking out of the store with a 12 pack under each arm.)

I get into my car and there are cans in all the designated cup holders. The trash bag in the back seat is filled to the brim with cans that clink around as a drive, just like Santa’s sleigh bells.

I didn’t really see the problem with it. I love what I love and it’s the one thing, you know, besides friends and family and bler blah barf, that I can rely on.

I did question myself as I was sitting at my desk, watching some stand-up, when reached for my Coke. I started to take a sip when I came out of my Coke haze and remembered I hadn’t put my Coke on my desk. I looked over at my night stand and my darling cherub sat there in all it’s beautiful red glory, shining like the angel of mercy it is.

I looked down at the Coke in my hand and realized it was probably from when I was cleaning my room the weekend prior.

That would explain the green fuzz growing around the mouth piece. I thought maybe this can came with it’s own terrarium. Got to be environmentally conscientious these days.

I mean, even the name Coke, sounds like the noise it makes when you open the can. The freshness. The bubbles dancing around on my tongue. Sweet relief.

At any rate that’s where I am, squealing with delight over a box of Cokes that still have the polar bears on the can, even though the box didn’t indicate they were the winter edition.

Now that is a true treasure.

Until next time, my Chipsqueaks!

Crystals and Toe-Sucking

Hey guys, I might be a witch.

Lately I’ve been reading up on crystals and gemstones and their benefits. I have a piece of citrine, an emerald, and a little lapis lazuli (any Gilgamesh fans?).

I carry them around as lucky charms but I also read that keeping certain ones under your pillow will help you have happier dreams when you sleep.

WELL my friends, I did not put my crystals under my pillow last night and I had some pretty fucked up dreams. One of them included sucking the toes (which nails were painted blackish-purple) of a kid I used to like a few years back. There was lots of drag queens, Goldfish crackers, rainbow escalators, and a nighttime pool party.

It sounds traumatizing but I woke up laughing so I’m hoping I haven’t completely become unhinged. Although, I’m not sure if laughing means I am crazy or just understanding of the absurdity.

Judging by the titles of my last few posts, I guess it might be the former.

In other news, I am seeing a psychic this weekend!

It was either that or a therapist and the psychic was cheaper.

And they are usually better at telling people what to do.

Me make a decision for myself? Puh! Unless it’s food or clothing, I’ll take all the advice I can get.

Or this blog. This thing is stream of consciousness. I pick a topic and wipe my ass with it and see how you darling pooptarts like it.

I’m not going to put the crystals under my pillow again tonight and see if anything else kooky happens.

Until next time my Scruvy Fully Bloateds!

Please Haunt Me, Greg Giraldo

I’ve had a talent for willing bizarre things in my life. That includes both good and bad.

Some include:

  • Getting my favorite comedians to retweet me or mention me on a podcast.
  • Getting caught in the middle of a shootout.
  • Dancing around as a Van Halen girl on a movie set for 5 hours.
  • Having a homeless guy chase me through a parking lot and jangle his junk around while pointing at me.

All  instances that I followed coincidences to get to.

I like the idea of synchronicity and every time I’ve followed it, I’ve come out the other end with some sort of story to tell about it.

Greg Giraldo, an awesome comedian, keeps popping up.  In conversations, books,  and on TV. More than I’ve ever seen before, especially considering he died three years ago. I can’t turn a corner without someone mentioning him or some outlet referencing his stand-up.

It’s great, but it’s becoming unavoidable.

So I pulled up some video from his tribute special on Comedy Central. There’s a small segment of him describing his stand-up as “puckish.” I instantly thought of Puck from the Real World circa 1994. That and a Midsummer’s Night Dream poster with Michelle Pfeiffer on it, that hung in my 8th grade English class.

My ability to retain information has gone down since a six month stint in college, so I looked up “puckish.”

Essentially: “playful, in mischievous way.”

An adorable way to describe his comedy.

Then I thought to myself, I wish Greg Giraldo would haunt me and be my spirit guide in the world of comedy.

I thought on it for a while and thought of all the fun adventures we’d have.

Then I went and packed my crap up to go gym.

About ten minutes later, I went outside and opened the driver side door of my car and leaned across it. I threw my gym back to the passenger side, my ass is hanging out the door.

PSSST!

I turned around and looked at my house, thinking maybe my mom was trying to get my attention. Nothing was there.I turned back and started to climb into the car, ass still hanging out, I heard it again.

PSSSSST!

I turned around again, embarrassed, thinking someone was making fun of my ass and I hadn’t been sharp enough to catch them the first time. I turned back to the car.

PSST!!!

I looked around again, at the door of the house, the windows, the neighbors houses, behind the cars. I felt like an asshole. Was someone playing a joke on me and my ass?

It wasn’t an animal, there was no one around, and I haven’t smelt burning feathers recently. It sounded like someone was trying to get my attention.

Awfully, PUCKISH, amiright?

I scrambled into the car, locked the doors, and drove on the lawn.

Could this be another stepping stone on the synchronicity trail?

I’m going to meditate more on this and I’ll let you know if I conjure up anything else.

Until next time, fart-ners.

Paranoia and the Bad Driver

It probably comes to no surprise to you that I’m a terrible driver. Now that’s not to say  I don’t try but an unmedicated driver with ADD and a Bette Midler mix CD laying on the passenger side floor has never  resulted with a Harley J. Earl trophy on the living room mantle.  This week’s episode was one of my more traumatic experiences. Enjoy!

I live in a quiet (ghost) town with a small population. We’re only an hour away from a major city, a trip I’ve made many times with heightened anxiety and moderate incident. But there was something about the way my bra wasn’t fitting correctly that told me that tonight’s trip was going to be different.

I had been in the car with my old friend the”Service Engine Soon” light for about 20 minutes, when I finally made it onto the highway. I was going, and going, and going, without a care in the world, except for when the Bryan Adams song came on and then things really became touch and go. Other than that, everything was going smoothly. Until I hit some grooved pavement. The resounding clunk and screech of the car’s undercarriage being stripped away and the whiplash immediately sent me into a mental tailspin wondering, “Who could possibly be crossing the highway at this hour?” and “How long will  the strap of his overalls remain stuck to my tail pipe?” I looked in the rearview mirror but didn’t see any shoes in my trail. I figured I was probably safe after a few Hail Mary’s and a half of the Lord’s Prayer, (I got distracted, I told you-Bette).

At about 40 minutes into my trip, I’m almost at the home stretch. A few dead rodents on the side of the road and a couple dirty diapers, everything was heading back to normal. Except, wait…what is that? The road began to have a dark red tint to it. At first I thought maybe my eyes were just tired after some schmucko and his purple crap lights of Hyperion was riding my car’s supple bum cheeks, but this was no illusion. My first thoughts were “Oh God, how did this person’s blood get spattered IN FRONT of my car? Maybe someone else got hit by a car and they got dragged too! I wonder if they were friends hitch hiking and one got tired because he has water on the knee and couldn’t keep up?” among other things. I then had more rational thoughts, “Oh…maybe one of my headlights is going bad and turning the road red. Or maybe there’s a signal that get’s set off underneath your car when it’s about to explode?” After much research, the next day I found out it was just a truck that spilt paint, but I though my reasoning was pretty solid.

Homestretch, not that I know what that really feels like, as I am what people refer to as an “indoor girl.” Once at a 5th grade field day, I was up to bat for our softball game and someone shouted “LET’S GO SPORTY SPICE” and every since I’ve turned my back on the cruel, harsh reality of the sports world. I digress. Homestretch and I see my exit is coming up. I notice that the lines indicating that HEY YOU BETTER GO THIS WAY TO GET OFF THE EXIT are rapidly coming towards me, so I merge over to the right to get off the exit. However, duped again, this is no exit. “NO THRU DRIVE” and “EMERGENCY STOPPING ONLY” met me and my car face to face. In a panic I turned my hazard lights on, locked my doors, and looked around. Cars whizzed by. “They all know this isn’t an emergency. I DON’T WANT TO GO TO JAIL.” So I faked it; this is my confession. I sat there wide-eyed and nervously shaking as I chugged the rest of  my road Coke I brought with me. Maybe not an emergency to the common man, but when dealing with a great deal of anxiety sometimes carbonated corn syrup is exactly what the quack would prescribe.

I collected myself and merged back onto the highway, only to get off my exit 25 feet front the emergency stopping area. Imagine an audio bite of me sighing with relief. The night went on as planned after that, aside from parallel parking onto a Vespa, (sorry) and asking a hooker for walking directions to the nearest ladies room. Everything had fallen into place.

Well my Sour Patch Childrens, this concludes our evening. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I have. This trip probably would have been a piece of Papa Gino’s for you, but for a person riddled with anxiety, these things become exponentially more of a production. I didn’t even tell you about how I She-Hulked the ladies room door right off the hinges of the city’s most prolific lesbian bar, and when I found a one-person bathroom I couldn’t figure out how to get the door to lock so I dragged the 40lb. trash can to block and distract any intruders.

Okay, that’s my time! Off to dream about strudel and custard!