2003-04-22 - 2:08 p.m.

I had yesterday off as

Massachusetts finds some reason to celebrate a holiday on this

particular monday just so we don't all have to find a way to drive

around the Boston Marathon.

And now, for your snoring pleasure, My Weekend.

I drove home from work friday thinking...hmmmmm this car seems a bit

wonky. It seems to be skidding every time I turn the wheel...hmmm...that

just seems...oh, a good song on the radio....

I picked up family type person to have our usual friday night dinner and

we decided to go get a pizza instead.

When I returned to the car from

getting the pizza and the family type was still off in search of

Cadbury Eggs a gentleman walking into the Cadbury Egg Selling

Establishment begins talking to me, seemingly in a normal conversational

tone and volume.

Only I'm like, a parking lot away, inside a car with

the windows rolled up. So I roll the window down a fraction of an inch (to

protect the pizza, can't be to careful with all of the pizzajackers

lurking outside Cadbury Selling Establishments)and I say (because I've

been practicing for the arrival of the british) "Sorry?".

Gentleman raises his voice a fraction and says, "Did you know you have a

flat tire?" I advise him that I did not, in fact know that I had a flat


While advising him of this fact I set the pizza (along with the

garden salad and the cinnamon sticks) NOT on the empty car seat next to

me, but instead, balance them precariously on my steering wheel. I

attempt to exit the car, sending the pizza et al. crashing to the car

seat and floor.

I finally exit the car and realize that only someone

with the brain capacity of dryer lint could NOT have seen that this car

had a flat tire. The tire was EXCEPTIONAL in it's flatness. Also, the car was tilting heavily to the rear drivers side.

I look at gentleman "Well,thanks."

I look for a moment and then get back in the car and begin to pull the

pizza and it's friends together.

I am slightly grumpy.

This pizza will be cold now, and upside down. The cinnamon sticks are likely to be far less cinnamony and cold. I have not eaten much today because it is of course GOOD friday.

Hmmm. I decide that since it is VERY likely that I drove home from Salem on this tire, I will drive the 5 minutes home fromthe Place of the Pizza and the Cadbury Eggs and the Gentleman bearing Bad News on this tire.

The family member is less enthusiastic about the driving on the flat

tire plan. The family member is something of a panicker(?). Placating

this particular family member is how I spend the bulk of my time on this

spinning orb.

Still, I flat out refuse to sit in this parking lot and

wait the endless amount of time it may take for roadside assistance to


I compromise. I drive to a nearby gas station and ask the attendant Habib Mohammed Osama bin 5.55perGallon to help me. HMOB5 turns out to be a very kind hearted individual. He runs between overcharging his full serve customers and trying to change my tire (for free, btw).

The problem here is that HMOB5 cannot figure out where, on my little

vehicle, would be best to place the jack and he is "scared". I tell

HMOB5 that perhaps I should just put some air in the flat tire and get

home on that. HMOB5 is relieved and puts the air in for me.

An aside here, from my already too long story, which promises to be much

longer so grab a pudding if you have access.

HMOB5 has been so kind and

has been so...well, he nearly had vapors at the thought of me putting

the tire back in the "boot" as it were because it was "much too heavy"

for me. We are talking one of those tonka toy tires. The fake tires they

pretend will work on your car.

I think about this. I think about how

when I was younger I would have bench pressed HMOB5 on the spot to prove

how worthy and self sufficient women can be.

Now though, at this point

in my life I start thinking that life as a Taliban wife might not be the

worst thing ever.

He will expect me to fit in nothing more confining

than robes. I will never have to be certain that my legs are shaved to

precision for general inspection at the beach. I can't run the errands

while he's at work, or go to work indeed, because I cannot leave the

house, alas, I must watch soap operas and judge shows all day.

Where do I sign up?

Not today, Taliban wife will be another day, today I must now rush home on the air losing tire, with the panicky family member by my side.

I decide that roadside assistance can be called in the morning. I eat my

cold pizza, warm salad and still perfect cinnamon sticks while watching

a reba rerun.

Saturday morning rolls around and I call RoadSide Assistance. These

people are P.E.R.K.Y. They are VERY SORRY to hear that I am having

problems. The are VERY CONCERNED that I am in a safe place. I feel like

maybe I'll join their cult instead of the taliban wives association.

These people CARE about me. They want me to be HAPPY. I bet you think

you know what comes next. I bet you think they tell me someone will be

out to help me in an hour and I am still waiting to this day.

You are a cynical son of a bitch.

These people really do care about me.

20 minutes later I have a tonka tire on my car courtesy of a smiley

pudgy boy who is loving his job. He has a look at the nail in the flat

tire and says "Oh yeah, you can have that fixed, good tire, no problem."

and goes on his merry way.

A few hours later the aforementioned family member and I get into the

aforementioned car and expect to head off to pick up yet another family

member for a day of shopping and frivolity (if by frivolity I mean

shrieking at each other and trying to prove that each other has no

reason to exist).

I start the car...no scratch that, I ATTEMPT to start

the car. It makes a meagre noise and stops. Uh huh.

I've been losing alot of oil lately, this happens sporatically, I've

grown to accept it. I check the oil. The oil is full. I notice that a

big square pluggy looking thing (I am a mechanic sevant) in what I think

is my engine block (in that it is in the area I expect the engine to be

but instead of being engined shaped is block shaped. ) is loose and

surrounded by excess oil. I push at it. I wiggle it. I get back in and

start my car. I shut my car off. I start my car again. I shrug and we

head off for shopping and aforementioned frivolity.

I will spare you (because I love you) the details of the frivolity and

shopping except to tell you that I bought the 20th Anniversary Edition

of Trivial Pursuit and Outburst as part of my shopping extravaganza.

I return home and spend 2 hours working out and singing Cher songs to my pets who have decided to position themselves at my feet audience style.

Later that same night as I am watching one of my two favorite tv shows, Monarch of the Glen (give me a break, he's hot) the large slobbering beast that has my heart decides that he is unintersted in his toy.

I decide that I am worried that he's been clingy and isn't feeling well so I decide that I WANT him to be interested in his toy.

Lying on the couch I reach down and start making a grab for the toy. He

decides that if it's worth my heaving my fat ass half off the couch for

it must be interesting so he makes a grab for it.

He has more muscle mass than me and gets the toy. He leaps up in celebration and his ROCK

HARD head connects soundly with my nose and cheekbone.

I am unable to speak for a full 15 minutes. I cry for a full 2 hours.

The pain is UNREAL. I am certain that I have broken my entire face and

that my eyeball remains intact only because I have three fingers stuck

in it. I sit, sobbing, with frozen blueberries over my face, watching

the Monarch have his wedding run out on by that ungrateful bitch

girlfriend of his.

That pretty much sums up Saturday. Wanna go for easter? Let's go for


I wake up Easter morning completely shocked to find that I DO NOT have

two black eyes, but am still bruised and puffy and completely woozy. I

manage to wrap myself in a dress and sweater, collect family types and

head to EAster mass. My cousin decides that since it's easter or

christmas or something she'll haul herself and her grandson that she's

raising as her own because her bastard daughter had him when she was 14

and then just sort of "left" (she's 16 now and has a daughter that she's

actually raising herself) wow...what was I saying, anyway, this stellar

example of holiday catholicism decides to grace us with her presence at church along with Isiah the grandson/son.

Let me say that when I was younger I adored small children. I actually

told my mother when I was 18 that I was certain that God put me on this

planet to care for children. I am exceptionally talented with children

of all ages. Everyone wants me to watch and raise their children.

I hate children. Seriously. I don't want them near me. I take no joy in

them at all. I am still as talented as ever with them which makes

everyone want to thrust them upon me but I want no part of them.

I have met Isiah exactly once before this Easter and I have to say that

I was taken with him when I met him that one time. He was very young but

something about him drew me to him. He is 2 now and nothing has changed.

I just adore this little boy. He enchants me. I spend my Easter mass

not paying attention to the Gospel but tickling Isiah. I realize that

this is God's message for me this Easter, that I need to be less judgy

of people who bring their children to mass and then pay attention to the

child, the child is a lesson in God of their own. I may need a few

refresher courses in this lesson, but for that day, I got it.

I spend Easter dinner trying to not be violently ill. The injury to my

face is making me nauseaous (?) and all I want to do is lie my head down.

When dinner is over I do exactly that. I find my way to the sofa and

stay there from 1pm until 7 pm when I must move to drive people to their

homes. I return, call Wendi and chat briefly with her and return to my sofa. At midnight I speak, at last to Nick who confirms that he will be here Wed. morning at 7 my time. This is like...do I have to tell you? My head is killing me, my stomach is turning

everything is a blur, but this, this is like AIR. This is like clarity

and joy and sunshine. I'm good. I go to sleep.

Monday I wake up at 7am and remember that every monday after easter for

the past 5 years I have ended up in the hospital.

This is because I

always forget that I can not eat ham and any peanut product within a

three day period of each other. Peanut butter eggs on easter...Every


So at 7 I wake to the familiar burning and sharp pains and I

realize I've done it again, only now I've leaned to deal with it. I take

my medication and lie VERY still in my bed ignoring my body's

insistance that I must expel things from various openings.

I sleep now until noon.

I need to go and have my tire fixed. I need to go grocery shopping. Bah.

I need to call Nick and lie in bed.

Nick and I chat for a bit (infused

with lots of information about his exwife with whom he and his daughter

spent Easter) and I crawl from bed to the sofa by way of a cookie.

Eventually I get cleaned up and dressed. The dog takes this as a sign

that we're going for a walk.

I try to ignore him until he goes and lays down which makes me feel guilty so I get up and take him for a walk.

We run into lots of neighbors and end up in a full neighborhood chat.

The Veal makes sure I get the message that he's seeing some chick in New Bedford, he also has just returned from target shooting and gives me a shell from one of his bullets. I am confused by this, what the hell do I want this for.

He likes giving me things.

He says he will take me shooting. I tell him someone else is taking me shooting. Literally and figuratively, thanks though.

Ketos gives up on my and goes to lie in the shade.

I am reminded that I invited Michaela over that night to play the new board games.

Ketos and I finish our walk. We go inside and rest for a bit and watch

John Edward. We try to get Amy to join the board game group for the evening but she has more important plans -- like keeping her head from exploding and spelling swear words in front of little kids.

Ketos decides that the entire content of his stomach would look better on the living room rug and experiments with this.

I take him outside to see if there might me anything he'd like to

experiment with out there. There is.

Technicolor experimentation.

I sit and rub his tummy and let him rest his disgusting vomit encrusted head in my lap with his big sad eyes looking up at me.

We go inside and I clean up all of us (rug included). We resume television watching. We attempt to read a book but find our face is still too sore and the eye strain is too much. We consider getting our tire fixed and decide, screw it.

At 6:30 Michaela comes over for game playing. The panicky family member

joins us. Ketos decides there is still some stomach stuff left and he's

apparently miffed that we wrecked his previous work because he returns

to the exact same spot for a rematch. He also this time tries his art in

the kitchen.

Michaela, family member and I clean up, I feed Ketos a banana to settle

his tummy along with two ginger snaps and he naps on the couch as we

play Outburst until 11pm. Family member and Michaela team up against

myself and the sick dog. The sick dog and I win the first two and lose

the last 3 games.

(This next part was edited in whole not only because some things just should not be public knowledge but also because I'm afraid certain people wouldn't get on the plane if he knew what was waiting for him on the other side. If you don't already know, aren't Nick and want to know how exactly my life is treating me just like it always does, just ask)

Anyway, I call Nick, and go to bed. I am up all night with those waking

dreaming dreams, all about Nick. All good, but strange.

This morning I wake to realize that I have to get my tire fixed on the

way to work.

I stop at the Sears happy friendly car fixer upper place. I bring my tire to the happy fixer upper guy behind the friendly counter and he says "sure, we can fix that right up, be about 20 minutes, you want it back on the car?"

Nope, just attach it to my ass.

"Yes please."

I inform happy fixer upper counterman that I will just get my book from

the car and sit in the happy fixer upper waiting room. He says he'll be

happy to get me when its done.

One hour and a half later I decide that I probably WILL have to go to

prison if I kill the lady who has sat across from me tapping her foot

for the past 20 minutes. I decide that rather than kill her and use her

body for a host of things playing in my mind I will go and see if they

took my car on a test drive to see the worlds biggest ball of happy

fixer upper countermen.

I catch the eye of counterman and he smiles at me. I say "Is my car,

done?" He says "Sure."

He proudly displays the GIGANTIC nail that had been in my tire and

starts the process of liberating $15.00 from my credit card.

This should be easy, other people have liberated much more than that with a flick of the wrist but his printer is out of paper and apparently this will

require a team of experts from home office to fix.

Where is Dick Yanco when you need him? Probably rehearsing his chair

dance. (if you don't get this, you are reading all the wrong stuff on the internet)

So I get to work nearly 3 hours late to find a message from the Evil Dr.

Joe on my chair which isn't worth going into but annoys me none the


And then, having come to work nearly 3 hours late, I spent one hour

telling this tale to my friend. I have no intention of doing one useful thing


I was going to the gym, I was going to get work done. I was going to go

get a healthy salad for lunch. Now, I refuse to leave my chair until 6pm.

So there.

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