the oogy dance

So, I have a new old car. This car has a sunroof. I've never had a sunroof before, therefore I forget and leave it open all the time. Thus, things can get in at will. Rain, leaves, etc. I have explained all this since the etc is the problem. I was driving to work and to get the kids from the ex, and I felt what I thought was a lock of hair across my forehead. In a natural gesture, I brushed it away, and for a split second I thought my hair had fallen out. Then I realized what I was clutching was not my prized mane, althought that might have been an improvement. Oh no, in my hand sat a wolf spider. Now, I have an unnatural fear of spiders in hair due to an incident as a teen, so I did what anyone else would do. I slammed on the E-brake and took my foot off the clutch, and before the car even stopped bucking I had thrown myself out of the car in a desperate manuever that probably should have involved helmets and landing gear, and proceeded with the screaming, hair tearing hysterics. The spider had sensibly long since fled. Mid-fit, I realize I am blocking traffic at a 4-way stop sign in a fucking school zone. There must have been 50 people watching, gape-mouthed, as I danced around rending my hair. I did what seemed senseable and took a bow, re-entered the car, and continued on. Oh, and I havebeen closing the sunroof.

mind wanderings

So I promised some people that I would get back to this. Here it is. Well. That was anticlimactic. So lately I have been going through some changes. Not the ones physically, athough 30 is looming ever nearer. Mental stuff. I have found that I have been having some interesting conversations, read some good books, and generally been happier now that I have decided that making people like me is'nt my responsibility, that there are as many sides of a story that there are witnesses, that people are a mess everywhere, and that messes are'nt always the end of the world. Not to say that I can't still have appriciation for a white Bronco with the plate NOT OJ, just that sarcasm does'nt rise to the surface quite as easily as it once did. I suppose it helps that mortality is not just a social construct anymore. I get it. I've seen it. As is'nt one of those try-it-on-and-return-later goods, I am thankful for that. Watching the news the other day seemed like one of those spoof reels, Japan followed by Charlie Sheen. No wonder I am reaching for the inner peace. Seems odd that other than donating to a cause, the best thing I can do to help the world is staying out here in the ass end of nowhere and planting giant sunflowers with my kids. At least then we are'nt out pulling a Gozilla on the world, rasing Young Republicans, or impeding fair trade. Hopefully gardening has also not been suspect for bombing nations, ruining civilizations, or the Macarana.

I feel pretty, oh so pretty....

My job has awesome perks. I get paid well, it's union, I get to do the hardcore workouts I am too lazy to do otherwise, I see really hot guys often enough to be relieved to not actually have to stoop to talking to them, I get to do what I enjoy, some of the things that are asked of me are hysterical, but best of all....are the people who pay all this money for a show ticket, and then obviously spend the day before heading to the venue playing pin the tail on the way too short skirt obviously designed to flatter that corroding Ring-Ding receptical with all the unappealing characteristics of two 7 lb Jello molds with cottage cheese hips as accessory scarf, complete with fishnet tights which when worn as conneseurs like yourself prefer, in a size that can only be described as criminally ambitious when viewed through the horror lens of your flesh making a break for it through the holes as if your chubstumps were anti-porno braille. This ever classy tribute to bubble wrap perfectly illustrated, as only re-runs of national disasters of epic preportions are wont to be by your eye-catching(and dragging) Grimace-purple clingy top obviously chosen to be the topper on this obscene bakery item you have chosen to reveal to all and sundry by a simple alteration to the bottom of the shirt with your handy kitchen shears, thusly making the pendulous jelly roll that frames your waist as flatteringly as a herpies outbreak in a Cancun bordello seem even more right for your personal fashon Armageddon when balanced by your frosted-wheat curls painfully shellacked into a air-raid helmet that leaves all trailing in your wake gasping as if in a Raid and Shower-to-Shower cloud of spray-can induced world harmony. And Oh! You have brought a guest. He certainly seems to be enjoying himself, decked out in clean duds that almost clear the crack of his ass. It's almost worthy of a religious ceremony, but while all decent dice-toting Princess Leia worshipping chronic masturbators are heading for the auditory slaughter of the local emo band, you, Sir, are a leader. It's obvious that your dedication to Star Wars is not going to be quelled by a puny toy collection. No, you are a warrior, as determined by your firm grip on your World of Warcraft action guide, lest some poor unfortunate be afflicted by the audacity to try a snatch-and-grab on the Holiest of Holies. Your stand as proudly as your donut-seat cushion will allow from its near surgical grasp of your Chewbacca-worthy nether mounds. Stand tall, bask in the victory! You and your Date-A-Wreck are almost certain to be mistaken for stars of the silver screen. She for her wonderful rendition over the dessert buffet of Violet, the ponderous near-tusked hooligan who turned the same flattering blueberry color only affected by elderly Asian males and your particular sub-species as so elegantly displayed in that gluttonous family favorite, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. And while your made-for-TV star is not yet on the rise, I will take to the streets to defend your honor, since it is blindingly apparent that through a terrible misjudgement your role of perfection was cast to another, a second-rate crooner who did nothing to improve his lot while you would have charged ahead, giving valor to the show in your spot-on method acting in Life Goes On. For you, sunshine, the only limit is your mother's stolen credit card.