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Okay.
So, as mentioned earlier, I work nights. It’s pretty quiet – I only encounter two or three other drivers while I’m out on my route. These drivers are courteous, no doubt because they are sensible adults who recognize that it isn’t safe to drive like an asshole at 3 AM. I like them. They make my life pleasant, and they allow me to get home intact.
Now we come to the box truck. I do not like the box truck. This prick comes up behind me every night with his brights on, completely blinding me. He rides my ass for a good mile, and then passes once we get to a straightaway, pounding on his horn the entire way. I don’t know what I did to make the box truck hate me – maybe he dislikes sharing the road at night. Maybe he doesn’t like the look of my dainty little Honda. Whatever the reason, it doesn’t give him license to drive like a crazy person and put both our lives in danger.
A couple weeks ago, I lost my temper with Mister Box Truck. I just snapped. I’m not out here every night playing – I’m trying to earn a living, trying to be a responsible adult. This bullshit? Definitely not in my job description. Now usually, when we came to the straightaway and the truck began to pass on my left, I would brake and allow the bastard to get ahead of me.
On this particular night, I just stepped on the gas.
Yes, I know. Incredibly stupid and dangerous. I’m not denying that. I don’t really know what I was thinking in that moment – probably something juvenile like, “I’ll show you!” We raced for less than a minute before I returned to my senses and realized how foolishly I was behaving. I pulled off onto a side street, and the box truck went speeding off into the night.
I’m going to let you decide what the moral of the story is.
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Where the hell have I been?
I’ve been getting into car accidents, fighting off hordes of deer, and occasionally delivering newspapers. See, that’s my job. I get up every day at 2:15 AM, and I get into my car and I drive around delivering the paper. I don’t get days off, and I don’t get vacations, but I get paid. With like, real money. In my bank account. It’s really, really exciting.
There are downsides, of course. I haven’t had much time for blogging or socializing. My beloved car is taking a beating from all the miles I drive each day. I got into an accident last Saturday – I came around a corner too fast and my car ended up bouncing off a dirt wall and spinning around twice before gently bumping into a tree. I wasn’t hurt or anything – just a bit shaken up!
And there are so many deer! They are everywhere, and they clearly don’t give a fuck about anything. They stand in the road and just stare at me while I honk my horn and beg them to move. It kind of looks like this:
They just chew and stare. Fuckers.
So, that’s the deal with me. I’ve hated being away for so long, but I needed to get my life straightened out. You know how it is. What have you guys been up to in the meantime? Have you written any awesome blog posts that you want me to read? Tell me, tell me!
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Many moons ago, I briefly messed around with a guy before we pretty much just became friends. I don’t know why this is important to the story – I think I just needed an excuse to use the term “MESSED AROUND” because I think it’s hilarious.
Anyway.
One afternoon, we had plans to hang out. The Guy arrived at my dorm and wanted to use the bathroom before we set off on our adventure. My dorm was divided in half, with one side of the building belonging to the girls, and one side to the boys. Since I had never really needed to visit the boy’s side of the building, I had no idea where the men’s room was. The Guy set off to find it, and I waited.
After about ten minutes I began to feel impatient. I decided to call The Guy and see what the hell was going on.
“Hello?”
“Where the hell are you? Are you still peeing?”
There was a very long pause before the voice on the other end said, “Ah, you must be looking for my son. He’s out spending the afternoon with a friend.”
“Er, uh, you mean, this isn’t The Guy?” I asked stupidly.
“No, this is his father. You must have called our house by mistake.”
Honestly, at that moment, I prayed that somehow the Earth would open just a little bit and swallow me whole. As soon as I hung up the phone, The Guy rounded the corner and apologized for taking so long. I told him what had just gone down and he just thought it was hilarious. Me, not so much.
Months later, The Guy told me that his family referred to me as “The Pee Girl,” and as far as I know, they still do. The moral of the story? Dial carefully. Check before you hit send! You don’t want to end up like me, calling people’s fathers and asking them if they’re still peeing.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
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Not gonna lie – I’m a fan of Family Guy. Please, spare me your lectures about how it’s just a bunch of random jokes strung together. The only reason you think that’s a valid argument is because South Park did an episode about it. Get back to me when you do some original thinking on the subject kthxbye.
Moving on.
I like Family Guy, and when I like something, I share it with my family. So now I’ve got my Mom hooked. We’ll watch the show together, drink a couple margaritas, laugh, and just enjoy ourselves. It’s pleasant. I enjoy pleasant times with my family.
One night we’re watching an episode and my Mom turns to me and says,
“What’s the deal with Stewie?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why does he talk? And how do people understand him? He’s a baby. In diapers. And why does he have an accent? It’s so disturbing. He disturbs me.”
I am confused. My mother finds the talking baby strange. Yet Brian the dog, who also talks, drinks martinis and dates human women, doesn’t bother her at all. I point this out to her. “You realize that the dog talks too. And people also understand him.”
She waves her hand at me dismissively.
“Nah, that’s okay. I just think the baby is weird. I don’t like him.”
Let’s recap!
Talking baby: NOT COOL.
Talking dog: WELL THAT’S JUST FINE.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love my Mom.
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Let me share a story with you.
A couple years ago, I went on the worst interview of my entire life. The job I applied for? Dog walker. You wouldn’t think that an interview for something so simple as walking dogs would lead to thinly-veiled insults and mind games, but oh! You’d be so wrong. So, so wrong.
I should have suspected something wasn’t right when I pulled up to the enormous house the interview was to be conducted at. This is because rich people are Crazy. I was led inside by the owner, who I shall call Mr. Schmuck. His business partner, Miss Moneywhore, was interviewing three candidates in the dining room. Mr. Schmuck led me to the couch and we proceeded to sit in an awkward silence for twenty minutes. I attempted to make small talk – “You have a lovely home, sir.” – but my efforts were mostly ignored. At some point another interview candidate arrived and Mr. Schmuck trotted off to let him in.
At last, we were led into the dining room and a round of introductions were made. My interview partner, an older gentleman, innocently asked how long Mr. Schmuck and Miss Moneywhore had been together. The two immediately began denying any sort of relationship, telling us over and over again that they were simply business partners. Mr. Schmuck made his denial while staring directly at Miss Moneywhore’s bosom.
Yeah, business partners. Right.
Here is where the fun began: While describing the job, Miss Moneywhore informed us that it would be an excellent way to get in shape while having fun. Mr. Schmuck motioned to Miss Moneywhore’s tucked, sucked, Botoxed and excessively tanned body excitedly. “Yeah, you’ll really tone up and lose weight. Don’t you wanna look like her?”
WHAT. Now listen: I am a curvaceous, bodacious woman. My boobs are glorious. When our civilization crumbles and we return to a nomadic way of life, people will sit around campfires and tell stories about my boobs. They’re legendary, and I have no interest in shrinking down to a size nothing. Mr. Schmuck’s comment was so icky and sexual and inappropriate that my mouth fell open and I just stared at him. Even my interview partner seemed mortified!
Of course, Mr. Schmuck and Miss Moneywhore didn’t notice. They droned on and on, bragging about how Miss Moneywhore had trained with Cesar Milan and how we wouldn’t just be dog walkers, we’d be representatives of the brand they were trying to build, blah blah blah. I stumbled out to my car with the promise from those two assholes that they would make their hiring decisions soon, but I had already made a decision of my own: TO NOT WORK FOR THESE PEOPLE EVER.
Here is the happy ending: Last I heard, their grand plans for a dog walking empire failed. Miss Moneywhore is now slaving away in a dog grooming salon, where even her fake tan cannot save her.
The End.
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How many of you have parents that use Myspace or Facebook? I’m curious because my mother is on Facebook. She reads all my status updates and sends me quizzes and little gifty-things. And because she’s a proud mother, she posts photographs of me and tells her friends stories about me. So her friends, who are also on Facebook, send requests for friendship. I approve them immediately – my mom and I are really close, and her friends are my friends.
… Ooooh, do you hear that? It’s the sound of a BUT coming.
Get ready.
Ohhhhhhh, here it comes.
BUT.
I swear. I swear a lot. I watch movies and read books where the word FUCK appears more often than WHAT or THE. My status updates and Twitter feed are all little snippets of my mind at the exact moment that I share them. And they are just chock-full of FUCK SHIT PISS GOD DAMN SON OF A BITCH TITTY FUCK FUCKER. So when my Mom recently asked one of her girlfriends if she’d seen an update from me, her friend replied with, “Your daughter is so funny and smart, but she …. she really swears a lot!”
(did you notice the BUT in there? sneaky little bastard.)
Yes, my language gets salty. It’s a necessity. These words come out when I am either extremely delighted with something or extremely displeased. If I get hit in the face with a baseball I’m not going to sit back and say, “Well, that certainly wasn’t what I was expecting!”
No, I’m going to say, “WHAT THE HOLY FUCK WAS THAT SHIT!”
And you can’t fucking tell me you wouldn’t do exactly the same. God dammit.
Shit.
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