I know it’s weird I’m writing on a Sunday, especially on a national holiday, but if you stop twisting your hankie in shock, you’ll see there’s a logical explanation. You’ll be at peace. Smoking your peace pipe.
What was in a peace pipe? Was it the maryjane? Or just regular tobacco that you can buy at the mall? Oh my god, what was that store called, where you could buy pipe tobacco and cigars in the mall? It was over there by Things Remembered.
Now I’d have to shop at Nothing Remembered. Because look how quickly I’ve segued off into a useless topic and not addressed why I am typing you while your family waits for you to cut the lamb cake.
Anyway, here’s my story:
On Thursday night, The Poet and I went to Rifftrax. I know I’ve told you what that is before, but someone is out there saying, “What’s that?”
Didja ever watch Mystery Science Theater in the ’90s? It’s those same people who did that show. They go to some theater somewhere in America and stream a bad old movie, live, and make fun of it and we get to sit in a theater and watch, too, and listen to them make fun of it. There is always one point during either Mystery Science Theater or Rifftrax that I think I am going to barf from laughing.
And those are the kinds of good times I look for.
I’m disappointed to tell you that The Poet did not get popcorn the size of her head this time. We’d been let out of work early, as they generally let us go at 3:00 the day before a holiday, which has always been a lovely perk. (In the South, everyone gets Good Friday off. It counts as a holiday. God love this Confederate-flag-flying area.) Due to this, she’d gotten to actually go home and have dinner before the movie, so her popcorn requirements were lessened.
When they let us out early, I took a walk before I went home, as kitten head wasn’t expecting me till after 5:00 and it was only 3:00.
I’ve been walking the trail next to work for years now, and I’ve always liked this green sideways house. Now it’s for sale! I looked it up, of course, and it’s too expensive, which we all knew, but why not look. Sure is cute inside. I could cram a lot more animals in there.
My walking trail has lots of workout equipment on it, which as you can imagine I’ve never gone near except to occasionally make fun of it for the crowd, if I’m walking with a crowd. Every so often some young fit boy is using these and that’s not too shabby.
This part’s sad. This is one of those stories where a perfectly healthy kid went to football practice and died. What the hell with those stories. His parents dedicated a park bench to him and set up this little area here where his friends paint rocks for him and so on. They change the flags regularly.
A bunch of us thought of dedicating a park bench to Griff, inscribed with, “Benches are stupid.”
When it’s just me, rather than turn around on the trail and go back the way I came, I cross the street and walk back the rich-people’s-houses way.
When my Uncle Leo first started dating my Aunt Kathy, he thought our family was rich because we had grass. I guess rich houses are a matter of perspective. But these seem pretty ritzy to me.
My point is, it was a lovely walk and then a lovely afternoon with my foster kitten and my regularly scheduled cats, and one coworker even came by and that was lovely, and then I had a hilarious, lovely evening with Rifftrax…
In all, it was a very lovely life. Then the evening was over and I was sort of eager to get back to my kitten, as I have never left him at that time of night, which at this point was 10:15. I said so long to The Poet and got in my car. And?
Dead. Morte. Fin.
My car was as dead as a doornail, which if you ask me is an interesting phrase. It wasn’t so interesting to ME, however, the lone hairwoman in a movie theater parking lot at 10:15 at night. The Poet had screeched her tires getting away from me and had no idea of the fate that had befallen me. (We live less than a mile from each other; why the hell didn’t we carpool?)
There were two middle-aged bordering on old men having an intense talk at their cars nearby. They looked like rapists to me. Everyone did at that point. I’d just the night before had a dream that I was attacked in a parking lot, I am not kidding. I’d woken up with a start. And there I was, livin’ the dream, as it were.
Those two men acted like they hadn’t talked to anyone in 14 centuries, but I was certain that was a ruse to gang rape me as soon as I left my car. I nervously stared out my rearview mirror at them. (I want to add that through this entire scenario, they acknowledged me nonce.)
I called a towing service, and the dispatcher said, “You know what I’d do, since you’re over at the mall (it’s an outdoor mall), is just walk over to Sears and get you some jumper cables.”
Would you like to know what annoys me? (Everyone gets out their scroll of Things That Annoy June.) Is people deciding they know what I should do in my crisis du jour. Like my brain couldn’t have possibly run through the scenarios myself.
“It’s 10:30 at night and Sears is closed (asshole),” I said. Without the parenthetical. Also, what if it wasn’t my battery? Jesus. So to speak. I know he’s cranky cause he just got up, so I’ll stop conjuring him.
Finally, the World’s Most Reluctant to Send a Tow Truck Tow Truck Company (Slogan: We argue about sending a tow truck) arrived, and the person driving it was a woman with red hair. Nonsense? She had none. She got out her jumper cables and got to work.
Turns out, it wasn’t m’battery, and it was around then I started to worry a bit. That’s not true. I’d started to worry many minutes back. Waldorf and Stadler kept their conversation going at the next car, never putting down their popcorn (people who baffle me: the take-your-movie-food-with-you type) and NEVER GLANCING MY WAY.
The tow truck lady and I hooked my car up with this hookie thing I have under my front seat and WHO KNEW and off we drove to my house because I didn’t know what else to do with my dead car. We should’ve just tied it to the top of her truck like a dead deer.
Meanwhile, I have the world’s quietest neighborhood, despite it being sort of poor. I mean, people close up shop about 9 p.m., and since most of the streets are dead ends and we have the tracks behind us, it always kind of stuns me how quiet it really is at night.
Imagine everyone’s delight, then, when Large Marge, here, gets out of a tow truck at 11 p.m. and the hissing and steaming and beeping and chains and what have you begin as we drop my poor dead car off on my teensy, built-almost 100-years-ago street.
Every single neighbor I have peeked out–I saw them. The trucker across the street, who is very nice, actually came out. “You okay?” he asked, looking at my car with Xs for eyes.
The next day, The Other Copy Editor, fmr., came over, as we’d made plans weeks ago. I’d had that nice service station that had fixed my flat tire come get my car, and while she and I were having tea at a, you know, tea shop,
they rang me and said my car was ready. Oh, we were so excited. They’d said it really was just the battery, after all. So we finished our tea and headed over there, paid the $129 (total so far: $75 to tow car from movies to home, $129 to fix “the battery”) and I got in the car.
“I’ll wait to make sure everything’s okay,” said TOCE, fmr., and I put the key in, and?
Nothing. Dead. Morte. Fin.
To make a long story short,
in the end, it turns out my KEY was worn out. Mini Coopers use this disk key thing, not a traditional key, and one nub on it was worn down, and when they called me and said, “Do you have another key?” not only did I, I knew where it was, in an odd fit of organization.
And? It worked. Two hundred dollars later I just needed the other key.
So that’s that story, and now I must tell you that I am leaving for the beach for a few days. I am going to a beach house with my coworker Lottie Blanco, and her wife, Lottie Blanco, plus some of their other friends. I have decided that it will be a real vacation, and that means no blogging or cell phone use or anything, although if something magnificent happens I will photograph it and put it somewhere, like my ass or Instagram or something.
A woman at work, appropriately named Kitty, is taking over kitten duty for me, and Edsel will be at the dog daycare. The other cats, who I paid attention to, fmr., will be getting the automatic feeder and so on. Oh, they’ll be fine. Untwist your hankie. That’s a big phrase for me today.
Anyway, have a good Easter, if you’re into that sort of thing, and–oh, man, you know what I wish I had? Some scalloped potatoes. Man, that sounds delicious.
My chubby self and I will talk to you in a few days. On the third day I’ll rise again.