Mar 192008
 

1. LOST IN THE RAIN: It had been raining intermittedly all day and the sky was pretty, OK — very, overcast. But I still thought it would be Great Idea #465768 to go for a walk. I made it a few blocks before it began raining again; drizzling at first. It was in the fifties today and the rain felt kind of warm and refreshing. So I kept walking.

Another block or two and the rain started to pick up. The drizzles had turned into big fat drops that smacked off me in sort of an unkind manner. "It’ll slow down," I thought, and perservered another few blocks.

Soon, I was about a trillion miles away from home and the rain was coming down in torrents. My sweatshirt was so soaked through that the simple task of walking became more strenuous, like walking with a  toddler on your back. My jeans — drenched. The bottoms of them had been dragged through one puddle too many and made me feel like I was stepping with ankle weights. My hair slapped against my melting face in sopping ringlets. All the people passing me in their cars were probably laughing, but I couldn’t SEE them so what did I care.

At one point, I realized that I couldn’t tell where I was. I was afraid I was going to get ingested into the bowels of Brookline, not being able to see, but I just kept making lefts and eventually some of the blurred blobs I was squinting to make out began to look familiar.

2. A SERIES OF EYESIGHT AND BALANCE MALFUNCTIONS:  Before I left for work, I tripped over the baby gate on my way upstairs. I guess because in my present state of semi-blindness, I mis-gauged the height of it and the toes of my shoe clipped the top. I tried to catch myself, but ended up sprawled across the bottom three steps anyway. Hoping that Henry didn’t see, I quickly looked over to where he was sitting, but we made direct eye contact. He rolled his eyes and didn’t even inquire about my well-being. Right after that, I was walking across the living room and my right foot got caught in the hem of my left pant leg (I was wearing my dumb long people jeans) and I did a very graceful lunge, landed with arms akimbo, and promptly said, "I meant to do that." I don’t think Henry bought it.

When I got in the car to go to work, I hadn’t even pulled away from the curb before nearly crashing, because I had the car in reverse when I floored it and came nauseatingly close to kissing a telephone pole.

3. BROKEN HANDS AND REFLEXES: I didn’t realize how bad I hurt my hand during my daring baby gate hurdle until I got to work and tried to lift the coffee pot, nearly dropping it against my chest as the pain spread up my arm. I mean, I knew it was broken, but not THIS broken. I’m trying to ignore it but every so often it feels like the skin is burning. I don’t know what that means. And then sometimes it feels numb. So I moved my mouse pad over the left side of my keyboard and I’m attempting to convince my left hand that it can handle this new life change, but it doesn’t seem willing to cooperate. I’m not asking it to get a sex change, for Christ’s sake, I just want it to cradle the fucking mouse. I keep highlighting the whole screen by accident and then my left arm jolts and jerks forward like I suddenly have some sort of reflex defect now too.

Everything goes to hell when I can’t see.

EDIT!!! So I deduced that my hand was feeling numb because I had two hair elastics wrapped around my wrist too tightly. That doesn’t, however, change the fact that my hand is broken.

Also, I make no apologies for the myriad of typos I’ve been making in my current state of blindness.

Feb 262008
 

I wish I had listened to everyone when they said things like, "You’re not going to like it. You’re going to be bored" and "You’re going to be angry that you wasted your money. You won’t get anywhere near John Black" because those wise ones weren’t too far off the mark.

Henry had the good sense to park in a garage a few blocks away, where we’d only be robbed of $5 instead of the $10 that the Convention Center overlords would collect at the end of the weekend and probably use to buy a few thousand Ukrainian sex slaves, and I’m not sure I’d feel too comfortable having my cash play a part in that.

When we got inside and went upstairs to pay, I was relieved that it wasn’t as crowded as Henry warned. He always tries to play off my inherent hate for packs of humans when he’s trying to get out of stuff. Like concerts. We got in line, with only one family in front of us, to pay. I mocked dramatic sadness when I saw a sign that said Henry Winkler wasn’t going to appear due to illness, but the older man behind me was acting from the heart. "He’s not here? Then let’s go." I don’t think they ended up leaving, but the corners of his mustached lips were hanging flaccidly after that discovery.

A deep booming voice looped over the sound system, getting everyone pumped up for the Happy Days reunion (if Erin Moran and Cindy Williams constitutes a reunion), Mater from "Cars" (we made Chooch pump his fist, but he didn’t give a shit really) and Drake Hogestyn from Days of Our Lives. I was shocked to discover that I had been mispronouncing his last name for the past twenty years. Henry called me a re-re (his new name for me, thanks, I’m honored) but seriously, I’ve never heard his name spoken before; it’s not like Soap Opera Digest reads itself aloud to me.

$26 dollars later (RIPOFF) we were armed with our tickets and stumbled around blindly looking for the entrance. An older red haired lady stood next to the entrance and when she took our tickets, I pointed to the turnstile next to the large open entrance and asked, "Do we have to go through there?" She scoffed and said no, but I kind of wanted to. Turnstiles make me feel important, like my admission counts. Because it counts my admission.

Even when we crossed the testosterone-coated threshold, I still didn’t think it was all that crowded. I was somewhat amazed to see that there were regular-looking people there, but comforted when my expectations were met when I spied a steady flow of Nascar-jacketed indigents. Some of them wore bandannas on their heads and I think it tugged at Henry’s lower-class heartstrings. He used to wear bandannas, you know. There were also many men who appeared to have come there straight from huntin’.

Within the first minute, we found a small stage with a large banner that read Meet Drake Hogestyn, John Black from "Days of Our Lives" and the tugging of Henry’s arm began. There was a line of about fifty people waiting for his emergence. He was 45 minutes late. Henry took charge and said we should get the whole Mater thing out of the way.

After pushing past a bunch of orange-faced broads with hair so over-bleached it crackled and squeezing past acne-faced teenage boys looking at a table full of shiny car thingies (I think people in the know call them "car parts"), Mater loomed off to our left. Chooch was like, "Yay Cars!" but his face fell when he realized it was just Mater and not Lightning McQueen. Kind of like meeting the Cure but only Lol shows up and not Robert Smith. I wonder if Lol is excited that his name means ‘laugh out loud.’ I mean, the kid was still marginally happy and tried to crawl under the ropes while snot-faced creek-swimmers were getting photographed. We went to stand in line and soon found out that they wanted five fucking dollars for some gayblade to take a picture using a tiny point-and-shoot on a wobbly tripod. Henry, wanting to retain some semblance of the bread winner even though he makes me pay for everything because he blows his money on computer shit and truck porn, actually took it upon himself to go to an ATM and take cash out of his own account. What a fucking man.

While we were in line, a woman over at a near-by podium announced that a boy named Evan had lost his family. I looked at him, and I looked at Chooch who was desperate to break free of Henry’s clutch and visions of the next ten years polluted my once-happy thoughts. My child tried to get kidnapped about eighty times.

We ended up losing the crappy picture in the crappy cardboard frame that they gave us but it didn’t matter because we were allowed to take our pictures too, after we fed them their damn five bucks.

I love that there’s a gigantic can of Skoal hovering above Mater. Very subtle. Hey kids, love Mater? Now you can have teeth like his, too! Come get a free sample.

Around this time I took a good look around and realized that I was horribly overdressed and wasn’t showing any cleavage like all the other hotties and mulled over the idea of plopping out a boob. I hope someday my skin gets that beautiful sun-weathered crisp that they all proudly bare. I saw a lot of B.U.M. Equipment sweatshirts. It brought back memories of middle school.

I stalked this man while he cruised the entire circumference of this bad boy. (The truck, not the actual boy.) Henry caught on quickly to what I was up  to and said, "You’d make the worst spy. You look right at the person and laugh" and then he hurried up and walked away so he wouldn’t be seen carousing with me. After I took this picture, he looked at me, ducked, and said, "Oh ha-ha, I’m sorry!" I told him it was OK, and then under my breath I mumbled, "This is right where I want you, anyway. Snap."

In between all the car showcases were long tables over-stocked with various car products. My first thought was, "But it’s all car stuff." We walked past one table and I excitedly yelled, "Oh I need one of these!!" to Henry, which made the vendor look up. "You don’t even know what that does," Henry snapped. I laughed and said, "I know." Those were the days.

We made it back to the John Black stage right as he made his grand appearance. The crowd was going nuts. Kind of. Not really, but there was some applauding and few of the hardcore female fans swooned loudly. The line was much longer by this point, so instead of going to the end of it, I accepted that Chooch wouldn’t last that long standing in a line so we stood on right up front near the stage, but out of line. It was a decent trade off, because he took some time before signing autographs to field some questions. I wasn’t expecting him to be so personable and funny! Every once in awhile, I’d glance back at Henry, who was cheekily smiling like a gaybo. He tried to act like he couldn’t be bothered after that, but I know deep down he couldn’t wait to call his mommy.

It was cool seeing Drake "John Black" Hogestyn, but seriously, I’ll never go to another car show. It was dumb. Where was the nudity? Maybe at the Gun Show.