Thought

I read the names of the makeup I put on this morning and had to question, am I buying stuff meant for a tranny?

Editor's Note: MAC products boy-girl, shadowy lady, my secret. Am I right?

A Study in Banality

Last night I dreamed about shopping for toothpaste.

Not just the purchase of, but honest-to-goodness comparison shopping for toothpaste.

I think my subconscious is trying to bore me to death.

Baby Face

I stopped by the grocery store on my way home today, something I try to do no more than once a month; it is my MOST dreaded errand and I HATE it. While I was there, I remembered the last visit to that particular store and the very, very weird interaction I experienced.

Whenever I do get myself into a grocery, I almost always reward myself with a magazine at the end - it makes the whole ordeal bearable. On this particular night a few months ago, I was waiting in line and flipping through Cosmo, the gold-standard of trashy newsstand literature. When I was the next person in line, I said a quick "hey" and kept reading while the kid behind the counter scanned and bagged the few items I had chosen. I casually tossed the magazine onto the conveyor and began pawing through my bag; as I began pulling my debit card out of my wallet I realized that the teenage boy had picked up the magazine and was holding it, reading the cover.

Anyone who can read has probably had their attention grabbed by the overtly sexual cover story/headlines/cover art of Cosmo, and I immediately thought, oh great, homeboy-checker is staring at the barely clothed actress on the front page, isn't he supposed to be wrapping this transaction up so that I can get out of here? This, gentle reader, is where things got sketchy REAL QUICK. The following conversation has been re-created as best as memory serves me:

Checkout Teen: "So, you uh... like magazines?"

Me: "Um sure, sometimes I guess."

CT: "Cool..."

Based on that small interaction, you would assume that the kid was just being friendly, and that we would soon part ways. Wrong! The overall tone of that short exchange was such that I immediately realized not only was the youth dragging our commerce along at a leisurely pace, but he was actually trying to chat me up! I swear on all that is holy that I never assume myself to be the recipient of flirtatious advances (much less from teens) and so the fact that I got that vibe is proof positive that Romeo was coming on STRONG. Imagine my horror as our communication advanced, my eyes catching the cover of the magazine as he continued:

CT: "Wow (gesturing to a headline along the lines of "the sexiest rules for sexy sex") yikes."

Me: *blink blink*

CT: "It's kind of sad, that like, people need tips on how to do stuff. Like, you know?"

Me: *blink blink* "Well, I uh, guess everyone stands in need of improvement in something,"

Internal Monologue: SWEET MARY - STOP TALKING. DON'T INSTIGATE THIS. SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP RIGHT NOW.

CT: "Yeah, like, I mean, I don't think it's like, that complicated..."

ME: "Ha ha ha... yeeeeah....."

Internal Monologue: Surely this conversation is illegal! He is a minor! For the love, something please make him stop saying words!!

CT: "Anyway, I guess some people must need help or whatever..."

Me: "Yep. Guess so."

Internal Monologue: I should have gone to self checkout. I think my mind just imploded.

At this point, I had been swiping my card and haphazardly jabbing at any/all buttons on the keypad, in hopes that if I didn't manage to enter my pin, maybe I would manage to at least overload the machine and attention would shift to the now-in-flames plastic box in front of us.

By the grace of something, I successfully paid for my purchase and snatched the receipt from the juvenile Casanova while speedily making my way to the exit door; I practically sprinted to my car, half watching over my shoulder for the "To Catch a Predator" filmcrew to screech up behind me in an obscured-windowed van.

And THAT is the reason I generally avoid the American Fork Fresh Marketplace - you just can't be too careful these days.

Quotable

This morning I woke to a text message from my mother waiting for me:

"I dreamed u told me your roommate got raped twice. U be careful!"

Thanks Mom, nothing like a little personal-safety terror to start the day on a pleasant note.

Edit:Rename

I am thinking I will come up with some really clever title and recreate this blog as a traffic and driving blog.

Why, you ask? Because I got another speeding ticket this weekend. And I've put about half as much money into my dang car in the past month as I originally paid for it for like, 5 years ago. AND the brakes started doing some weird squealing thing. And when I shift to reverse everything goes wonky and shudders. Blerg. Blerg, indeed.

Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry?

A Good Story: Damn You, Gem State

Let’s get one thing straight – I don’t want to be that girl who finally calls someone back after 6 (or.. ahem… seventeen) months and then spends the subsequent 15 minutes detailing, explaining, and then apologizing for the long interval of no communication. Let’s cut to the chase shall we?

When last we met I had run into some, shall we say, “visibility” issues that rendered both my right fender and someone else’s motorcycle pretty much useless. But that is neither here nor there. However, yesterday I was reminded of an incident from last month that answers the question as to why my monthly insurance premium is excessive to the point of ludicrous – an incident involving the Idaho State Highway Patrol.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a highway motorist in possession of a well-functioning vehicle must take precautions while approaching the few-and-far-between townships of Southeast Idaho. I have been pulled over in both Pocatello and McCammon (twice!) without ever receiving a speeding ticket, and so have learned that it is imperative to slow-the-hell-down as you come upon these areas. I guess the local municipal taxes are in continuous need of supplement?

On this particular drive, I was alone and had chosen to watch/listen to the first season of a TV show to pass the time. The problem with this is that is easy to become distracted to the point that you become oblivious to the surrounding areas as you drive by, which I realized when I happened to glance into my rearview mirror and noticed the flashing lights of a patrol car as it sped closer and closer to me. My first thought was to panic- not at the fact that I was speeding (a given) but at the fact that I am SURE it is illegal to set a portable DVD player on the dash of an operating vehicle, much less have one playing while reading text messages simultaneously. In one deft motion I threw my phone onto the passenger seat and sent the player/accompanying AV cords crashing to the floor. As I began to pull over to the shoulder I realized the stereo was still blaring dialogue from “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” (which is, by the way, a show about reprobates who do horrible things to each other – not exactly something an upstanding citizen should enjoy as much as I do) and so I frantically began pushing buttons in hope that a respectable classical music station or CD of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir would take its place. Unfortunately I wasn’t acquainted with the newly-installed faceplate and so I only succeeded in turning the still-noisy output to a cracking radio station. As my car came to a stop and the officer began walking towards my window I finally accomplished turning the entire thing off and I began formulating the plan of action that would allow me to evade another violation on my driving record.

I rolled down my window while shaking my hair loose and trying to appear guiltless; I admit that I am not above shameless flirting when it comes to these things. The officer was youngish and asked “where I was heading” as I began to look through my wallet for a license – I laughed and spoke of the family visits, reading to orphans and saving puppies that I planned to do upon my arrival in Idaho Falls, a short hour-long drive from where we were stopped – anything to win him over. As I reached across the seat to find my registration and proof of insurance, he asked if I had any idea of how fast I was going- I plied him with an apologetic laugh and told him truthfully that I did not, that I was distracted and hadn’t been paying careful enough attention for a few moments. He returned the smile as he said “well, when I first clocked you, you were cruising at about 90 mph.” My grin faltered somewhat as I began to contemplate the inclusion of the word “first” as he continued: “but when I started flashing my lights and siren you sped up to 98 mph.” As I began to comprehend how it was possible that he had been so close behind me when I noticed the flashing lights I realized that he had probably been attempting to get my attention for a while. He concluded “I was thinking you were making a run for it – you had me pretty nervous about how this was going to turn out.”

On the plus side the ticket was only $85.

Weekend in Three Parts

Part 1: Introduction
Plans include Sarah's Birthday, Utah State Fair, BYU football, work appointments, open house.

Part 2: Conflict
Friday- "Groping" incident at birthday venue leads to arrest of drunk/high/underage youth. Restitution? Eighty arcade tokens and free go-kart rides.

Saturday- Driving to investment homes with client, I hit a motorcyclist. I HIT A HUMAN BEING WITH MY CAR. Purely accidental, but traumatic. He's okay, I cry. Cancel appointments.

Part 3: Resolution
Sunday- Stay in bed for as long as possible, watch Arrested Development and Flight of the Conchords until weekend is completely forgotten.

FIN