I feel human once more.
I have my car back.
No more truck. Yesterday and this morning, I ended up driving Joel’s car. He had left a can of Barq’s rootbeer in the backseat and it exploded in a hot sticky glurg all over the backseat. The back window is glazed with a sticky mottled bubbly effect. It’s such a boy car, all smoky and big stereo and rattly from his toolbox. There was all of this testosterone floating around in there. Something rubbed off on my white t-shirt this morning and left a black smear on my breast. I think it was a cluster of Y-chromosomes. Perhaps it was trying to fertilize my $7 t-shirt. I dunno. Crazy spermatazoan logic.
Esteban ended up needing to go to a car cemetery way out in the country to retrieve a part from a collapsed ’95 Monte Carlo and bring it to the dealer because they wanted to keep the car for another three days while they waited for a part. I had threatened to have a stroke if I had to go another day without a vehicle and Esteban obliged. He won’t tell me the name of the person who diddled around with my car at the dealer, claiming that he doesn’t want to subject him to ‘the wrath’. His words, not mine. Oh, and there is now a gouge in my door. I’d bring it back, but I’m afraid that they’d take my car away from me again.
As I was driving home in my blessed transportation, I heard a strange sound. It was my voice. I was singing along with whatever tripe was playing on the radio. Since my bronchitis, I haven’t had breath enough to sing, let along the stomach to stand the voice of Zoul and the Demons that would undoubtedly come from my gullet. But my voice is back now and all is right with the world.
I forget how much I like to sing until I can’t, until I’m left gasping for breath every time I try to belt out a little Etta James or even Adam Ant. I constantly sing in the car. I don’t even care if the windows are open. I’m probably one of those people that would send teenage girls into peels of giggles, but so it goes. Life is too short to be worried about whether you look like a dork singing ‘Mandy’ at the top of your lungs. Seriously. Just belt that mutha and go about your life with a smile on your face and a song in your heart.
God, I’m happy the Monte is back. Chauffi sent me some CDs that I’ve been aching to listen to, but it would be almost sacrilegious to play them without my groovy leather seat hugging my curvy bottom and my right foot pressed deep into the floor. I’ve got this entire scenario played out for tomorrow afternoon: just me, the Monte, a bottle of mineral water, the CDs, and a long stretch of road that runs along the Bay. It’s going to be grand, I tell you!
And speaking of grand, I purchased the BEST new panties! I had forgotten that I had them, but they’re all white with a grey waistband and totally look like boy underwear but they’re not. They’re hardcore, but at the same time, all soft and girly and white. I love them very much. I feel like maybe Gwen Stefani in them. If only I had her hypnotic abdominals. And possibly a cute little birthmark in a perfect location.
Anyway, I celebrated my new cute underwear by demonstrating to Mo that I can now slide my jeans off my butt without unbuttoning them. Yeah. I know. Very cool. She wasn’t all that impressed.
Oh yeah. Maybe because I did it in her front yard. She’s such a dang prude.
