Jan 092014

Originally posted February 8, 2008

I don’t know why I was so intent on finding contacts for my Blackberry messenger. I mean, I never even use AIM. I sign on once a month, maybe three times for the hell of it, but then I walk away and people send me messages saying things like “omg ur on??!?!!?!?!!” and “hi” with no punctuation and when something doesn’t have punctuation, I’m unsure how to read it. At least cap it off with an emoticon so I know what I’m dealing with.

If I sign on, my mom sends me YouTube links and spells lots of words wrong.

People have already taken me off their Blackberry contact list. For being a bad contact, I guess. A fair-weathered contact. I had this one guy, Brackett. He asked for a pic. “Got a pic?” he asked. I sent him one. He said I was hottt. Three t’s is flattering. That means he’s hoping I’ll ask about his cock-size. Or that he’s fifteen. I know these things lead to cybering, so I choose my words wisely. My cybering verve is rusty. He said he would send me a picture when he got home. He didn’t, not ever. We chatted semi-consistently for a week. Maybe two. The morning after game night, he hit me up and said, “Hey, how was the party?” A nice personal touch, I felt.

He has a friend who lives a few towns over from me. Said he felt like he should visit her sometime soon, she just had a baby. Maybe he could visit me too. I giggled and sent him a smiley, then laughed about it with my co-workers.

But then the week I was sick, I didn’t meet his needs, I suppose. Didn’t respond to his salutations with suitable speed and before I knew it, I was off his list. Blacklisted. Defriended. Banned.

Another one of my contacts goes by Renegade. He sends me daily jokes. I LOL so he knows I read them. They’re not funny though. I mean, I don’t even smile when I read them. Lately, Renegade has been trying to converse with me. “Mornin’ beautiful” he’ll say and I snicker because he doesn’t know what I look like. Mostly it takes me a day to reply.

Today he told me he’s a trucker and my thoughts on Renegade changed. He went from being That Lame Joke Guy to Awww, A Trucker. I like truckers. (Real ones, not posers like Henry.) Maybe it’s because my biological father was one. Maybe I like their hats and their rugged flannels flanked by padded vests. Maybe I like that whole sleazy stereotype of truckers with pork rind crumbs in their beards getting sucked off in the shadows of highway rest stops. They’re like warriors. Wheeled warriors trekking through an American wasteland, bandanna flapping in their wake, pile of Slim-Jims on the dash.

My grandparents had this Cadillac when I was a kid. It came attached with a CB. Mostly, none of the truckers would ever respond to me on it, but this one night, this one promising night on the way home from dinner at Blue Flame, I sat in the passenger seat, bogged down with frustration.

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I repeated all the things my Pappap told me to say that supposedly bait truckers, things that would make them think I was one of them. Lots of things like “10-4” and “I got your back door” and “plain wrapper up ahead” and other things I don’t remember because I was only five so back the fuck off. But on that night, someone finally took my bait. He was an old trucker named Sloppy Joe. I don’t remember what we talked about, but I bragged about it for days.

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OK, years.

When I’m on the road, on big scary highways, I panic when tractor trailers sandwich me. I panic when their large bulk forces my tiny car to sway and rock. But as I pass them, I look up into their window and with skilled determination I pull down on m invisible chain and then smile and squeal when they reward me with an air horn symphony.

I like flirting with them when I’m in the passenger seat. It’s the creamy center of road trips. You know who doesn’t like it when I flirt with truckers?

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Henry. Oh Lord, it pisses him off. He wised up after our first road trip and now tries to maintain a constant spot in the far right lane, so the only thing for me to flash my boobs at is the guard rail. Not that I partake in much flashing now that I have that kid. That might be kind of sick. Maybe in France it would be OK.

My friend Sergio once told me that if you treat truckers with respect, maybe you might let them slide on over into your lane when all the other four-wheelers are pointedly ignoring the turn signal, then that trucker will have your back and he might radio ahead to his other trucker friends sharing your stretch of the big road. They might just sandwich you when the bears are around. This has happened to me before, I’ve been taken under the wings of a convoy and it’s a proud feeling. Me, my Eagle Talon, and a fleet of 18-wheelers. Almost makes me want to bite off a hunk of jerky just thinking about it.

When we’re on our way to Columbus tomorrow, I’ll wave to all of the truckers, maybe offer them warm compresses at the Pickle Park[1], and then I’ll salute my friend Renegade, who just now told me that it’s OK that I don’t reply him to him right away, to take my time and that he’ll be there. Just like a true trucker.

[1]: Pickle Park: – an interstate rest area frequented by prostitutes, for those not up with the trucker lexicon.

Jul 252009

Hay guess what Henry killed our Internet connection so I’m trying post from my busted Blackberry and I’m sort of panicking right now OMFG.

And at the same time, Chooch got pissed off while hanging out with Alisha, Janna and Blake (yes, he’s still awake, which is the result of baking the recipe for AWESOME PARENTING) and I had to deal with talking him off a ledge.

Oh my god, this night is going swimmingly.

Aug 082008

We’re at Subway currently and as the theme to St. Elmos Fire eases the Veggie Patty down my gullet with its soulful pop orchestration, I’m reminded of the time Janna and my friend Lisa slept over in high school and I was so angry because they fell asleep during St. Elmo’s Fire, even after I specifically told them that movie was the celluloid manifestation of everything I stood for (wtf am I talking about) and it was the sole basis for the sleepover. Then Janna dreamt that night that I couldn’t find my Victoria’s Secret catalogue and talked about it for years.

I wish MySpace was around in 1997 so I could have unfriended them.

In any case, two of the sandwich artists here right now are my new crushes. Except the one might only be 16 so n/m.

Jul 202008

At Lowe’s on the current. Henry wanted Chooch and me to stay in the car so he could just run in and buy a padlock for work. First Chooch started crying so Henry reluctantly unstrapped him and took him out of the car. Then I was like, "Me too" and boy was Henry ever frustrated.

In the lock aisle, I suggested Henry purchase a delightful lime green lock with an alpha passcode, which he would then naturally choose "tuna" as the secret word and then proceed to scream real loud.

But instead he chose to ignore me and spent several painful minutes pursing his moustachioed lips while perusing the selection with constipating seriousness. I made some comment coated with teenaged attitude about all locks being the same, to which Henry angrily responded with a boring lesson on the varying sizes of padlocks and what it all means.

Meanwhile, Chooch was running off with thieved merchandise from shelves and I was bitching about how boring it is at Lowe’s. "This is why I wanted both of you to stay in the car!" Henry barked.

Then some dude with a limp, a protruding lip, and the general demeanor of a kid who spent his childhood making bombs and having no friends, came over and attempted to make two keys for Henry’s golden padlock of choice, but failed because he was too busy staring at my boobs and plotting the demise of our Nation to find the key code on the package. Not sure if there’s any correlation there.

On our way out, an elderly Lowe’s employee with icy blue eyes said "thank you" but I thought she said "Bury a deer."

Jul 092008

Does anyone reading this live in Lexington, KY? And if so, do you like me enough to do me a favor that

a) does not involve you spending your own money;

b) does not involve prostitution rings;

c) will not get you killed;

d) will be duly rewarded;

e) does not entail you giving me lodging and breakfast in bed;

f) will make me the happiest girl in the world?

Edit: never mind, dreams dashed.

Jun 282008

Dear Blog,
I’m far from home with Henry and Chooch. Henry and I are at each other’s throats and he keeps calling me a retard and I almost got hit by a car trying to take a picture of a sign and Henry won’t stop for directions and he’s threatened to dump me in a river and you know how I hate bodies of water and we just passed a big billboard for Adult World and I want to go but that kid is with us.

I feel like this is the beginning of a horror movie.

And I just pinched the skin of my arm trying to grab Chooch’s fucking sippy cup.

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Do not want to be in this car anymore.

Ooh! We just passed the Cheese House!

Apr 152008

Chooch just let out a shriek that caused blood to stream from the cats’ ears. Instead of telling him no, I answered back with my own banshee-yodel. This went on for a few minutes and I hoped that Henry would have come home in the middle of it, because boy would that have ever made his day, but I ended up out-screaming Chooch so he surrendered. Quitter.

Mar 092008

Henry and Chooch are inside the grocery store while I’m waiting in the car, reading a book and listening to Moros Eros. I happened to glance over at the car parked to our left and noticed that an elderly man is sitting alone in the passenger seat.


At first I thought nothing of it and went back to my book. But then a nagging thought set up shop in my head: what if he dies? This old man alone in the parked car, what if he has a heart attack and dies and then I look over again and there he is, all dead and slumped over on top himself, foamy saliva – death juice – seeping past his lips. And then suddenly the parking lot is deserted and its just me and this dead old guy and it’s up to me to make the call and do I even really know where I am right now? Do I tell them I’m parked in front of the cart return in Parking Lot, Space #10? Do I get a medal then?

Hopefully Old Guy keeps breathing until I’m gone because wow, what a way to fuck up someone’s Sunday.

(Oh good – he left first.)

Mar 012008

I hate that when someone tells me something I almost always habitually ask, "Really?" As if I don’t believe whatever statement that was just shared. I’m going to try and upgrade to the more senior response of "You don’t say?" You don’t hear too many people under seventy saying that. Time to spearhead a change.This calls for buttons and bumper stickers.

I hate that I just went to Ikea for an eight dollar frame and spent $76 by the time I was done. The Ikea Phenomenon. We’ll be telling the grandkids about it someday while sitting around a fire.

I hate that I accidentally bought some young adult book called Twilight last week, didn’t really think it was all that great, but couldn’t stop reading. Then I found out it was the first of a "saga" so I had to buy the second one in Columbus and now I’m admittedly on my way to procure the third.

I hate that the fourth book doesn’t come out till August.

Feb 242008

We just left for Columbus.(We were supposed to leave yesterday but I insisted on wasting money at that gay car show.) Technically we left at 10:30 but Henry was nervous that he didn’t lock the door, so we turned around. Then we were fifteen minutes into the trip when he stopped to get gas and I discovered I left my credit card at home.


So we turned around.

Henry locked the deadbolt and I was having a hard time unlocking it, because I’m worthless, so he huffed out of the car and stomped down the sidewalk to do it for me. I was laughing giddily which only angered him more.

But now we’re back on the road. He won’t talk to me. This is going to be the longest three hours. I’m glad I brought a book.

Feb 232008

I’m sitting in the lounge of a car dealership right now. It smells like stale popcorn and microwaved burritos and there are men wearing camouflaged caps and women with brassy highlights. Fox News is on but its hard to hear it over top of the constant vending machine action.

Henry and Chooch are out in the showroom waiting for the finance guy to be available so we can bend over and get fucked. I was bitching about how being here is Hell and Henry agreed. But he said it was because I’m here with him.

"I wish I didn’t have to bring you," he mumbled.


"Too bad I’m the one with the money," I reminded him. He loves when I rub that in. Makes him feel like a real man.

Ew, Henry just came in to get stale popcorn and then some guy came over to tell him that the finance guy will be with us soon and if we want to just have a seat in the lounge that would be fine. I thought that’s what we were already doing, idiot. I hate it here.