I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been given a description of the acceptable girl for (now that I think about it) the guys who never have girlfriends. Anyway, it usually goes something like this…
“I don’t like girls who burp, fart, have diarrhea, or other bodily functions. And if you mention monthly menstrual fluids, I will gag and throw up. I will not date any girl who does any of these things. Girls are not supposed to be thought of in this manner, and I don’t want to date any girl who does any of these things.”
I’ve been told as of late that I shouldn’t let things bother me so, that I should get over it and move on. This is of course is from the mouths of babes who think they have life figured out without ever having stepped foot in it. But in the spirit of acceptance, let me try and help the poor darlings. I propose a new product that finds its home nicely within the fetishism of commodity. Corks for your every need… to plug her up.
Just out of curiosity boys, do you look away and plug your ears as the air escapes from your quintessential blow up doll?
I no doubt will receive many spirited responses. I welcome them, and to those who choose the route of defense for this plastic notion of a woman, I will not ridicule you. I merely offer to your overestimated mouth my overabundance of unused corks.
This has nothing to do with my blog, but I had to share....
Strange day. It was a nightmare of course... nothing else could have been so perfect as to reaffirm what seems to be the inevitable... nothing goes smoothly for me. Call the wambulance, I know.
Strange day. It was surreal... movie material for Russell, I'm sure. I ended up laughing and actually grateful for the cause of more grief to come in the next few weeks. Because somehow it reaffirmed that I actually can connect with people, and life can actually be taken NOT so seriously. Imagine that. Please slap me if that is anywhere near the realm of Og Mandino reiteration.
Anyway - so here's what will probably be one of my favorite stories for a while... if I can even do it justice. Seriously.
Driving on the Bush, minding my own business. All of a sudden, my car is jolted. I have no idea what it is or where it's coming from, but I've been hit. I fish tail all over the place. Luckily there is nothing in the left lane because whatever hit me knocked my car clear over into the left side of the highway. I'm actually pretty good about gaining control of a car when spinning or fishtailing on a slick surface. But there was a second when I thought I wasn't going to get control of the car and thought I was going to be slammed by oncoming traffic any second, or else roll.
The next thing I know, I'm right again and on the left shoulder of the highway.
Fast forward a bit.
The guy who hits me is the sweetest old guy who is driving a big dump truck full of dirt for a paving company. Yes - a BIG DUMP TRUCK! He immediately admits it's his fault, yada yada.
This is when this all turns funny.
I insist on waiting for the police since my insurance company so politely looked up the number for me and suggested I do so just in case Mr Tonka decides to change his story later.
So these HUGE police officers arrive, and immediately I sense that they are quite the characters. We explain what happened. Voila. Of course, little miss priss, who by the way is dressed in a t-shirt, sweat pants, and swimming pool thongs because she’s on her way to move yet another load of crap that seems to multiply in the closet in her absence, forgets that her inspection sticker is expired. When the nice cop giant points this out, she throws up her hands in exasperation and exclaims, “I know!” in quite the “what else can go wrong?” tone of voice.
“Well, just give me your license and insurance.” Yeah – about that. I can’t seem to find the current insurance ID card. Now, when I say current, we’re talking 2005!!!!!!! The giant breaks into a full laugh at this point. I point out that I can keep digging, to which he remarks, “You might want to do that because otherwise I have to give you a citation for that too.” Have we forgotten that a big tonka truck just side swiped me at 70 mph on the highway?
So the accident report ritual ensues, during which at one point I silently point out to myself what a great tan I must be getting under the beating sun for 2 hours.
The tonka driver’s supervisor is now irritated because the driver will be receiving a ticket. Of course I’m amused that the officer must now explain that he’s getting a ticket because he made a bad lane change and CRUSHED THE SIDE OF MY CAR. But he is quite the sweet little old man and received bad news well. In spite of the fact that company policy requires him to now take a drug test and a driving course, he finds the presence of mind to come over and ask me out to dinner. Yes, that’s what I said.
Finally the pavers are out of the way and I’m relieved to see that I will be receiving my own tickets out of view of the two who didn’t want me to call the police in the first place. Here they come a-walking over with smirks.
“What are we gonna do about this insurance?” “Want me to call them for you? They can verify it over the phone.” “Sure! Because what you gave me was totally bogus. 2005?” “Well – I did just find the 2006 card in the back seat!” “Well – at least you’re going in the right direction!” They’re both getting a good laugh out of this. I’m shocked he’s letting me try to call. I’m calling and pressing buttons and pressing buttons and pressing buttons. There is a special place in hell for that little gecko. My late Samantha likes to chew them just to cause internal bleeding in the transparent little suckers.
Meanwhile the giant is writing eternally on that clipboard. I notice a familiar one-eyebrow expression of disapproval. I realize he’s looking at my feet. “Yes – I know I need a pedicure!” I exclaim. Okay – now we’re all doubled over laughing. Are these real cops?
They get tired of waiting and go back to their car while I’m pushing buttons. “Miss Nielsen!” I look up to find the cop giants have pulled up next me in the grass with the window rolled down. “Just fax it to me!” “Seriously?” “Yes!” Okay.
I’m now out of my car and leaning into the passenger window of cop giant #1 while he taunts me about my inspection sticker. I assure him that I’m going to take care of it right that second. He wants to know how he will know. I offer to take a picture of it, scan it, and fax it along with the insurance. He smiles. “We’re going up here to eat at Chick-Fil-A. You exit here and find a place to get an inspection. By the way, have you eaten yet?” Um – yeah, I just said that too. Did they just invite me to eat lunch with them?
Yes, I’ve eaten. Yes, I will follow you and exit and get an inspection.
“Miss Nielsen, you know we shouldn’t be joking around and laughing like this, but I can tell that you’re cool, and I’m cool. So you take care of this, and I’ll pull this ticket.”
Done. Please let him remember to check the fax machine and pull it. The last thing I need is a warrant out for my arrest because I didn’t pay a ticket that I thought was torn up.
So I left out a ton of details. I can’t begin to try to recreate the spontaneous dialogue that got funnier and funnier.
Anyway – to my friend, Russell. I promise never to argue that women don’t get out of tickets. I got hit by a tonka truck going 70 miles an hour, got asked out by the driver who hit me, had an expired inspection sticker and no proof of insurance, didn’t get a ticket for either, and was asked to lunch by the cops. Pretty good for a day’s work, eh? ;-)
Thanks for letting me drive off with a laugh. I so needed it.
Video from my MFA Exhibition. I listened to two hours of television in the background, recording the phrases from commercials and talk shows. It's amazing how we get used to being bombarded with messages to cure our never-ending imperfections.
My friend, Witchy, tagged me with a meme. Here are the rules:
Give eight random facts/habits about yourself then tag eight other bloggers.
So here goes...
1 - I was your friendly flight attendant for four years back in my twenties. I flew for American Airlines who had the mindset not to offend the passengers by pointing out the nearest exit. How progressive of them. I hated it. The job itself wasn't anything that was so difficult, aside from putting passengers with wondering hands in their place. But it was hard to always live out of a suitcase and never be able to plan anything more than one month in advance.
2 - I have a weakness for saving little kitties. I recently took in 3 siblings who were hiding under a neighbor's driveway. They're awful cute, but I fear that I will soon endure the heartache of letting them go. My Jada, after all, is queen of the house.
3 - I have a really bad habit of biting my lips while editing.
4 - I also have a really bad habit of procrastinating. If a major deadline looms over my head, either my house is worthy of an operating room inspection or I'm feeding the entire city.
5 - I have a strange sense of who is about to call. I usually know the phone is about to ring before it does, and I usually know who is calling. It sometimes freaks me out.
6 - I love 80's music. I get a lot of flack for this. But hey - I get a lot of flack for a lot of things.
7 - I value solitude more than I should. I think it started when I had to depend on myself to be whole after the divorce.
8 - Games drives me crazy. Any kind of game. They make me unbelievably nervous. I'm afraid I'm not going to do something right I guess. So if I can go against the grain and try to succeed at doing the opposite of the traditional goal, I'm in. Spades? I'm going nill. ;-)
Watching people mull over packages of meat at the grocery store amuses me. I know, I need a life. As one who doesn't eat or cook much meat, I fear not following the recipe precisely and only accept the ideal weight prescribed. It somehow reminds me of the relentless messages thrown at me regarding ideal size and the ways in which to achieve perfection.
Countless products to measure, reduce, expand, calculate. She's packaged, suffocated, presented. For sale. But she's only picked off the shelf if she meets the calculation du jour.
I myself have never been able to find out precisely what a feminist is, I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. ~Rebecca West
"Well behaved women rarely make history." ~Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
