So normally my day goes about like this:
Or maybe like this:
Yeah, so what? I like to change my wigs and underpants frequently. I have what you could call a library. Best practices.
But somehow (giant novelty check) I became bamboozled into working (a job?? I think?) recently. It’s as easy as falling over and getting herpes from a toilet seat. One day you are sitting at home, then the phone rings, and you are all “Yes, that is me, I have a personal internet profile. Oh, what? Work? I guess I can do that thing you claim to need,” and then you have to go meet with a string of people and tailor your personal presentation carefully to each distinct personality vetting you. And you wore the blazer, and that always makes you look smart. Yeah? I know. Really cute. I would hire me.
And then, a few weeks later, I find myself doing this…thing…apparently some people do it every day. I don’t know what you call it, but it’s like a flash mob of otherwise well-intentioned people show up to drive 15 mph for 10 mile stretches at a time. WHAT IS THIS? Normally I am a maximizer and not a satisficer (think of how long it takes me to pick out panties), but when it comes to this vehicular theater, I am middle lane all the way. Screw those guys, with their left lane, and their lane changes, and their oh wait I have to move over again, now back again, oh, exit only lane? Oops! I will pass you anyway. I will bury you. I don’t know who thought up this little charade, but it is not appreciated.
Also, it turns out I am not working for the C.I.A. This is disappointing. Being recruited has really lost its charm now. What am I supposed to do with my wigs? IDK, I am still staring at goats. Here’s hoping. I will vaporize all those cars in front of me.
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.
Some of you have been asking “where in the H-E-double-hockeysticks is Lambchop?” The answer is Maui, of course. In an evening gown. Like Tina Louise.
For those of you who prefer reality, and some of you actually purport to, I am still hackiliciously ill. I almost took a day off work. My pal Stu offered to drive me in, however, and so I put on my fur hat and 12 degrees below zero sure does interesting things. We were off to a merry start, breathing thick plumes of vapor and fiddling with the radio, but the joke was on us. We had a FLAT. I did finally make it, thanks to the umcomplaining speed with which Stu changed the tire. It is possible to get through a situation like that without ranting a vile stream of oaths. Who knew?
I worked two hours of overtime just so I could get a complimentary taxi ride home.
Unfortunately, there went my ride to go see my friend’s gallery opening in New Haven. My old pal Chris Mir is among my favorite living painters. Plus, he is really hot, which everyone should be if they can help it. I will fill you in when This Charming Man opens again in New York.
Aside from my adventure yesterday, I have been keeping to my room, because when I laugh, I am bent over in a coughing fit and its getting a bit too urchin-y. So I will emerge at some point, swan-like and breathing velvet. See you then!
Two weeks ago, a butterfly flapped its wings in Moscow. Today I impulse-purchased a Volkswagen. And you know what? I instantly started to drive like a total asshole. Like I’m from Cambridge. For my next trick, I’ll pop out a few kids and let them pull shit off the shelves in Bread & Circus while I yap into a cellphone headset.
Oh, the car. It’s Galactic Blue (hooray for Science!), with lots of bells and whistles and even jimcracks and doohickeys. And technically it was not a purchase, but a lease. So at some point over the holidays I’ll have the pleasure of explaining to my parents and other older family members that I do not actually have “anything to show for it.” It’s the matrix, ma.
Another plus: we got rid of Mr. H’s Ford Focus. Now the family of spiders that lives in it is someone else’s problem. Shudder. I am certain Super Townie at the dealership plans to set the white whale on fire and roll it into a lake. And he’d be right to do it.