What could possibly go wrong?

Clearly what I was picturing.

But where is the fun in that? And I’m not doing this embarrassing stuff for my health.

I realized today that though I may not be the world traveler I used to be, I may not work the exciting jobs anymore, I may not have to travel to Stockholm for awards (I never did that,) but there is rarely a dull moment once Mo puts on her shiny shoes. 

Today, those shoes were flip-flops and the moment was a dangerously hilarious 5-minute ride on my brand new-used electric scooter. 

I figured that since I now live as close to work possible without actually living in it, I should keep the obnoxiously $4.25/gal price of gas out of my car and at the pump where it belongs. Because $4.25. A gallon. This is just plain ole regular gas, too. Nothing fancy. Just $4 goddamn dollars per gallon. Anywho….

Not only do I live about 6 blocks from work, the parking around my little apartment is so bad that I’ve walked halfway to work by the time I found my car. The 3 block “coast” into work seems a little wasteful after that. That’s not to say I’m walking there routinely. Pffft. I mean, come on. I didn’t practice loafing around all these years to start “exercising” now. That’s just plain foolishness so stop suggesting it. 

So, I figured the on-sale, open-box, mildly marked-up, reject, stand-up scooter was a reasonable solution to my walking-allergy. 

However, there were a few things I didn’t consider. 

Because, of course I didn’t. 

I’ll share those things with you now. 

  1. Yoga pants don’t normally have pockets. At least not the ones I wear. If they do, they don’t hold the cell phone, make up, keys, pens, sunglasses, regular glasses, wallet, female stuff, masks, different pair of sunglasses, 3 crossword puzzles from the paper, charging cords, headphones, bottle of water, and thermos of wine I seem to need to carry with me at all times. 

2. I haven’t worn normal pants in 4 years. 

3. I need to find a backpack to fit all of my needs that won’t make me too top heavy and tip over in a light breeze. 

4. Spending about 4 hours online finding the perfect, overpriced backpack causes me to get distracted and wander off. 

5. It’s important to check to see what kind of tires your new scooter has. Mine are air-filled. Make sure they are filled with air. This is key.

6. It’s true that our balance gets compromised the older we get. Especially when carrying a thermos of wine. 

7. I don’t know how to ride a stand-up scooter. 

8. Stopping when wearing flip-flops going downhill on a scooter you don’t know how to ride in the first place may make you rethink your plan. 

9. Buy a helmet. Take 10 seconds and actually strap it to your head.

All important info. Trust me.

Anybody got any gas money I can borrow?


There was this time…(pt. 3)

The time I met a supermodel was the most un-supermodel-y moment I could’ve come up with.

We met each other, but we were never formally introduced.

One morning, I woke up to no water. That was particularly painful as I’d indulged in far too much fermented grape juice the night before. Apparently, the whole apartment complex was sans-eau and I sort of remembered the notices posted around the place for about a week prior.

So, the only option open to me was going next door to the Starbucks to their, now desperately-needed, restroom.

Shoving my hair into a hat but not finding sunglasses, wearing sweats and the same silk blouse from the night before, predictably-smeared mascara sideways off my face, I barreled through the Starbucks’ side door hoping to escape anyone’s notice.

Bad plan because I slammed full-body into Kathy Ireland.

Courtesy of Lane Report

She must’ve been in some kind of meeting because even supermodels don’t dress in business suits early morning on a Saturday to get coffee. Even models dressed in fabulous, clearly-not-a-drinker, form-fitting, business suits.

Now, I’m a tall 5’8″ but when I’m slouching in embarrassment and desperately needing to pee, I can lose an inch or two. At 5’10” plus 4” heels, Kath, as I like to call her now, make her stand out like, well, a supermodel.

And, of course, she is even more stunning in person.

She possesses such a confident presence that even someone body-slamming into her at 8am doesn’t seem to phase her.

She needlessly apologized to me. I gasped something inaudible.

Then, having to wait for the bathroom about 3 feet away from the aforementioned supermodel-body-slamming-incident-in-front-of-witnesses added to it becoming quite a bit more uncomfortable.

Yeah, it was like this. Warren Buffet, Kathy Ireland, and Bill Gates.

Except that it totally wasn’t and it was really uncomfortable.

No, wait? Not uncomfortable. Awkward is the word I’m looking for. Definitely awkward.

This May Mean the End of Laundry Days

Well, I went to go do laundry, which is normal and I have every right to do so no matter what the gods seem to be telling me right now. I picked up my trash first and went to go throw it out but the hole at the bottom made it difficult to avoid trailing old french fries and cigarette butts all over the kitchen. After I cleaned that up, I grabbed the now double-bagged trash and got caught in the stupid fabric I have hanging over my door, the “privacy tapestry” no one has ever called it ever, and slammed my knee into the door frame. Hard. I made it downstairs, almost lost my trash again when it got caught on my finger, but didn’t. Though I might have eaten a fly.

I barely made it through the light on Grand Ave and pulled into the 7-11 parking lot and came head-to-head with some giant fucking truck thing whose drivers were apparently making a bee-line towards the spot I wanted which was in the no-man’s zone at the edge. I guess these people were super pissed that they couldn’t get their weird, 400-foot-tall, military transport-looking, Land Shark-type of truck into the “truck area” that it totally isn’t. Besides, I was there first. He gave me a look like I was some idiot and the stand-off lasted a good minute or two because the only other space that was opening up, he was blocking in. She finagled her way out and I acquiesced the stand-off, but I’m still pissed about it. I was going to go off on him because fuck that guy. But he didn’t say anything and I couldn’t just start.

Angry, I pulled out the laundry soap drawer-thingy to the washing machine but ripped it out instead and flew across the entire laundromat, hitting a wall and smashing into pieces. It took me five or so minutes to reassemble it. My hands were super gross from all of this so I go to wash them in the sink, done, grab a paper towel from the holder and it tears as I pull away but won’t break and now is a super long strip of paper towel stretching across the room. I tried to pull it and it throws me off-balance and I almost land into a rolling laundry cart but didn’t fall and only do that jump/skip/hop/flail that you do when you try to catch yourself. I put in the soap, realize I was about $2 short, go to 7-11 and the longest line in history, buy something to get some cash for the quarter machine.

Don’t get me started on the quarter machine.
Leaving, I bang my head on the back door of my car.

And even as I’m writing this, my glass of last night’s wine-okay, this morning’s wine because fuck this day already-spilled it’s entire contents onto my computer, my phone, the tv remote and my smokes.

I’m afraid to go outside. I may have to abandon those clothes in the laundromat. The gods are trying to tell me to stay indoors and stay safe. Or they, too, really hate laundry day.

Update (and the day is still only half over):

Going to put everything in the dryer, since it’s Saturday, the light goes green on that street to the laundromat for .000025 seconds. So I got stuck behind a trash truck and two assholes on bikes who think they’re cars riding in the middle of the street like bike-riding-assholes, who then, after flipping me off for honking, pedal across the street as the light turned yellow then red.

When I got there, I saw that one of my washers hadn’t started. It read: error code CL@#$%%^@# . Thankfully, because this type of thing is making me actually thankful, I got it to start because I had already pumped my last $4.25 into it.

Some days are like this, though, and usually the only damage is self-contained.

That, of course, wasn’t much assurance to the poor special needs man on the sit-down bicycle I almost backed into. By “almost”, I mean by barely a foot. It’s not really my fault. My car already has terrible blind spots and today it seems I’m driving with the aid of only a birdshit-covered periscope.

I’m going to rest before I go see some old friends at a reunion. I wonder who will be lucky enough to sit next to me. For their sake, I hope they’re wearing full body armor and driving a tank.

The Car Wash: A true horror story

I suppose I could use the excuse of having been born blonde though it’s not much of an excuse since I haven’t been a natural blonde for 20 years.

Since there is no excuse for the horror that took place, I’ll just have to admit that this story is where a new blog was born.

I innocently went to get gas one day.

I succumbed to the tantalizing offer of a carwash for a discounted $10. My car was even dirtier than usual and figured I’d give it a gift. Finished filling the spry little Toyota RAV4 with gas, I cruise along into the car-washing cubby.

I pull in carefully. I feel my tires move onto the…tire-holding…clamp-thingy. The light was still green so I think I must not be seated properly. It’s happened before. An improperly seated-seat can cause trouble you wish you hadn’t signed up for. So, I move up, just a little, to where I’m feeling comfortable.

The red light flashes and I brace for impact.

The car-washing Decepticon starts, its violent machinations octopussing its vinyl tentacles up to my car, spitting and grinding giant pipe cleaners towards the sides. I locked my doors because it still makes me nervous.

In the review mirror, I watch, it’s coming, inching up behind me, creeping, taunting me…and it’s…going back! It’s going all the way back. It’s washing the hell out of the air behind me. I sit there for a full five minutes, watching through my review mirrors, as the angry carwash robot vigorously washes the area where my car is supposed to be.     

It finally stops, little spurts of water dripping out of it spent. A light turns green, a violent siren blares, and the sign is telling me, quite unforgivingly, to move forward into the air dryer. Which I sheepishly do. Confused, I sit under the dryer for about 15 seconds before I realized how stupid it is to dry an already dry yet still dirty car.

Pulling out slowly, praying no one sees me do this, I notice there is a guy watching me. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or laughing or just concerned. He and I make eye contact until I panic, peeling out long seconds, violently speeding in the wrong direction, dying to get the Hell out of there.

After driving North for about 10 miles at about 85 mph (even though I was headed South), I’m wiping tears from my eyes from the laughter I can’t control, dust flying from my side panels. I resign myself to the fact that I’m going to have to move to a new city and establish a new identity. In time, my family would find a way to forgive me.

I know it’s been said that women are terrible drivers. I’ve always thought of myself as the exception, but after paying ten dollars to watch sprinklers wash the inside of a garage while I sat, dry and helpless, makes me think: I’m more of the rule.

Eventually, I did return home but kept my misstep to myself for about 20 minutes. It proved too much to keep inside.

20 minutes later, the No Toast Zone was born.

True, awkward, and truly awkward=The No Toast Zone.