In a slight twist of serendipity recently, I found myself wheel-less. It happens sort of like when you discover that you have leukemia and three months to live when you just thought you had a belly-ache. So, the hotty 5 year old Sonata which has been sideswiped by deer, drunks and parking garage columns (they sideswiped me!!) and bumped and flooded and probably had a few neighborhood kiddies dry-hump it for good measure, went into the shop for what I thought would be a routine wheel alignment to correct the fact I had to hold on to the steering wheel for dear life to keep the thing from veering off the road. But alas! Apparently, the thing that covers all the car's vital bits had come off some time ago and the thing was rotting from the core like a sailor full of syphilis.
I had, on my hands, what my insurance company called "a total loss." Which was annoying because I had neglected to get rental insurance, and so was in the position to have to buy a car, really fast.
The good news was the insurance company thought my car was worth a helluva lot more than I did. My car had two redeeming features. It was about to be completely paid off, and it ran better than 95% of the cars in Louisiana. Had any of those agents climbed into the interior which still reeked of NOLA sewage and dog drool, I doubt I would've gotten as greedy as I did with all this cash falling into my hands. That is, instead of going for something nice and conventional, I had to buy the friggin' Volvo S40 with almost all the trappings. I did stop short of the T5, but barely.
This is an incredibly decadent move for a girl of my material sensibilities. Despite my astounding credit card debt, I am, for all purposes, a practical girl with her cash. Probably from having learned through astounding credit card debt. So, it just seems odd that I would suddenly unload so much cash on a car.
(This is the point where I gloss over the fact I paid sticker price (WITH an allowance), a fact the BF will never let me live down. I have never really figured out the car bargaining thing. I got a good deal. I think. Nah, I probably didn't.)
Anyway, it doesn't matter because I now have a car that will go fast and looks really pretty and has bluetooth and fold-down seats for the canines.
And who has managed to be a target for every massive bird gang shit happening in the greater Orleans area.
Today, I came out to be greeted with my sophisticated grey roadster covered in a massive shitting the likes of which I have never witnessed before. It was if they had attacked in a battalion. The shit punctured little white bomb craters all along the glossy veneer. In a panic, I looked around to see if I could give the bird (har har) to any remaining culprits. However, they all seemed to have fled the scene, save one - who, as I looked up at him, let loose a massize bird shit cannonball right on the door handle I was about to open.
Birds are overrated. I think we need less of them. Starting now.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
NOLA(I)
When people ask me why I like living here so much, I just have too many things to say.
So I'll start with the obvious.
Get to google.
Type in "Orleans in forma pauperis concubine."
Read the selections under marital status.
THAT is why I love New Orleans today.
So I'll start with the obvious.
Get to google.
Type in "Orleans in forma pauperis concubine."
Read the selections under marital status.
THAT is why I love New Orleans today.
Vacation (II)
I thought to be really cute about the whole vacation thing, I'd let my boyfriend ask one question per day to get a clue about where it was. I got this idea from this consultant I work with sometimes, who's like 62 and looks like She-Ra and is thrice divorced so well in the position to tell me how to keep passion alive. Well, apparantly He-Man is not as sharp as my boy because on Day 3, tiring of this game but having to come up with something after I told him how lame I would think he was if I quit, he asked what the mayor's name was. Game over.
Lexington, it was.
Step two of any romantic weekend, after you pick the location and let your man discover it through the wonders of google, is to book a little romantic retreat. A home away from home, with a really large bed. Preferably historical. And that is how I came to book the bed and breakfast from hell. Because it had geese and ducks lightheartedly frolicking in the bedroom corners and I found that irresistable. It was going to be like making out in my parents' house except better because there was breakfast involved.
Lexington, it was.
Step two of any romantic weekend, after you pick the location and let your man discover it through the wonders of google, is to book a little romantic retreat. A home away from home, with a really large bed. Preferably historical. And that is how I came to book the bed and breakfast from hell. Because it had geese and ducks lightheartedly frolicking in the bedroom corners and I found that irresistable. It was going to be like making out in my parents' house except better because there was breakfast involved.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Vacation (I)
I decided to do me and BF both a favor and book a little romantic weekend in the tiny little town of Lexington, VA to get away from our crime-ridden high pressure legal existences.
Besides, I had some important unfinished business in regards to Lexington. When I was in college, my dad went on this crazy land-buying spree and we were looking at some mountain land not far from Leasburg. We stopped for the night in Lexington because they were supposed to have this uber cool "Ghost Tour," and Dad drove me and Moms out for a little pre-gaming dinner at this nice place out in the country.
Now, unbeknownst to my parents until this very moment was that my 17-year-old self had in my possession a very badly made New York State fake ID. Which I wisely decided to use at dinner that night to order a glass of wine. Thinking back, I probably did it to witness the moral debacle that ensued when my parents, ethical to a fault, had to choose between turning me into the local police or sitting there helpless as I slugged back about four glasses of red in an hour and a half. To their credit, I think they might have made me chip in for that part of the bill. But by the time we had gotten back to the car, the damage was done. I was completely and exuberantly wasted. And about 10 minutes later I really had to pee.
There we were miles from civilization and me with a full bladder. This has never stopped me before. I will pee anywhere as long as I won't get arrested. So, I asked my Dad in the most sober voice if he would just pull over so I could go make a puddle in that church parking lot.
Well, realizing his advantage, my Dad told me he wasn't going to pull over because it was my own fault that I had to pee. And so I could wait until I got back into town.
This did not go over well. I don't like having to pee when I am in a moving vehicle and my kidneys are churning out urine like Industrial Revolution mill workers. I can't think about anything else. So, once again I asked nicely, "Kind sir, might I please have a bit of a tinkle behind those scenic pine trees?"
My dad was having none of it. After all, we were "only" 25 miles from town.
I started realizing what it's like when the bear goes mad in captivity. I started kicking the back of their chairs, chanting "I have to pee! I have to pee!" It was like the car was this time machine and I was regressing at the same rate my bladder was expanding.
My father drove placidly on.
At that point, I rolled down the window and started yelling at bike riders, drivers, locals, and cows that I was being held captive in the car with these two sick people who would not let me pee, and I had to pee goddamnit "I GOT TO PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
When we got back to town, my dad would not speak to me. The ghost tour had been completely taken out of the picture, and for some time now I'd been wanting to get back to Lexington to finish what I started. And also, I was of drinking age, although in the end, that didn't matter.
Besides, I had some important unfinished business in regards to Lexington. When I was in college, my dad went on this crazy land-buying spree and we were looking at some mountain land not far from Leasburg. We stopped for the night in Lexington because they were supposed to have this uber cool "Ghost Tour," and Dad drove me and Moms out for a little pre-gaming dinner at this nice place out in the country.
Now, unbeknownst to my parents until this very moment was that my 17-year-old self had in my possession a very badly made New York State fake ID. Which I wisely decided to use at dinner that night to order a glass of wine. Thinking back, I probably did it to witness the moral debacle that ensued when my parents, ethical to a fault, had to choose between turning me into the local police or sitting there helpless as I slugged back about four glasses of red in an hour and a half. To their credit, I think they might have made me chip in for that part of the bill. But by the time we had gotten back to the car, the damage was done. I was completely and exuberantly wasted. And about 10 minutes later I really had to pee.
There we were miles from civilization and me with a full bladder. This has never stopped me before. I will pee anywhere as long as I won't get arrested. So, I asked my Dad in the most sober voice if he would just pull over so I could go make a puddle in that church parking lot.
Well, realizing his advantage, my Dad told me he wasn't going to pull over because it was my own fault that I had to pee. And so I could wait until I got back into town.
This did not go over well. I don't like having to pee when I am in a moving vehicle and my kidneys are churning out urine like Industrial Revolution mill workers. I can't think about anything else. So, once again I asked nicely, "Kind sir, might I please have a bit of a tinkle behind those scenic pine trees?"
My dad was having none of it. After all, we were "only" 25 miles from town.
I started realizing what it's like when the bear goes mad in captivity. I started kicking the back of their chairs, chanting "I have to pee! I have to pee!" It was like the car was this time machine and I was regressing at the same rate my bladder was expanding.
My father drove placidly on.
At that point, I rolled down the window and started yelling at bike riders, drivers, locals, and cows that I was being held captive in the car with these two sick people who would not let me pee, and I had to pee goddamnit "I GOT TO PEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"
When we got back to town, my dad would not speak to me. The ghost tour had been completely taken out of the picture, and for some time now I'd been wanting to get back to Lexington to finish what I started. And also, I was of drinking age, although in the end, that didn't matter.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Bad Dog
I babysat my neighbor's dog this morning while she took care of her mother, who hasn't been doing so hot. This is sad, because her mother, like my neighbor, is absolutely hilarious. My favorite quip from her today at lunch regarding Audubon Zoo: "Well, in my day they had dinosaurs in cages."
Unfortunately, my neighbor has pretty much the worst dog in the world. It's not that she hasn't tried, she has. He's just one of those dogs that is about 80 pounds of solid muscle, insane, and eats cheese that hasn't even been unwrapped.
I like to think of myself as Chip's fun aunt. Today I became Chip's-Not-So-Fun-Aunt-Who-Is-Generous-With-Application-of-Alumni-Magazine-to-Canine-Backside.
I realized what it must be like when you're a parent and you're put in the awkward position of having to discipline your kid's crappy friend. Like you welcome him into your home, give him oreos, and the next thing you know you're driving home from work and the little brat and your child have almost blown up your house because brat wanted to use gasoline to draw a pentagram in your driveway and then light it on fire. Except the bad kid is also humping your own kids, and they're not too impressed.
So. I thought, despite my neighbor's harrowing dog discipline stories (which I thought were exaggerated), I would be able to handle it. Not true.
Here is what he managed to do in the span of the first ten minutes he came over for a visit:
1. He peed on the jasmine at the bottom of my stairs.
2. He managed to leap on top of my stove (thankfully not on) and topple my dishrack (thankfully empty).
3. He ate all of my dogs' food, drank all of their water and then proceeded to slobber it all over my kitchen.
4. He jumped on me while I was cleaning and tore my back pocket out.
5. He knocked my little dog down the steep stairs to my apartment.
6. He peed on the jasmine at the top of my stairs.
7. He ate a bunch of potting soil and promptly puked it up on my just cleaned kitchen floor.
7. He started to lift his leg up to squirt on my kitchen cart, and when I caught him in the act, the motherfucker rolled his eyes at me.
My neighbor came back over to find her dog trussed to the post at the bottom of my stairs with three leashes so he could not move and fuck anything else up. I bet she's still laughing.
Unfortunately, my neighbor has pretty much the worst dog in the world. It's not that she hasn't tried, she has. He's just one of those dogs that is about 80 pounds of solid muscle, insane, and eats cheese that hasn't even been unwrapped.
I like to think of myself as Chip's fun aunt. Today I became Chip's-Not-So-Fun-Aunt-Who-Is-Generous-With-Application-of-Alumni-Magazine-to-Canine-Backside.
I realized what it must be like when you're a parent and you're put in the awkward position of having to discipline your kid's crappy friend. Like you welcome him into your home, give him oreos, and the next thing you know you're driving home from work and the little brat and your child have almost blown up your house because brat wanted to use gasoline to draw a pentagram in your driveway and then light it on fire. Except the bad kid is also humping your own kids, and they're not too impressed.
So. I thought, despite my neighbor's harrowing dog discipline stories (which I thought were exaggerated), I would be able to handle it. Not true.
Here is what he managed to do in the span of the first ten minutes he came over for a visit:
1. He peed on the jasmine at the bottom of my stairs.
2. He managed to leap on top of my stove (thankfully not on) and topple my dishrack (thankfully empty).
3. He ate all of my dogs' food, drank all of their water and then proceeded to slobber it all over my kitchen.
4. He jumped on me while I was cleaning and tore my back pocket out.
5. He knocked my little dog down the steep stairs to my apartment.
6. He peed on the jasmine at the top of my stairs.
7. He ate a bunch of potting soil and promptly puked it up on my just cleaned kitchen floor.
7. He started to lift his leg up to squirt on my kitchen cart, and when I caught him in the act, the motherfucker rolled his eyes at me.
My neighbor came back over to find her dog trussed to the post at the bottom of my stairs with three leashes so he could not move and fuck anything else up. I bet she's still laughing.
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