| Friday, July 21, 2006 |
| Not all mimes are bad |
Yesterday must have been my lucky day. Well, except for the part where I left work early, spent an hour wandering around Winco, selecting a random assortment of groceries, standing in line and then remembering, as the last item was rung, that they don't take credit cards. Which, of course, was all I had on me. Fuck.
So, after spending another 30 minutes or so at Foods Co, which thankfully does take credit, I decided to take a quick pass through the Red Carpet Ride and Shine. $4.99 for a pretty decent, fairly quick, wash & dry? Can't beat it with a stick.
And my car was hideously filthy. I park basically butted up to a field of dry-ass dirt every day at work. And for the past few weeks at least, the field has been occupied by a few hundred sheep (wth did they come from?). My car looks like I've driven through a dust-bowl on a regular basis. I don't get too uppity about washing it because, really, why bother? It's going to be filthy again by tonight, watch. But, honestly, I couldn't hardly see out the windows anymore, so there you go.
So, I ride through the quicky wash, eating a Twix bar on the DL (damn my diet all to hell). When I get to the end part, the little teenie-bopper-candy-striper-look-a-like girls come out with their towels and air blowers and commence to drying the car. One girl goes to pull up my driver's side windshield wiper to presumably dry underneath it and the friggen thing comes off in her hand! Just the blade, not the whole wiper arm or anything. I see the panic in her eyes through the windshield, but I'm not overly freaked out at this point.
She tries to put it back on, to no avail. So she calls over some random guy who is stooping down on the other side of the car wash working on(?) some equipment. He tries to fix it, to no avail. When my car finally reaches the end of the conveyor, they motion for me to pull forward a little, then stop. So I do. The random guy gets a supervisor-woman to come over and look. I know she's a supervisor cause her shirt says so. She motions for me to just "hold on" and goes over to the side and calls someone from the big phone on a stick standing in the corner. Then she motions for me to follow her.
Out of the wash and around the corner we go, with me following her in my car at 2 miles an hour like she's walking the Hondaloosa on a leash. Park right here and wait, she pantomimes. So I do.
Out comes handy-guy, who also tries to fix the wiper, to no avail. Be right back, says the new mime. When he comes back he has a brand new wiper blade for me. It took several attempts to get it on securely after which it took me several attempts to "get it" when he pantomimed the command to turn on my wipers to make sure they work. But, I eventually figured it out. And they worked. I was secretly hoping that he would just replace the other one too, because these things come in 2-packs, no? But, alas, that did not happen. It was all too clear when he picked up the old wiper and empty packaging and motioned a little good-bye wave.
This was a lucky turn of events for me because my wiper blade needed changing badly and my Honda probably forced it off in a desperate attempt for attention. I just couldn't stop laughing at how the entire exchange took place without a word between me and my benefactors.
Of course, I was talking to myself in the car to combat the deafening silence. I'm just saying. |
posted by *******DIANE******* @ 12:17 PM  |
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| Thursday, July 20, 2006 |
| The real me |
I talk to myself. There. I've said it. The cat is out of the proverbial bag.
Not that it comes as any surprise to those who know me well. I've always been one to chat myself up. I've caught myself doing it in the shower, on the freeway, walking between my office and car, while shopping, while putting on make-up, while cleaning house (yes, I occasionally clean house), etc. And yet, those who love me and know me best will still walk into a room, eyes shifting from left to right under a furrowed brow and ask, "Uhhhhhhh, who are you talking to?" Often followed up by, "Why do you do always that?"
I explained to Queenie in a recent conversation that it's totally subconscious and that I am usually just working something out in my head. The more audible my conversation, the more passionate I am about the subject matter (i.e. the more pissed I am) . If I'm just talking out some lovely fantasy, like winning millions in the lottery, I pretty much just move my lips. If I'm really excited about it, I might actually progress into a hint of a whisper. If I'm in a rage, like for example when my husband does the 50th moronic thing in a week, I'll go from a full out whisper to actually talking.out.loud. Which can be embarassing since I normally can't even repeat what I've just said if I'm caught in the act. It's out of my head that fast. So, if someone walks in on me, and I realize I've been speaking my thoughts out loud, for the life of me I have no idea whether I've said something horrible or incriminating or what.
On a related tangent, Queenie informed me recently that my grammar and coherent sentence structure directly correlates to how pissed I am. The more angry and flustered I am, apparently, the worse my grammar and the more likely I am to misplace words or word meanings within a sentence. Go figure.
So now she says things to me like, "So, have you got that 'all worked out in your head'?" Or, "I know you're not really mad at me, your grammar was perfect."
Little shit.
And since I'm making admissions, I'm also a car dancer. And singer. In this instance, according to those who know and love me, how well I do these things is directly proportional to the number of drinks I've had. Not that it takes a drink stronger than coffee to get me going. But, that's a story for another day. |
| posted by *******DIANE******* @ 10:37 AM |
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| About Me |
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Name: *******DIANE*******
Home: California
About Me:100 Things
Email Me: HERE
See my complete profile
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Pokeboy = 15 y/o son
Queenie = 11 y/o daughter
Stanky = 6 y/o daughter
Scooby = 2 y/o daughter
Bookem = STB Ex-Husband
Moody = 16 y/o step-daughter
Pinky = 5 lb furball
Java = Boxer-mix rescue
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