And Lord, what mayhem I returned to. But first, to quench your obvious and borderline insatiable thirst for tales of my fumble-tastic exploits south of the border: I have to explain all that to you in several separate posts, because frankly, there is so much that is worthy of sharing with you, my loving public/cult, that if I were to post it all at once, you'd kill me...or just not read it all, the knowledge of which would then kill me, so really, you'd kill me.
Right, so this morning began with Mom and I pounding Hampton Inn Specialty Roast and bombing our insides with gummy, undercooked biscuits from the "Complimentary Diarrhea" continental breakfast to fuel up for the seven hour drive home. Really, I just had to jack myself up enough to be more than a semi-conscious body in the seat next to her, so I could keep her company while she piloted us safely home. I had offered to drive, but since her Tahoe is smarter than I am (including one of those Harry Potter back gates that you just wave at and it closes, magic-like), we decided it was in our best interest if I just played delirious and drooled copiously in the passenger seat.
And thus began our trip back through both Cackalackies, back to the Capitol of the Confederacy. We stopped for gas at one point in a townlette best described as Trailer Trash West, and if there had been any question that we were in the Bible Belt, it was dispelled by a gas pump that tried to show us the light: The computer display had been programmed to spell out "HE IS RISEN" at the end of every statement that punctuated the transaction.
"Would you like a car wash today? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Is your transaction complete? HE IS RISEN"
[yes]
"Would you like a receipt? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Seriously? HE IS RISEN"
[yes, seriously]
"But HE IS RISEN and He really feels you should keep a balanced checkbook."
[YES]
"Thank you for your patronage today SEE YOU IN HELL HE IS RISEN"
Seven hours and six bouts of Sleeping Buttcheek Syndrome later, we arrived home. My first hint that something was wrong was that the moment I unlocked the door, Mango wasn't immediately humping my legs, so excited to have me back that he morphed into a sex-crazed teenage boy. He was slinking around, looking at me sideways like he knew what I did back in '98, and yowled like Tina Turner if I tried to pick him up. I knew something was wrong with the local LoveSlut, and so after much uneducated evaluation and discussion with Lawyer Boy* of the brutal wound to the checking account that I knew a vet visit would be, I wrestled the cat into the cat carrier, which is as much fun as wrangling Ozzie Osbourne into sobriety, and shuffled him to the vet.
Before I ran off with the cat and the bank account balance, however, I checked with our neighbors, Erin and Edward,** who had graciously agreed to watch over our flock while we were gone, and apparently Sir Bleeds-a-Lot had decided to spend Friday night outside. He had bolted when they weren't looking, and the little fatty had come back just in time for breakfast the next day, after having tried to convince the whole city, unsuccessfully, that he was a badass. Just like every other man I know.
Two hours and TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR DOLLARS*** later, the vet had determined that our little furry rebel had, in fact, gotten in a fight with the neighborhood feline Greaser, and was in need of antibiotics and having a thermometer shoved up his reckless ass. So, pumped full of fluids and delightful drugs, I took him home, unhappily in his plastic cat-taxi, and deposited him inside the front door, before I realized something important: I hadn't left that CD in my passenger seat. Or that set of directions to a house on Lake Anna. Or that cup from Chipotle.
Someone had ransacked my car! And thrown all the contents of the console into the floor! And had taken nothing! HOLY CRAP WHAT?????
This happened to LB a few months ago, when he accidentally left his car open and the neighborhood friendlies opened his door, roughed up his console, and eventually walked away with the 27 cents in his cup-holder. This time, it was particularly obvious that the friendlies had just been looking for cash and not a car or black-market goods, since the car itself was unharmed and none of the contents of the console was missing. I can't imagine why. They had their pick of:
- seventeen paper napkins
- one used lip gloss
- one Subway sandwich card with 8 stamps remaining
- five tampons
- one pamphlet on "How to Pray the Rosary"
- one plastic rosary
- directions to "Casa del McD," my friends' parents' lakehouse; and
- a CD Shelley made for me composed mostly of Carbon Leaf interspersed with Alvin and the Chipmunks
After all that, I eventually unpacked my huge amounts of unnecessary luggage and reclined with dinner: a pint of strawberries and a bottle of champagne (because I love it, and it is cheap). I had entertained grandiose fantasies of making myself shrimp scampi and jasmine rice while LB was gone, but the utter chaos and mayhem of my actual life had rendered me incapable of doing anything other than washing a plastic container of fruit.
And for all the romantic evenings that it implies, this is the first time I have ever had strawberries and champagne together. And you know what? It is DELICIOUS.
*LB is at JMU with his family to celebrate his sister's graduation, which was the same day as the Festival of Questicle. His family doesn't drink, and yet he was good and tipsed last time I talked to him. Thoughts? I feel a coping mechanism on the rise.
**PS to Erin and Edward: It's not your fault that our cat is an idiot. I love you. Also: Can I have your children? We would bake cookies all the time.
***Apparently I love the cat extensively. That is a LOT of shoes, amigos.
2 comments:
You're lucky with the car thing. I once had my car stolen the night before going away for the weekend, so I'd started packing. After the police recovered it (written off), the entire contents of the car were missing, including a dozen mix tapes, a tattered old road atlas, an old microwave, an old quilt and one of my favourite pairs of shoes. What on earth the thieves were thinking still eludes me.
Maybe they were selling to the 65-year-old retired women at the black market? Note that I seem to consider "the black market" some actual place, like a big open-air bazaar, except shadier. And blacker.
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