On the DL

I waited at the DMV yesterday for a grand total of twenty minutes to get my driver's license. They asked me about my height, weight, organ donor status, and made me read line 5 on their little eye chart. While I waited for my picture to develop, I chatted with a woman who I ride the bus with. She was waiting for his son to finish his second attempt at the road test to get his first license.

It sparked the memory of my driving test. My sixteenth birthday was on a Sunday, so I had to wait until the DMV opened on Tuesday to get my license. My father, the saint that he is, decided to pull me out of school at precisely 9:00 AM, when the doors of that hallowed dispensary of freedom opened. We were across town at the DMV in less than three minutes. Papa wanted his boy driving by lunchtime, which I was.

There was only one hang up. The written test went well. I only missed two questions, one concerning bicycle hand signals (on a driving test, come on) and the other concerning a road sign that I had never seen before nor have I seen since. I still don't even know what it was for.

They graded the written test, and in a matter of minutes, I was sitting comfortably in the warm, purple upholstery of my father's classic 1998 Ford Taurus with optional tape deck and automatic transmission. My hands quivered at ten o'clock and two o'clock as the inspector went around the car, checking brake lights, turn signals, and the horn. When he finally got into the car, he told me to relax and take the car out of the parking lot slowly. I did. He told me to make a left. I did. He told me to pull into a driveway and make a three point turn. I did. He told me to pull along the curb and demostrate proper uphill parking procedure. I said, "Excuse me?"

For those that are confused at this point, let me fill you in on a little bit of my great state's georgraphy. The state is bordered by five other states, of which you can see all of them on a clear day, from anywhere in the state. Fucking balls, it is flat here. You have about twenty minutes to get ready for the myriad tornadoes that hit this place because you can see them on the horizon coming for you. There might be these fabled 'hills' that people park on in California and Utah, but they sure as hell aren't here. I politely informed the DMV Administrator of my dilemma as I pulled alongside the curb.

"Sir, why in the fuck is this on the test?" I asked. "There are no hills within a hundred miles of here, let alone hills that would have a street to park on. Seriously, when in the fuck am I going to need to park downhill in this town, or this entire fucking state for that matter?" I had recently acquired my teenage angst and mastery of the f-bomb in the face of authority. DMV guy wasn't phased.

"Just complete the procedure." He said, calm and collected with his little clip board. I fucked it up.

Luckily, he did not fail me. I was a mediocre driver and that would suit our great state. After a quick congratulatory lunch with my Father, I dropped him off at his office and sped out of town, under the instructions that I had to make it to Peoria and deposit a secret manila envelope full of checks at a bank before it closed at 5 and back to the office before he got pissed at 5:30. It was a two hour drive each way. I still don't understand why my father would have a bank account so far away, but, he still does, and I no longer question it.

I tore ass down the highway, not letting the needle drop below 80. The only face I saw was in my rearview mirror:



Suffice it to say, I quickly lost him in the neverending backwash of burnt out factories and narrow alleys of Decatur, Illinois. I managed to drop off the deposit and was back in time to pick up my Father well before six that night (with minimal police involvement).

Fast forward to six months later. My Father, tired of me taking his awesome Ford Tauras out every night to try to score some of that proverbial teenage drama queen tail at the local coffee shop, wakes me up at 3:00 AM one morning.

"Son," he says to me, "it's time to get your own car."

"But Dad, the lots don't open until at least the sun comes up...why are you waking me up so early?"

"Get dressed and grab all your cash, you are getting a car today." so I did, and he drove me out to behind a building that I had seldom need to visit, not having any bills in my sixteen years that could not be paid off with cash or mowing lawns.

Behold, my first pimp ass ride:




That's right, kids, a 1976 CJ-6 Mail Delivery Jeep. I drove on the wrong side of the car for the first year I had my license. I slapped a sticker of Hobbes on the back and to this day still wonder how I never got an STD in high school. There was just enough room in the back of that thing to snuggle with a loved one, as long as you didn't mind sharp, cold metal rubbing against your shoulder blades. Ah, the memories...

Anyhow, while lost in such nostalgia, I had managed to collect my license and was walking back to the fiancees car (yes, I drove to the DMV on an expired license, come get me pigs!) when I heard a voice coming from nowhere in particular.

"You fucking bastard!" I looked over my shoulder, thinking that one of my former love interests from the Mail Jeep of Love had recognized my now portly self and was making an introduction I could understand. "How dare you call me! It's over! It's been over for three days! Why don't you just give up already!"

I located the voice. It was a youngish girl sitting in the passenger seat of a pickup with the windows rolled down. I sat in the fiancees car with the windows down and filled out the organ donor card while I listened in on the conversation.

"What do you mean you don't understand what you did? You have been nothing but a prick to me since I started dating you! You bought me dinner every night, but it had to be from where you wanted to go. You would get up early in the morning to go to work and not wake me up to say goodbye, or I love you or anything....The ring?! The fucking ring!? You woke me up and gave it to me when you knew I had class at 9:00 the next morning. You selfish prick. I don't care if you worked a double shift. I already sold the ring to help pay for the cost of me moving out..."

Just then, some gentlemen got into the car next to this scorned lover and she shut up immediately. As I drove off, I thought about many things, but mostly, I thought about how good life is when you've jumped through all the hoops you need to for the day with a couple of hours to do absolutely nothing and not get your ass chewed for it.

The Throes of Spiritual Blue Balls

A very nice lady in Atlanta who just moved in with her Gentleman Caller asked me why I had to move out of my own house and into a friend's house for the weekend. Well, my future in-laws were coming down. My future Mother-in-law is Catholic, and grew up on a farm. By Catholic I mean strict almost to the point of flagellation for even thinking of the word penis (not that she would ever do it). By grew up on a farm, I mean dense to the point of being outraged by common occurances (like body piercings).

She has three children, the youngest of which I am marrying. When her oldest daughter came home from school after that required health class (you know the one, its where you learn why you are getting boobies, body hair, and why your pants got tight presicly five seconds before the teacher would call you up to the front of the class and that one son of a bitch would stab you in the junk with a compass and wouldn't get into trouble because he would inoccently state that he thought you had a snake in your pants, which you did, but it certainly didn't need another hole in it. Fucker.) and asked a very scientific question about monthly cycles in the nethers. Mom responded that she had not had her monthly yet, even though she had three children.

This woman was truly upset last Christmas when I informed her that Jesus was a black man. She had always pictured him to be the blond haired, blue eyed savior of the Nordic people. I do believe that she has repressed that little notion deep, deep down.


Behold, my Lord and Savior









So, about six months ago, while visiting the future in-laws (where the fiancee gets her old bedroom and I get to sleep on the pullout couch which is very comfortable), I wake up one Saturday morning after a visit from the little man (you know, the one that punishes you for drinking too much the night before by coming into your room while you are sleeping and taking a shit in your mouth) and who is sitting there, watching me sleep, but my future Mother-in-law.

"Good morning, Charles." she says.

"Good morning, future Mother-in-law." I say.

"I was wondering, what are the sleeping arrangements at the house when you guys go back home." The fiancee had entered the room at this point, I turned to look at her. She had opened her mouth, ready to tell her mother the truth about our sleeping arrangements (which coincidentally, cut our bills in half). Quickly, I pulled up every ounce of my being, and cut the fiancee off.

"Well, future Mother-in-law," I said with a fuzzy toothed smile, "we will probably do the same thing we have been doing until we get married, which is to have the fiancee sleep at the house, while I sleep at the old room mates' new house until we are married in the eyes of God, country, and family."

Fiancee's mouth fell completely open. Future Mother-in-law nodded her head, smiled, stood up and went to make breakfast. Fiancee sat there catatonic, not believing that I had just flat out lied to her mother. She got over it.

Now, we are doing the Catholic thing. Celebacy before marriage. We have had some close calls (like every morning when I am in the shower), but have so far been sticking to it. My strategy? I made a bet with the fiancee that, if I do not succumb to my lustful urges, either manually (thus the pain of the cold shower) or with someone else (which would end the engagement and the marriage), I would get $20 to spend however I saw fit (how much pot does $20 buy nowadays?) and (the coup de grace) I will also get to name our English Bulldog, when we finally get one.

What do you think of Icabod Morton Aluiscius Everdapper? I think it has quite a roll to it.

Maybe Next Weekend

So, my friend Clint from work asked about my little slice of cyberspace today, and in an effort not to offend her, I read my entire blog to make sure I didn't badmouth anyone I really cared about in some wierd fit of rage (I am a rage-aholic after all), besides calling this person Clint instead of their real name (remember Sylvester Stallone's real name is Marian before you get all huffy about being called Clint, Clint).

Welcome Clint. Anyhow, back to me and my neurotic ego stroking that is this blog. I read it over, and man, have I been a depressing little bitch. Every other post is all "My job sucks" or "I have explosive diarrhea and it isn't the funny kind of explosive diahrrea." Nuts to that. I am going to try to stay positive for at least this post. My future in-laws are coming down to stay at our little Shoebox house, which means that I have to move out for the weekend. No big deal, I can batch it up over at the Shaved Yeti's new ranchero relaxo (for those of you who are new to my little world, I lived with the Shaved Yeti, once, long ago). Alcohol poisoning, here I come.

In other news, I am up to over 16 hand written pages of my book and I haven't run out of plotline in my head like I usually do. Hell, I haven't even written about the magic bathroom mirror that advocates suicide or the back story of Carl the homosexual werepig. Yup, I do believe I have found my niche writing shitty science fiction. Anybody know an unscrupulous agent? Better yet, anybody want to buy an unfinished manuscript for $1000 and a six pack of malt liqour?

Wedding plans are almost totally done. The fiancee is getting a little nervous about writing thank you notes, which is always a good sign that everything is going as planned for the actual wedding. I am excited, she is excited, the families are excited, you could cut fifteen swan sculptures out of ice with my nipples alone.

That is it for me, the weekend approaches, and with it, the promise of grade school girl's basketball games (my nieces', you perverts), drinking with the future father-in-law, and drinking some more with the former roommate. It will be a good weekend. Until Monday...

Super

It's an old test, a little skewed, but hey, I'm getting a C average in abnormality.

You Are 76% Abnormal

You are at high risk for being a psychopath. It is very likely that you have no soul. You are at high risk for having a borderline personality. It is very likely that you are a chaotic mess. You are at medium risk for having a narcissistic personality. It is somewhat likely that you are in love with your own reflection. You are at high risk for having a social phobia. It is very likely that you feel most comfortable in your mom's basement. You are at medium risk for obsessive compulsive disorder. It is somewhat likely that you are addicted to hand sanitizer.

How'>http://www.blogthings.com/howabnormalareyouquiz/">How Abnormal Are You?

Why do automatic doors still open for me and cats rub against my ankles before biting the shit out of me? Soulless my ass.

Old Time Harmony

Well, I hope everyone had a good weekend. I know I did. The fiancee and I cleaned the house yesterday in anticipation of the future inlaws coming down to spend the weekend. I managed to hook up the digital camera to the computer so you can finally bask in the the ultimate joy of recreated digital bliss.

Is it just me, or do I have an unusually large head?







A couple of months ago, the fiancee and I, tired of wedding planning, house renovation, and other wanton acts of adulthood, decided to take a trip down to southern Illinois. We stumbled upon a natural rock formation known as Garden of the Gods. It was out in the middle of nowhere, swarmed over with the spawn of trailer parks from all across the country, and hotter than Satan's balls. The view however, was breathtaking. To the left is a picture the fiancee took on our assent.











Here is what we found at the top:











That's right, in my old age, I am turning into a dumbass. I will post some more pictures from down south soon, but in the meantime, a picture from the weekend birthday celebration:


















I swear to God, I am going to have that translated into Latin and printed on my back. As soon as I get around to it.

Office Intrigue

My boss is dating the Easter Bunny. The seldom talk, but when she needs things done around the house, she will leave him a text message and then go to the grocery store or some other venue away from her home. When she returns, the work is done. No note, no nothing. She will call him and say that she has a taste for chocolate. When they hang up a few minutes later, there is a knock at the door. When she opens it, there is a basket of various chocolates from Fannie May, but no boyfriend.





I swear I am working in some sick, Yankee version of a Flannery O'Connor novel. Sure, I have met a man who my boss says is her "gentleman friend," but she did introduce him as such. For all I know, it could have been her brother or some random dude off the street that she paid off for the sake of appearances.





Things get deeper than that. Yesterday, in a gesture proving that my boss could kick anyone elses boss' ass, she made biscuits and gravy for me. Well, not just for me, but for the entire building I work in (50+ employees). They all came tooling in to wish me well and grab some gravy. One of the workers, we shall call her Clint, because she had a dude's name, but not Clint, has been tooling around the halls in this:























Yup, it's the executive version of a radio flyer. Clint is a very sweet lady, who is both creative and crazy and I would totally let her have my pocket watch if she needed it, but come on, what ever happened to crutches or good old fashioned 'shunning the infirmed?' If you will notice the keen handlebars, this thing has a hand brake. Hand brakes are only good for stopping when you are racing. This woman is going to be racing people down the halls for the next six weeks until her foot heals well enough to walk without this ultrascooter 2000. Be afraid, or just take to the stairwells.

Of course there were lots of other people that came in to wish me well, but Clint took the cake on apparatus, just barely beating out the building's small army of private assassins. Blowguns are so 1991. Many have personal quirks, some have bipolar disorders, but all are unique in their own right. Can you say the same for the people you work with? Thank God there isn't a Starbucks within six blocks of this building.

Today I am a Man

A thirty year old man, to be exact. This birthday came on like a northern bullet and is leaving like a fart in an elevator. My boss made me biscuits and gravy, potato casserole, and other such accoutrements to make me very, very sleepy this afternoon. I have no idea what the fiancee has planned for tonight, but I predict there might be several cocktails and some of that "fooling around," or whatever the kids call it nowadays, involved.

In other news, after forcing the fiancee to watch the movie I own with the least amount of gunfire (if you can guess it before you click on the link, good for you.), she has agreed to get a bulldog. Excellent. I have a name picked out. Who would be afraid of a portly gentleman walking a black bulldog named Ichabod down an unlit street? I know I wouldn't. I'd be more afraid that he would try to make me watch another movie and then try to convert me to his way of thinking. Ironically, I received that movie from my brother for my birthday one year long, long ago. It makes a wonderful coaster or something to watch after smoking massive quantities of marijuana. Wait a minute... nah, it just makes a good coaster.

Speaking of my family, we are getting together Saturday night at an authentic German restaurant situated 10 miles from nowhere. Because my Father's birthday is four days after mine, we have taken to combining the celebrations to whatever weekend they both fall closest too. We went to the same place last year, and I predict that my brother and I will do the same thing, that is, ponder the mysteries of what hair care products our illustrious governor uses to keep that political shine on his helmet coiffure.

But, until then, I depart from work, wiser, wistful, and in dire need of a cappuccino, a New York Times crossword, and an hour of 'me' time in the bathroom. For the curious, I'm the guy on the right, and in the past year have become less puffy than I am in that pic. I swear, I am almost cuddly now.