September 18, 2009
Last night, around 5 o'clock, I was running around my house like a crazy woman, trying to get out the door to a meeting--which by the way, turned out to be the worst meeting I've had in a long, long time. It ended around 9 o'clock, with me standing in the parking lot of a fire house expressing the following sentiments over my cell phone: "You know, you're right, everyone does have a place where they can be most useful. His just happens to be in a vat of crap that goes right up to his neck."
That is not a joke.
Anyway, an hour before the meeting, I was an absolute mess. I had to run to grocery store for a box of almighty donut holes (as if anyone needs donut holes at a night meeting, right?), I still had to drop James off with his Grammie, and worst of all, I couldn't find a single thing to wear. And I mean that. I've long outgrown my professional clothes, my underpants chafe like they're made out of sandpaper, and I haven't done laundry in fifteen days.
Cut to me, digging through a box of workout clothes, looking for an elusive stretchy black skirt when the doorbell rings.
I ran to the door, swung it open, and was greeted by two guys I've never seen in all my live long day. Definitely not a set of Mormon missionaries, like I'm used to. This companionship looked like lobstermen, they smelled like lobstermen, and guess what? They actually were lobstermen from Damariscotta, Maine. One was tall and thin, the other was short and stout, and they both had a lazy eye. I kind of wanted to take a picture.
I, on the other hand, was half naked, half a step away from blowing my top, and fully confused--as usual.
The guys appeared to be somewhere in my age range, and they introduced themselves as "Norman" and "Clyde." Again, this is not a joke. I mean, maybe it was to their mother when she was drinking whiskey and pushing 'em out in a tavern somewhere--but as far as I could tell, their birth certificates could back them up.
Apparently, Norman and Clyde were at my house to look at the Blazer (oh yeah, because we still have it--a story for another day) and maybe take 'er for a test drive. Never wanting to disappoint a man of the sea, I tossed them the keys and was like, "Oh no problem, this is a perfect time to check out the car! But seriously, if you're not back in nine-and-a-half minutes, I'll make the time to stick an Indigo Girls sticker on the bumper of your Subaru Outback."
They were back in eight-and-a-half.
And there I was, standing in the driveway holding the title in my left hand, and my favorite purple fuzzy pen with my right. They stepped out of the Blazer and I was like, "So? What'd ya think?" And before they could answer I was all, "Give me six hundred bucks or a mulching lawn mower and she's yours!"
But they had questions. Like:
THEM: How come the speedometer don't work?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: How come the tailgate don't open?
ME: Because it's an '89.
THEM: Why'd you decide to sell it?
ME: Because it's an '89...you're approaching your time limit here, boys.
THEM: How long've you had it?
ME: Since '89.
THEM: Why does it lean to the let so hard?
ME: Because. IT'S AN '89!!!!
I'm very sorry to say that they missed the opportunity of a lifetime and left my driveway empty handed. A shame really, '89 was a great year.
Let me know if you're interested.