My mind has been a blur lately, racing with a bunch of random things, so it’s been hard to sit down and write any semblance of sense here. Comic Vine has a featured article — I think it’s weekly, but don’t quote me on that — called “Off My Mind,” and I thought that would be a fitting type of post as there are tons of things I’d like to get off my mind. Continue reading
Well, after almost three days of being off the grid, we got power back a few hours ago. I honestly feel kind of guilty, since we were managing just fine, and on the news tonight they showed all of the damage and further safety issues throughout the state. We could have had it so much worse, and yet now we have power and it’s almost like nothing happened here, while much of the state is at risk for flooding, is still off the grid, and suffered a lot of property damage.
Still, I also feel like we’re very lucky, and I’m very grateful. We spent the last few days cooking on the gas stove in our apartment. We lost a lot of food, but managed to save some of it, too. Last night, Mike, Lauren, and I walked around the corner to Mary’s house and played games by candlelight with Sandy, Mary, and Taylore. We had a lot of fun.
Saturday night, before Irene hit, we had everything ready; Mom and Dad had stocked up on water, batteries, and non-perishable food, I got Squirt’s cat carrier ready, I packed a bag of clothes just in case we had to evacuate, and we all tried to sleep without much luck. By the time Irene hit, though, it was only a tropical storm — which still does a lot of damage, but less than a hurricane, so Connecticut was fairly lucky, relatively speaking. I’m glad we didn’t have to evacuate or go into the cellar, because Biz Noni — my great-grandmother — would have had to go outside in it, and the thought of that really bothered me.
We also faced the possibility of looting and home invasions. Like Dad said, people get desperate and you just never know, so he loaded up the shotgun and we all, I think, slept with one eye open. It was a little unnerving, in the middle of a completely pitch black neighborhood that isn’t all that safe to begin with. Still, we didn’t have any major problems, and I’m more grateful than I could ever possibly express.
Unfortunately, we’re kind of back to reality, and my reality right now is my car, affectionately known as Ellie. It shit the bed a couple of days before the storm; poor Mike was driving by himself, and it literally died in the middle of the road. Right now it’s up in the BJ’s parking lot, and we have no idea what’s wrong with it. For the last few weeks, it’s been smelling like burning rubber after driving it for a while, but there wasn’t any smoking or anything wrong that I could see, so we don’t even know yet if it’s the same problem. Dad’s going to look at it tomorrow, now that we’re out of the “dark” and my sister Lauren is moved back into her dorm.
So yeah, it’s been an exciting week. I can definitely say I’ve never had this exciting of a birthday. Luckily, we had cake on Saturday, so at least I got my ice cream cake before we lost power Sunday, on my actual birthday. I think that would have added insult to injury, as shallow as that might sound. My mom and dad got me the Lungs album by Florence + the Machine, and I can’t stop listening to it. It’s really, really good. I’m pretty obsessed with it, and can already tell it’s going to be one of the CDs I will have owned for years and have come close to wearing out.
Today, the 31st, is Mike’s and my five-year anniversary. He had some super secret, big plans for my birthday and our anniversary, but because of the car it’s going to be a while. We’re still going out to dinner I think, because he said Mom and Dad told him he could borrow Mom’s car to take me out to dinner. As crazy as this might sound, I think a quiet night out will be more than enough of a gift in my eyes, after the week we all had.
If you’re on the East Coast, how are you faring after Miss Irene came to visit? I hope you’re safe.
Buffy thinks beer bad, but I can one-up her: Vodka bad — especially when you drink a third of a bottle each, dance around like drunken Spice Girls, and before all of that have fried dough with the most acidic sauce to ever touch the human stomach.
"Beer bad."
Vodka baaaaad.
But before the throwing up* and the hangover in the morning? Vodka was my best friend. Sandy and I mixed it with Crystal Light Raspberry Lemonade — which, if you know me, is my crack — and drank it down in these huge wine goblets of hers. At one point, we ended up laying on her living room floor, laughing at the most hilarious picture of Tiger Woods and, in general, a whole lot of nothing.
When I woke up, though, I felt that dull thudding you feel when you’re about to get slammed with a major headache. Vodka? Give me a headache? What dimension is this?! I have to remind myself, though, that the last time I had vodka — and probably more vodka than this — was in high school when I was dating Asshole Sean (the other Sean is my good friend). A.S. loved to drink vodka and smoke. We got fucked up many a time on straight vodka and weed, but Friday night, Sandy and I were absolutely hammered.
One 800mg ibuprofen and lots of water later, I was back at my house, cooking some ramen and getting ready to eat. I was starving and Sandy had recommended I eat something light. Ramen is light, I told myself. I eat ramen all of the time when I’m sick. Yeah — sick with a cold!
I didn’t get past five bites. I felt so shitty, I left my barely-touched bowl and the pan with still more ramen in it right there in the kitchen, which is not normal for this Virgo. I laid down on my parents’ bed and watched Discovery Channel with my mom until my stomach finally stopped fighting it, and I had to go bow down before my toilet. I’ve come to realize that I am going to be one miserable preggo, since I absofuckinglutely hate throwing up.
I felt a lot better after, though, and was able to clean up my mess. All I wanted to do was go to bed, but I had to go with Dad to pick up Ellie, who was still up at Mark’s because Dad had replaced her transmission fluid pan the day before.
Let me tell you, there is nothing worse than Driving While Hungover. The mere motion of the road, and every little bump, sends your stomach on an angry rampage, that little intestine hell bent on making you throw up again. I chomped hard on my gum. I am not gonna throw up (again), I am not gonna throw up (again), I thought every time we hit a bump or had to stop at a light.
“You gonna be okay? You don’t look too good. You look like you’re gonna be sick again,” Dad said, not even trying to cover the wicked smile on his face.
“Ugh,” I said, and turned away, my head resting on my hand.
“You want a beer?”
“Uggghh,” was all I could say.
And then he decided to take a shortcut. A very bumpy and hilly and whoosh-y shortcut. A very, “Hello, my name is stomach, and I am definitely going to deliver you another present now” shortcut. I chewed that piece of gum to death and squeezed my eyes shut, and suddenly, we were at Mark’s.
“You gonna be able to drive home?” Dad asked.
“Mmn,” I said. “If someone hadn’t taken such a bumpy shortcut…”
“Bumps have nothing to do with how you’re feeling,” he said. Translation: Suck it up. But he did get out of his truck, unlock my car, and roll down my windows for me so that Ellie wouldn’t be unbearably hot when I got in.
“Thanks,” I said, and hopped out of his truck and practically crawled into my car.
For some reason, I felt less dizzy when driving myself. I still felt like death in an automobile, but at least the motion of the road wasn’t sending my stomach into twisty tangles. I managed to get home without throwing up, falling asleep, or crashing. Of course, when I got home, I had to hang around while Dad checked Ellie’s transmission fluid level — which was good at the time, so we’ll see if this does the trick. As soon as we were done, I shut off the engine, rolled up my windows, trudged up the stairs, and fell into bed.
I’m never Driving While Hungover again.
I am officially all set for school. My first class is Tuesday, September 1st. I could outline all of the crap I had to do to get everything squared away, but it’s exhausting even to me so I’ll just stick with “all set.” Heh.
I’m a little nervous, but I’m also really excited about this new path in front of me. I’m mainly nervous because it’s a bigger campus — a lot bigger — and I think I will go crazy if I get lost there ever again. (I’d like to say I won’t ever get lost again, but I will. Believe me. I will. I’ve already decided that both the university and the town of New Haven have it in for me.) I’m also a little nervous about double-majoring, but I’ve decided I’m not going to let it get to me. I am, after all, the kind of person who has to have more than one thing to focus on. I get bored way too quickly. So I have to give myself a lot of different things to stimulate myself with. This, of course, contributes to [my workaholic problem], but I’ll think about that tomorrow. (You get a cookie if you can comment and tell me where that reference is from!)
I’m excited, though, because it’s a new beginning. I have a million things that I want to do and experience, and maybe I’m jumping the gun on some of them but who cares. It’s my life, and I get to enjoy it however I want. I always wanted to be a teacher and to be a writer, and then I found and fell in love with web design. I also, of course, am married to my Letters of Love project. Who says I can’t do it all? (Maybe my mental health, but I’ll think about that tomorrow.)
Next on my agenda is finishing up my car (she still needs new struts and mounts, some stuff to install my stereo, and something is wrong with my back right brake), and then once that’s all set I want to start saving for an apartment. I keep bouncing back and forth between continuing to live with my parents in my current very crowded living situation, getting my own place, and getting a place with Mike. Some days I feel like getting a place with Mike is the best choice, and other days I feel like I should stay with my parents until I finish my Bachelor degrees. Some days I just want a place all to myself. It all depends on my mood (which has always been the case, making decision-making very difficult on my end). I still need to figure out what I want to do, but I know I can’t continue to live with as many people as I’m living with. I love my family dearly but I have no space of my own, which makes it very hard to live. I know that I should be grateful — and I am, believe me — but it’s still rough. It’s hard when I want to work or sleep, or even when I just want to be by myself. It just doesn’t work that way in my house. I try not to complain, because I know the alternative would have been a shelter or the street, but some days it’s harder to deal with than others.
At any rate, I want to get my priorities in order and start really taking care of myself. I haven’t been the happiest lately, and I want to change that. I just have to figure out how.
It’s a huge relief that school is all set, even though it kind of sucks to have loans hanging over my head. The good news is, I don’t have to pay them until after I graduate. The bad news? I have a lot of very heavy books, so I’m sure you’ll soon hear me bitching that my neck and back hurt from carrying them around!
What about you? What would you like to do to improve your life and yourself? Tell me in the comments!
My phone vibrated against the desk. I shoved my bluetooth — that’s Mr. Bluetooth to you — into my ear and pressed the button, simultaneously checking my phone to see who was calling. My BlackBerry’s screen greeted my with my Dad’s Facebook photo.
“Hello,” I said, clicking at my screen.
“I’m not gonna get you in trouble, am I?”
“No,” I said. I glanced at the time on my desktop toolbar.
My dad seemed to hesitate, and then he asked the question that I am supposed to be always asking: “Can I borrow your car?”
His van had bit the dust a week or so ago, and he had bought a used car to replace it. Unfortunately, the Altima he’d bought turned out to be a lemon. He’s been taking my Ellie every so often to go do jobs — he’s an oversized load escort — until he can find something else because he doesn’t trust the Altima. Every so often he’ll ask or, like a couple of days ago, he’ll just borrow her for quick errands. (I’ve thought about using this all as leverage. Trust me. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity.)
“Sure,” I agreed. He explained that he would drop his car off in the parking lot at my job and take my car from there. All I had to do was give my building’s receptionist the license plate so that the Altima didn’t end up mistakenly being towed. No problem. Besides getting to drive something else, I was getting gas out of the deal.
After work I walked the block to my parking lot and got into the Altima. “Could have at least cracked me a window, Dad,” I said to the inside of the car. I lifted the mat and rooted around for the key. “Ah-ha!” As I put it into the ignition, I braced myself for the possibility of it not starting (its neutral safety switch is busted, just like Lisa Mazda‘s was). It started just fine, and I glanced up to start backing out. No rearview mirror. “Aw, Dad!” I checked my side mirrors and looked behind me. Fine. I could do this. No big deal.
I put the car into reverse and started backing out. BOOM. BOOOM. BOOOOOM. Where was that awful too-high bass sound coming from? Me? It was coming from me! Or, the Altima, actually. A second later I totally forgot about the sound as I began backing out, hoping that the side mirrors weren’t hexed and that I wouldn’t end up bashing into one of my coworker’s cars. (You never know. It could happen. Really.)
All backed out and ready to go, I started to leave the parking lot. BOOM. BOOOOM. BOOOM-BOOOM. “Oh my god,” I thought. “It sounds like a GIT car!”
Yep. I had the radio’s volume almost all the way down and yet it sounded like I had one of those bass booster thingamabobs in my trunk. As I sat at a red light, the entire car was shaking, as if I were sitting in one of those massage chairs at the mall.
The whole ride home, I thought for certain that it would die on me. Or that someone behind me might get pissed at my slowness. Or that the brakes might fail and that I would go sliding into another car. Or maybe a cop would pull me over because of the little ghetto car’s looks.
Instead, everyone ignored me. For once, no one rode my ass — even though I drove slower than ever! (They must have thought I was one of them, due to the BOOM BOOM-BOOM BOOM.) I drove past two cops and they didn’t so much as blink at me. And best of all? No one died. Hooray.
“No wonder you didn’t want to drive this thing,” I said to Dad when he called me to make sure I got home okay. It occurred to me then that he might have thought I wouldn’t make it home alive in that thing, either!
Leave a comment and tell me: What’s the worst car you’ve ever driven? (Bonus points if you can tell me where I got the title of this post from!)
