Fun In The Sun
Not that you asked, but I'll tell you anyway...
THIS WHEEL'S ON FIRE
More oldies than a K-Tel record...
Juicie has been grieving the loss of her laptop since it was swiped last week, which may be what led to her careless disregard for our lives on the freeway last night. Having missed the exit sign and rapidly running out of time to merge, Juicie made an executive decision to swerve across the divider lane and onto the desired freeway. Unfortunately, there wasn't much lane left, and we heard an ominious metallic sound that was probably her right front rim bouncing away. I can't believe she hasn't been snatched up as a getaway driver for some local celebrity yet.
Her theatrical stunt driving may also have been due to wanting to beat a hasty retreat from the creepy guy who bequeathed the infamous Freecycle vacuum cleaner to me. I was tempted to suggest he go back on Freecycle and request a mower for the knee-high weeds posing as his lawn, and some new shingles for his Psycho-style house. To his credit, Victor seemed like a nice guy, kind of quiet, keeps to himself...not at all the type you'd suspect of luring Freecycling women to his home so he can wear their skins, make chipdip out of their internal organs, and command "It puts the lotion in the basket..."
Of even greater concern to us than our impending demise at the hands of Victor was the steep incline he lived on, because it made exiting Juicie's car almost impossible for me, and climbing back in extremely difficult for her. The car door slammed on my ankle a few times, which would have made one less thing for Victor to amputate later, I suppose. As Juicie dangled precariously out her door in an attempt to reach the handle, I entertained horrific visions of her suddenly being yanked from the vehicle and carried off to Victor's sound-proofed basement. We finally manged to secure ourselves in and zoomed off to bicker about my eyebrows, whether or not I would staple myself to her ass while she shopped, and my supposed inability to recognise the correct freeway after living here 20 years. Good times...
THE BIRDS II- BEAKS OF FURY
Where's Hitchcock when I need someone to immortalize my drama ? I refer to the bird attack that occurred on my way home from Goodwill. Usually when I feel a smack upside my head in Canoga Park, there's an enraged cholita involved who thinks I'm making eyes at her vato, so I was stunned to discover it was actually one of God's charming creatures instead. This confirms my belief that not only does God hate me this summer, but Mother Nature does as well. All those Beltane rituals, and this is the thanks I get ?
Fortunately, I had a huge plastic bag full of bargain clothing to wrap around my head while it was being savaged by the crazed Magpie. The stupid little pecker swooped into me for the entire block, and only let up because someone's dog decided to take over and tried to gnaw off my leg while its owner yakked away obliviously on her cellphone. When I finally took my seat on the Rapid, the kindly gentleman seated behind me carefully removed two bird feathers from my disheveled hairdo. And they say there's no good men left anymore...
NOT A HAPPY CAMPER
Richard's aide wisely took a mental health day on Thursday, and paid me under the table to accompany him to some stupid Parks and Rec Camp Jamboree in her place. Within 5 minutes, I understood why she'd chosen that particular day to make herself scarce. No shade, no drinks, no grass to sit on, but lots of ingratiating enthusiasm while feedback shrieked out of the speakers, lots of heat, and lots of Richard screaming "Stupid dust !". The announcements segment lasted so long that I considered creating a diversion by setting myself on fire.
I was distracted from my mission of mercy by the appearance of a dance troupe, which was comprised of 7 year-old girls gyrating to "Slave (4U)". It didn't take Richard long to snap under the pressure of having to view such nonsense, and he loudly announced "This is disturbing me !" My thoughts exactly, and I blatantly ignored all suggestions from the camp directors that he should be silenced. One of them even tried to match me dirty look for dirty look, but being Sicilian and genetically endowed with The Evil Eye, I stared his white-bread, middle-class ass down with ease while arching my over-plucked left eyebrow for full effect. Not one person bothered me for the rest of the day (except Richard, but he always bothers me so he doesn't really count).
The day didn't improve much. Richard squirted tie-dye on my favorite shirt, the much-touted "water jumper" turned out to be two scalding plastic bouncers that kept deflating and one guy with a hose who's mission in life was to ration water, the mud everyone was standing barefoot in smelled suspiciously of manure, and Camp Granada's counselors were annoyed that I wouldn't force Richard to screech lame camp songs at top volume. Perhaps I'd have been more willing to yodel along brainlessly had some of the attractive male counselors taken a personal interest in boosting my morale. I dubbed the Granada group "Camp Hot Chocolate" due to the refreshing absence of caucasian men, and spent the lunch hour ogling a DMX look-alike while Richard tried to filch my Subway cookie.
Richard ended the day on our usual note- a screaming meltdown because he'd been forced to participate in the group photo. He's strictly a solo artist. Much spitting and threatening to shoot lasers at my head ensued, which I handled with my usual patience for drama (none whatsoever). Fortunately, Carolyn arrived at that moment and lured us away from mutual violence with promises of ice cream, and fattening fun was had by all...
THIS WHEEL'S ON FIRE
More oldies than a K-Tel record...
Juicie has been grieving the loss of her laptop since it was swiped last week, which may be what led to her careless disregard for our lives on the freeway last night. Having missed the exit sign and rapidly running out of time to merge, Juicie made an executive decision to swerve across the divider lane and onto the desired freeway. Unfortunately, there wasn't much lane left, and we heard an ominious metallic sound that was probably her right front rim bouncing away. I can't believe she hasn't been snatched up as a getaway driver for some local celebrity yet.
Her theatrical stunt driving may also have been due to wanting to beat a hasty retreat from the creepy guy who bequeathed the infamous Freecycle vacuum cleaner to me. I was tempted to suggest he go back on Freecycle and request a mower for the knee-high weeds posing as his lawn, and some new shingles for his Psycho-style house. To his credit, Victor seemed like a nice guy, kind of quiet, keeps to himself...not at all the type you'd suspect of luring Freecycling women to his home so he can wear their skins, make chipdip out of their internal organs, and command "It puts the lotion in the basket..."
Of even greater concern to us than our impending demise at the hands of Victor was the steep incline he lived on, because it made exiting Juicie's car almost impossible for me, and climbing back in extremely difficult for her. The car door slammed on my ankle a few times, which would have made one less thing for Victor to amputate later, I suppose. As Juicie dangled precariously out her door in an attempt to reach the handle, I entertained horrific visions of her suddenly being yanked from the vehicle and carried off to Victor's sound-proofed basement. We finally manged to secure ourselves in and zoomed off to bicker about my eyebrows, whether or not I would staple myself to her ass while she shopped, and my supposed inability to recognise the correct freeway after living here 20 years. Good times...
THE BIRDS II- BEAKS OF FURY
Where's Hitchcock when I need someone to immortalize my drama ? I refer to the bird attack that occurred on my way home from Goodwill. Usually when I feel a smack upside my head in Canoga Park, there's an enraged cholita involved who thinks I'm making eyes at her vato, so I was stunned to discover it was actually one of God's charming creatures instead. This confirms my belief that not only does God hate me this summer, but Mother Nature does as well. All those Beltane rituals, and this is the thanks I get ?
Fortunately, I had a huge plastic bag full of bargain clothing to wrap around my head while it was being savaged by the crazed Magpie. The stupid little pecker swooped into me for the entire block, and only let up because someone's dog decided to take over and tried to gnaw off my leg while its owner yakked away obliviously on her cellphone. When I finally took my seat on the Rapid, the kindly gentleman seated behind me carefully removed two bird feathers from my disheveled hairdo. And they say there's no good men left anymore...
NOT A HAPPY CAMPER
Richard's aide wisely took a mental health day on Thursday, and paid me under the table to accompany him to some stupid Parks and Rec Camp Jamboree in her place. Within 5 minutes, I understood why she'd chosen that particular day to make herself scarce. No shade, no drinks, no grass to sit on, but lots of ingratiating enthusiasm while feedback shrieked out of the speakers, lots of heat, and lots of Richard screaming "Stupid dust !". The announcements segment lasted so long that I considered creating a diversion by setting myself on fire.
I was distracted from my mission of mercy by the appearance of a dance troupe, which was comprised of 7 year-old girls gyrating to "Slave (4U)". It didn't take Richard long to snap under the pressure of having to view such nonsense, and he loudly announced "This is disturbing me !" My thoughts exactly, and I blatantly ignored all suggestions from the camp directors that he should be silenced. One of them even tried to match me dirty look for dirty look, but being Sicilian and genetically endowed with The Evil Eye, I stared his white-bread, middle-class ass down with ease while arching my over-plucked left eyebrow for full effect. Not one person bothered me for the rest of the day (except Richard, but he always bothers me so he doesn't really count).
The day didn't improve much. Richard squirted tie-dye on my favorite shirt, the much-touted "water jumper" turned out to be two scalding plastic bouncers that kept deflating and one guy with a hose who's mission in life was to ration water, the mud everyone was standing barefoot in smelled suspiciously of manure, and Camp Granada's counselors were annoyed that I wouldn't force Richard to screech lame camp songs at top volume. Perhaps I'd have been more willing to yodel along brainlessly had some of the attractive male counselors taken a personal interest in boosting my morale. I dubbed the Granada group "Camp Hot Chocolate" due to the refreshing absence of caucasian men, and spent the lunch hour ogling a DMX look-alike while Richard tried to filch my Subway cookie.
Richard ended the day on our usual note- a screaming meltdown because he'd been forced to participate in the group photo. He's strictly a solo artist. Much spitting and threatening to shoot lasers at my head ensued, which I handled with my usual patience for drama (none whatsoever). Fortunately, Carolyn arrived at that moment and lured us away from mutual violence with promises of ice cream, and fattening fun was had by all...
posted by Fredrika Krueger at 2:32 PM
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