I started writing this post on Thursday night. After finishing my drink, I was even more exhausted than when I started it, so I just went to bed.
When you begin your day by changing a flat tire in 95-degree weather in ultra-high humidity, while on an incredibly steep hill in a busy parking lot, there are two ways the day can go. It can improve, or it can get worse.
I’m going to pause here to knock back my double-gin highball, and give you a little time to figure out which way mine went. Hint: even a drunk like me doesn’t normally gulp down an entire tumbler of gin.
I’m not going to bitch about my day, I just want to point out that it sucked terribly.
Instead of complaining about my job, I’ll instead waste your time by writing about some things that have been on my mind recently, but aren’t interesting enough to warrant posts of their very own.
The other day, my princess and I were driving to Ft. Worth. Headed in the opposite direction was a convoy of school buses. We didn’t count them all, but we did count one group that passed us by and figured there were well over a hundred school buses in all. We would see several of them, and then there would be a short break—maybe ten or twenty seconds—and then we’d see another group heading towards us. This happened over and over, to the point that looking into the rear-view mirror was completely surreal, because all you could see on the highway was a bunch of buses. I’m not sure how long it lasted, but it was quite a while. We went about ten minutes without seeing any more buses, and then my princess suddenly stifled back a laugh.
“What?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” she said, giggling. “I can’t tell you.”
“Because it’s bad enough that I’m laughing at it.”
“Did you not see?”
Apparently, long after all of the other buses had come and gone, a “short bus” passed us by. So, yeah, the bus for mentally handicapped children was lagging way behind all the other buses. Go figure.
I recently got a haircut. (Quick aside: right now, spellcheck has underlined, in red, that first “I” that I typed. Spellcheck is telling me that I spelled “I” wrong—that should tell you what kind of day I’ve had.)
So yeah, I got a haircut. Why do people always feel the urge to tell me that I got a haircut? The day after I got it, I went to work, and six people told me I got a haircut. I’m not counting the people who just said things like, “I like your haircut.” It’s fine if you want to comment on my haircut, but what’s the point of telling me that I got one?
I had some serious hair going on, and when I got it cut, I got a Caesar cut, so it’s not like it was a subtle change. And six people felt they needed to inform me that I had gotten a haircut. Like I didn’t remember, didn’t notice, whatever. I mean, even if someone had snuck in during the night and buzzed me, or if I had been out drinking heavily with a group of practical jokester barbers, I still would have noticed that I was missing approximately four pounds of hair from my head. I don’t need to be told.
Which got me to thinking: the people who felt the urge to inform me of my new hairstyle, is it because they need informed. Probably. Assholes.
I was doing a delivery the other day, and while I was stopped, a bug dropped down onto my side-view mirror. When I began driving, the bug stayed on there. It crawled to the corner of the mirror, presumably because there was less air current there, and it didn’t want to be blown off. As I was driving down the highway, I started wondering what the hell that bug was thinking. I mean, imagine if you’re a bug.
You’re sitting in some tree, you drop down to see what’s going on somewhere else, and suddenly you’re roaring down the road at seventy miles an hour. The bug isn’t used to this kind of thing, is it? I mean, delivery trucks, they aren’t part of nature.
If I was that bug, I would have just freaked out. Like all the sudden, you’re going faster than you ever have before, you don’t know what the hell’s going on. Imagine if you stepped out on your patio and it suddenly just took off at two hundred and fifty miles an hour. That’s how that bug felt, I bet.
Eventually, he fell off. Where do you go from there, huh? Back to the patio scenario: Say you live in California, you step out on your patio, you’ve got your cup of coffe, whatever. Your patio suddenly takes off, next thing you know, you’re in Alabama. You’ve got no car, no money, no phone. You’ve got a very unreliable patio, a cup of spilled coffee, and a pair of soiled underwear. No good, man.
I hope that bug learned his lesson about delivery trucks.
I was at work the other day, driving my forklift around, and as I was backing up, I saw a coworker standing there. He’s this old guy, his memory’s pretty much shot—picture a hard drive covered in rust and thrown in a dark, dusty corner. He’s just standing there, looking all dazed, holding a single Taco Bell taco.
It was a creepy little scene. I stopped my forklift and just sat there looking at him. I didn’t know whether to ask him if he was all right, or just steal his taco (or maybe replace it with a shoe or something, just to mess with him when he snapped out of his trance). He finally wandered into the office, the dazed look only slightly receding. He doesn’t wash his hands after using the bathroom. That’s not important to the story, it’s just an observation.