Saturday, November 9, 2013

                                   Memory Laps

I hate it when I gingerly climb up clad in my red patent stilettos set to perch on my SUV throne, and the seat is set in super-lumbar-grandpa-position. The steering wheel is crushing my Body by Victoria boobs, my six-pack is thrust into the odometer and my peep toes don’t even reach the floorboard. WTF? Mr. Wonderful drove my car again.

After I dislodge my delicate torso from the dashboard, I push the “go” button, and “My Way” crooned by my mother’s under-the-daisies-heart-throb fills my tiny pink ears. How I hate that song (annoyingly appropriate for the circumstances). If I hear Frank’s mellow voice once more, I swear I will leave Mr. Wonderful’s Fruit of the Looms in the dryer on “Extra Shrink” over night. 

“Seat Setting #1” is supposed to be high enough so I can see over the steering wheel  with just enough space through the windshield so the purple-hairs and Crotch-Rocket creaps can see me flipping them off. The music is supposed to be turned back to my favorite channels: ZZ Tops High Tunes, Elvis Plugged and Naughty Girls Rock (Serius-ly)

I check the gas gage, and, surprise, I have enough gas to get out of the garage. Is he kidding me? Just because he does the laundry, mops the floors, washes the cars, trims the hedges, cuts the lawn, grills the fish and scrubs the toilets, this does not give him permission to mess with my carriage. I have to get to the hair stylist’s by 1:00, and I have just enough time to make it through the 87 lights. How am I going to find time to fill the tank too? This really sucks.

I pull into the station on fumes, and descend from my throne. Some wise guy at the next pump has the gall to say to me, “Hey, Blondie, nice ride.” I take one look at his drool-laced beard and turn away. I put on my gold glove, thrust the nozzle into the gas tank and begin deep breathing. I can just feel him checking out my wheels. What? Do I hear “My Way” coming from the radio of his semi?  Lord, help me.