What’s up, Retardo Montalban? Yeah, you like that one? I thought of it in the drive through at Dunkin’ Donuts. Sometimes I call the cat that, so you are not even worthy of an original insult.
In addition to my laundry and Zellweger duties, sometimes I like to take the car in for regularly scheduled service. The dealership pimps both Hondas and German Cars Assembled in Mexico, and today the waiting room was full of Honda people. Fucking Christ. They were all knitting and passing around Pampered Chef catalogs taken out of tote bags that came free with some mundane woman’s grooming item purchase. This one douche bag took over several chairs with her “scrapbooking” gear. She was mutilating photos of her children by trimming with a paper cutter and then bedazzling them on pages made out of what looked like wallpaper samples.
So I scrunched down in a chair, holding an issue of Travel + Leisure two inches from my face, to protect me from the Honda rays. I was reading about truffles and figs and suckling pigs with brittle skin and restaurants I’ve recently eaten at, and Scrapbook Lady started blah-blahing to Knitting Lady (I am doing a writing thing that John Gardner hates here) about how it would be so great to travel to places like “Europe.” And how she’d like to see the llamas some day. I am pretty sure you can go see some llamas in Jamaica Plain, but maybe she meant Lorenzo Lamas? At any rate (more crappy writing), a little man soon appeared and called me by my husband’s last name. He called it several times before I realized Mrs. Mr. H meant me. I asked him what kind of car he had, and he said a Honda. Jerkass.
