Good gravy, I had that migraine all day yesterday. From the moment I woke up till I finally gave up and fell asleep at 9 p.m.
That second sentence was a clarification, in case you were unclear what I meant by “all day.” Me and my big words.
This means that yesterday was not what you’d call eventful. I did go to work, but after awhile my boss was completely over me and sent me home. Also too, I was that kind of out of gas where you’re honestly worried you might not make it home, and I had to make an annoying and painful and nauseating trip to the gas station on the way home from work.
My car, my fancy 2012 car, told me I had 15 miles I could still drive it yet, but I don’t quite trust that alert thing, because some days it’ll say, You have 29 miles to go before you run out of gas, and then the next day I get in the car and it’ll tell me, Yeah, you’re good. You’ve got 35 miles you can still go before it’s walk-on-the-side-of-the-road-with-a-gas-can time.
Don’t you always feel terribly sorry for those people? How chaotic is your life that you ran out of gas?
Actually, I ran out of gas once. Don’t all gasp at once like that. You’ll ruin the ozone.
In my defense, I was a mere child: 34. Marvin had gotten me a new car. For the 106 years we were married, Marvin always bought and sold all the cars. He’d just tool up with a different one and I’d be all, “Okay.” My yellow Bug was the first one I got to pick out myself, and then he was so unnecessarily appalled that I made the sales guy open the driver’s-side doors so I could see the month my potential cars were made, to know what sign they were before I made my final selection. (My yellow Bug was an Aries.)
Anyway, the time I ran out of gas was two cars before the yellow Bug. When I was dating Marvin, he hated my red Nissan Pulsar. Hated. I had smushes on both sides of it. I BOUGHT it smushed on one side, because it was cheap, and yes, I know. Shut up.
So then I parked it on the street in front of my cute Seattle apartment because I had to,
and a CRAB TRUCK plowed right into it. Crabs! Hit by my own astrological sign! It’d be like if a car full of virgins hit you, or a driving goat.
I know a crab truck hit me because a school bus was behind said crab truck and they saw the whole thing: The symbol-of-Cancer truck plow into me and drive away, that is. The bus driver took down the license plate of said truck and called the police, and for me, all I had to do was wake up later and find a nice note from the police, in a plastic baggie on my windshield, telling me all I had to do to get the crab place to pay up.
And MAN, that crab place was, you know, crabby when I called. “How do we know the school bus driver didn’t make it up? How do you know it was us?” Yeah. He randomly selected you, the big moneybags local crab shop, so we could hit you up for that deductible.
Oh my god, anyway.
So by the time Marvin came along, I was driving a car with BOTH sides smushed, and he told me I wasn’t allowed to enter LA with that vehicle. I can’t believe I listened to him, but I did, and went out and selected a new car based solely on the fact that it had the same initials as me.
[Tens of people try to think of a car with the initials JG before remembering that isn’t my name.]
A Kia Sephia, okay? I bought a Kia Sephia.
Well. This appalled Marvin just as much, and why didn’t I tell him to go fuck himself sideways? It wasn’t HIS money getting spent. What the hell was I thinking, on my vast receptionist’s salary, going out and getting another car just because stupid Marvin didn’t approve of the one I had? Ima go back to 1996 and slap my own self.
So, a few years later, Marvin bought me a different car, and this time it was OUR money, at least. He got me a Kia Sportage, which no longer matched my initials because by this point I had Marvin’s initials, and there are no KD cars. But I had this long commute, see, and the gas gauge was NEAR empty one night, and I wanted to see how much it cried wolf before I had to fill the tank.
And that is when I ran out of gas on the 101 Freeway in Los Angeles.
Fortunately, I had a cat-gray cell phone the size of a shoe, and you had to open it up–to say it “flipped” would be generous. Anyway, I opened the gray shoe and called the AAA, there, and the guy came to my rescue with a can of gas. HE was the one walking the freeway with the gas can, not me. My life was perfectly in control.
“I put this in your tank, ma’am, and what you’re gonna wanna do is get to a gas station right away.”
As I drove off, I was a tad huffy. Well, of COURSE I was going to a gas station right away. Did he think I was an IDIOT?
And right then I knew. Yes. Yes, he DID think I was an idiot, because I let myself run out of gas in the first place. Neither he nor Marvin enjoyed my theory that it was a new car and I needed to know how far I could push it.
While I’ve been telling you this important story that’s going to make a big difference in your life, I heard the telltale sound, FLOOMPF,
of S Dan, Lead Cat of All Assy Cats, leaping to the roof to survey his domain.
Whoever said he’s a high-up cat is so correct. Not all cats are. Lily springs to mind.
I’ve got to get in the shower and try to function among the living. I’m, like, 48% out of it right now, and have none of the energy. I didn’t even get up and go to spinning before my morning run.
Before I go, I wanted to share with you this photo my cousin put on the Facebook today. Apparently, it’s my aunt and uncle’s 59th wedding anniversary, so my cousin put up their wedding pictures. She is like me with the whole enjoying old things. Everything about those pictures–my aunt’s dress, the cars, the BRIDESMAID’S DRESSES ON MY GOD, I adore.
But since they aren’t my pictures I felt weird about stealing them all. I DID steal this one of my mother and my Aunt Kathy, cause it kills me.
Look how fancy. That pink dress of my Aunt Kathy’s later became my play dress and I LOVED it.
I love things in my own way.
Okay, talk at you later, and don’t forget to fill your gas tanks.