the vatican proclaimation on traffic

I love “AOL”. While there are wars being fought and trees going extinct and diseases killing people, they have the headline “Paris Hilton staring at ceiling in jail”.

Really?? No, I mean really? Ya mean, I have something in common with Paris Hilton? I stare at the ceiling too. A lot. That’s what us common folks do when we don’t have the paparazzi chasing after us or film crews filming us milking cows with Nicole Richie in high heels or shopping for a $50,000 dress to wear to the mall to buy an outfit for a chihuahua. 

I’d actually really like to share a prison cell with her. I know she has her own prison cell and all, but I’d be a really innocuous room mate. I’m practically invisible in real life. She might not even see me anyways. Unless I asked her a question like “So Paris, what’s it like to be rich and beautiful and be able to have anyone you want in the world?”
Naturally since I’m invisible, Paris would immediately become alarmed and snap open her pink rhinestoned cell phone and say, “Mommy. I just heard a voice talking, but there’s no one there. I’m scared. What should I do???”

witty: “I’m right here (waving my hands). Can’t you see me?”

Paris: “There it is again. It sounds like that Britney girl. They’re not going to put her in here with me are they? She really scares me. I’m afraid of girls without hair. (long pause). But I know we went out together, Mommy. But that was before she went all twisty.”

I just sit and look at her and wonder why she can’t see me. The cop that stopped me on that new Vatican Ten Commandments of Driving sure saw me. You know the: “Thou shalt not yell swear words at construction workers if you’re late for your massage appointment.” one.

Who knew that was going to be one of the Commandments in the matter of days?

My car has always been my decompression booth. I sing really loudly to the radio. I touch my boobs at stop lights. I have loud imaginary arguments with people I’m angry with. And of course, these last three weeks have been the worst….I mean being without my shrink. Having people in my life act all wonky. And I’m sure mean-o-pause has had its evil hand in there too.

 But Thursday was the worst! And it should have theoretically been the best since I was going in for a nice, relaxing massage. I haven’t had a massage in several months and my sciatic nerve was screaming in pain and I had happily managed to get a check from my agency and was all excited, like Yay, I’m going to be the center of attention and someone is going to be massaging my ass and there in going to be lavender incense burning and all the crap from the last month is going to slowly dissipate into a crimson cloud of Kumbaya! 

But then the  construction crews of my county had another idea.

I left my house an hour before my massage to run downtown to get the check and then travel north to hit the massage place. Normally that would have been plenty of time, with even a few minutes to chat at my old workplace. But did that happen? Yeah, right!

I get up in front of the yuppie grocery store and suddenly I see this long snakey line of cars. I thought, hmmm, that doesn’t look too bad. They seem to be moving. WRONG!! It took me 35 minutes to go 1.5 miles.


Oh, by the way, this is a photo re-enactment of me in my car yelling things like “You fucking dickheads, you’re ruining my life, I hope you all die!!!”


Incidentally, evidently I was so loud, the guy in front of me turned around to look and see who was yelling profanity behind him.

Me: shyly waving. heh. gulp.

So after 35 minutes we finally got up to where the construction supposedly was and guess what? Go ahead, guess! There was NO CONSTRUCTION. It was just a bunch of macho guys in hardhats standing around under a tree talking. By then the time I had set aside to go get the check for the massage was gone, so I had to make a unilateral decision. Do I go get the check and show up late for the massage and possibly lose my much needed appointment or do I drive directly up to the massage place and weep a little and say, heh, I don’t have any money with me or the special little $40 off coupon you sent me, but would you mind massaging my ass for free and then I’ll drive away and hopefully come back with a check and coupon someday..

 That kinda worked for me, but I didn’t think they would buy it. But what else could I do? I even thought of bringing my mom into the equation and having her drive downtown and getting the check for me while I was getting the massage, but she is ill at the moment, as in she could either get a stroke or just plain die any second, and was it really worth it? Plus I was planning on meeting her afterwards to do her laundry even though she said she wouldn’t let me because she has a head harder than the Hope Diamond. 

So I finally just got to the massage place which was evidentally run by a bunch of Valley Girls. Because as I was angsting out, nearly crying, they were like, “oh, that’s totally bogus what happened. Like totally. Don’t worry about it. We’re cool. We like totally trust you. You seem like totally nice. So just be happy, okay?” 

Damn them for being so nice. Maybe I can hire them to follow me around.

I didn’t go to my regular masseuse since she was on vacation, but Valley Girl Junior was pretty good. And at that point it didn’t really matter.

When I was done, there was a different Valley Girl at the counter, but fortunately she knew my story, so I had to call my mom and postpone my laundry gig and run back downtown and then come all the way back. And then deal with my mom, who I had to keep telling to sit down since it was about 110 degrees in the laundromat and highly humid, plus she looked really ashen and terrible. We had a brief lunch down at an Eye-talian deli. When we went back to the laundromat, she spotted a cute guy for me (“A” must have put her on “witty needs a boyfriend” detail). He was way too young and besides I think she was just trying to divert me from her trying to fold her 375 kitty tee-shirts.

Anyways, she did finally sit down since she looked really terrible. I finished folding everything and we wheeled her cart out to her car. And then I wheeled it down to her apartment which is in the basement. I didn’t tell her I re-injured my newly massaged back again. But at least we got her stuff done and that’s all that really mattered, right?


8 Responses to “the vatican proclaimation on traffic”

  1. warcrygirl Says:

    I take it the construction workers weren’t even cute? At least having nice eye candy would have been nice. Also: your reenactment? LOVE IT!

  2. Kittiefan17 Says:

    lmao! this entry was hilarious…as a friend of mine would say, it was worthy of UPROARIOUS laughter!

  3. scotvalkyrie Says:

    Gah! I hate non-construction zones! Like every single damn one of them here!!!

  4. Stepfie Says:

    I think my daughter works in that massage place. She, like, totally talks like that, anyway. Over here, we have a “cones hotline” – a phone number you can call to report areas of ‘non-construction’: basically bits of road coned off for no reason and with no-one working on them. Ive never phoned them. I’m too busy making “Sheesh” gestures outta my car window and yelling things like “You lazy-arsed pieces of shite, why dont you stop standing around scratching your scrotes and come dig some fucking holes? My taxes pay your fucking wages, you slackers!”

    Im not good at being late for appointments. Can you tell? s x

  5. Seacreature Says:

    Heehehee…I thought I was the only one who carried out conversations while alone in my car! I’ve had so many crying/yelling fits in the car! And what better place to work out what to do about the latest person who’s pissed me off…

  6. Poolie Says:

    I can SO relate to your story! Looky Loo’s make me pukey poo!

  7. crankygirl Says:

    Great photo!

  8. boxx9000 Says:

    Paris?????? who?????? She does not even enter my radar of the important things on my day to day list of things I do. However this IS summer and I DO enjoy a good vacation here and there. The HILTON does have consistant accomodations, which are quite nice. JAIL must me quite a cultural shock to the young, white and privileged. POOR PARIS.

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