Self deprecating humor is really my best. No one can get made fun of and stand up to it quite as much as me, when I'm the one laying on the abuse. Now, the funniest days are the ones when the universe decides to join in, throwing me incident after incident of hilarity disguised as freaky perverts, Yugioh players and their accompanying noises, mosquitoes, and my car. God bless my car.
And the stranger's driveway it's sitting in.
I should start at the beginning, but instead I'm going to begin with a general apology to all the Coffee D'Vine knit-night ladies, especially Ashley and Rachael, who really thought I was going to be there tonight. I thought so too, girls.
I really thought the muffler would go first. There's a hole in that thing as big as my fist, and it's hanging on by the wire the tire guy used to string it up. Seriously.
Now, you all heard my semi-public breakdown earlier today, and many of you found it to be perhaps amusing, perhaps a little frightening, or just plain weird. Yes, stream of consciousness can be weird sometimes, and I promise that being trapped in my head is just as freaky as what you read.
I know. Sad, really.
When you boil it down, it was just a dude and his two kids (though they might not be his) and their mom (though they might not have been hers), his wife/girlfriend/fiance/common-law wife/weekend fling. They came, they played on the computer, and they left. Fortunately, I was able to conceal my freak-out with extreme indifference.
I worked at Walmart; I know indifference.
To really capture it, you have to be able to turn off your brain at will, then stare blankly at something or someone until whatever it is decides to spring back onto the shelf or spring off of the shelf or walk away and leave you alone, depending on the circumstances. It helps just to not care at all at that point. Which I didn't--summer job.
Man. Paul's keyboard is pretty freaky.
Anyway, I came back from lunch and they were gone. But while I was at lunch, which, by the way, was free, it had rained like crazy. This flooded my car, somewhat. It also killed the digital something-or-other that allowed the Pizza Hut internet to work, and thereby permitting them to accept debit cards. And to watch TV.
So the manager, who talks to me at lunch sometimes because I am always in there alone and with a different book, just said, "It's on me today," and then sent me on my way. This, I thought, was good karma delivered upon me due to my resistance to the temptation to pull out cleaning chemicals and spray them in the eyes of the Gas Station Letch.
I arrived at work and remembered to tell Nancy something I hadn't mentioned before because of Gas Station Letch and his Legion of Darkness (family...?).
See, I had come in to work this morning and pulled open a roll of paper with an illegible note scribbled on it, from April, one of my co-workers. She has penmanship issues. Sorry, April. It's true. Not even you could decipher that note you left me the other day.
And what was concealed within that roll of paper was porn. Yes, porn, mercifully a scantily-clad (meaning not clad at all) girl was all that was on the front page, because anything else would have been enough to send me running for the hot glue gun and my own demise (I swear that thing's going to kill me some day). It's like Donna says on That 70's Show: "I see that every day."
Well, I hurriedly rolled the tube back up, dropped it on the table where it had been before, and then--I'm not joking--I washed my hands. It comes from being raised in a very Brethren way by a very legalistic man I like to call Dad. See, sin rubs off on your hands, and if you pray and wash them, it comes off.
Not really. That's just what I used to think when I was a kid.
This morning, I was thinking: "Dear goodness, I wonder who has touched this before me, and what he was touching before April took this away from him..." And I compulsively washed my hands.
You would have too.
I told Nancy and she went back and examined it, found out what website it came from--another blogging site--and that we couldn't block it. Then she said, "I wonder if it's on the security camera?" Because the security camera captures things like me falling down stairs, tripping over chairs, dropping books, and counting on my fingers. It also catches people stealing and downloading porn. In the CHILDREN'S ROOM.
Nothing is sacred to people without computers of their own.
After that school let out, and the noise came, descending upon us in endless waves. I yelled, I yelled, and I threatened. Then I sent a kid packing. He was the main source of trouble.
Then I went home, after checking Facebook to kill time--because I never do that--and finding out that Andy had asked me a question maybe a month ago that I never answered due to extreme Facebook-related laziness. Facebook and dial-up don't get along, so I don't really bother unless I'm bored and working with Erin.
Then we play with Flair.
This post was going somewhere--and so was I. I went to Walmart, bought Season 3 of Criminal Minds to make myself feel better and Tylenol PM so I could sleep for more than 4 hours tonight.
Then I got Sweet Tea. It gets capitalized 'cuz it's yummy.
Then I went home.
Except...I got only to the spot right after that Swine Health clinic place that got converted to the storage facility about a week ago. Then, suddenly, my engine stopped engineing, and I drifted slowly to a stop.
I put my hazard lights on.
I tried to start the car again (nope).
I called home. Dad picked up. "I need to be rescued," I said. I then detailed my location. Then Dad told me he was in North Manchester.
"But how did you answer the house phone, then?" I asked.
"I didn't," he replied. "I answered my cell phone."
"Oh," I said. "Okay, then. I'll try this again."
Our home phone was busy. That was when I realized why I probably called Dad subconsciously. No one ever answers the house phone so I've stopped calling it.
Meanwhile, mosquitoes of varying size had meandered into my car and were stinging me.
I told Paul to come save me. He said, "All right, yeah."
A mosquito stung me above the eye. A woman stopped, she lived across the street, and she told me she'd get her husband. She came out with two daughters, and we tried to move the car. But the wheel wouldn't move.
A farmer stopped. He told me I should put my key in the ignition.
It worked. The wheel moved. And he and the husband (who had come outside while his wife, daughters, and I pushed the car in a straight line) shoved my car while I turned the wheel, until we ended up in his driveway.
Mom, who had pulled into the driveway just in time for us to have to change our trajectory to avoid her, came out and told me to gather my things. I did so, while she talked to the man and the farmer. I filled my arms with all the books I have amassed during the last week, and then my coat (super cute--I'll show it off sometime) and my bag. And the sweet tea, Pizza Hut leftovers, and the bag with the DVD season and Tylenol. That was a lot.
"I don't know what it was," I said. "It just kind of died."
"Maybe it was this bumper sticker that did it," the farmer replied, pointing to my Obama/Biden '09 bumper sticker, which unlike the Millenium Falcon one, is still securely fastened to my vehicle's posterior.
"No, I think that would have made my car go further," I replied with a smile. He laughed. We used to go to church together, after all.
The farmer left. The husband yelled, "Thanks for the help, even if you are a Republican!"
I do not kid.
And just a moment ago, we drove back to try the car again, to no avail.
It's going to be out of commission for a while. I'm just glad I bought and opened the DVD before this happened, because now I can't take it back. So I can't be responsible! I get a "Get Out of Responsibility Free" card!
Those are the best kind.
I missed you tonight, ladies. Hope you had fun!