Saturday, January 28, 2006

Bitch Happens


Someday, perhaps even before I die, or in 2036, auto-pilot for cars will be invented.

Maybe then, I'll stop hitting people.

It's not 2036 yet, though, and I'm still crunchin' metal.

Over the course of my twenty years behind the wheel, I have sprinkled the byways of the greater Dallas area with glittering debris from collisions ranging from tiny to major, somewhere around a dozen times.

Once, I fell asleep in the bank line and my foot slipped off the brake. I put a tiny, quarter inch crescent moon hole in a Lexus bumper. The guy reported it.

Once, I slid down a wet hill in the rain into the back of a Ford F150. I had a Honda Civic. It was totaled.

After that one, I was driving my rental car (which I nicknamed "La Cucaracha" because it was cockroach brown) down the freeway. Someone REAR ENDED THE RENTAL. At least that time it wasn't my fault.

This time, however, according to the Necessary Evil Insurance Company, it was.

See, I happened to be pulling out of a parking lot and was hit squarely on the left front tire by some speeding bitch who was on her cellphone. I looked. My passenger looked. Neither of us saw her until the moment of impact.

She didn't stop her conversation, even after the cars had smashed. The phone rang 30 seconds later, while we were disputing whose fault it was. She answered it. Maybe if I'd called her, she'd have listened to me instead of trying to generate 10,000 watts of guilt trip, which I refused on principle. Oh, and the police? They couldn't be bothered to come out.

But it's not against the law to be on a cellphone when driving, and she had the right of way, says Necessary Evil (State Farm) Insurance. So it's all you, Ms. Ari. Don't be late with your payment.

The worst part of all of it is feeling like an idiot, hearing the pained reactions of people, just because matter can't occupy the same space at the same time. Driving's easy, they silently say. Why can't you manage it?

1. I'm too busy thinking about people I love to pay proper attention.
2. I'm too busy singing to pay proper attention.
3. I'm just not that spatially gifted.

Maybe I should start riding a horse to work. My class would certainly love that.

The positive thinking angle here is twofold: a) No one was seriously injured, and b) I think I'm the only person I know who's broken even in the sick insurance game of betting against yourself. I think I might have claimed about as much as I've paid in.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Pip Gets A Promotion

Lately, carrion vulture shadows from 17 years ago have been circling. Namely, when I was a dumbass college kid, I racked up some debt on some credit cards that I knew nothing about having and which were passed out like candy to young fools like me.

Now, though, I understand, and I religiously pay everything on time and in full. Since then, I've bought a house, several cars, and have some brand new and better cards in my wallet now. I know my credit score, and it beats most people's.

None of this is still on my credit report, which, to me, means nobody cares anymore except a few jackals looking for long-dead meat to sustain them. Thus, I'm not particularly motivated to take care of this, and even if I did, the original people I owed have long since written off my pittances on their 1991 federal taxes. My logic is, if I pay, I'm just giving money to people who aren't the people I wronged. Therefore, why do it?

For awhile after I moved, I was in an information hidey hole, but now I've been here long enough that folks apparently can look me up easier. So I've gotten a few pointless communications, and one this lovely Saturday morning at 8:47 a.m. in fact.

The first time, I just hung up.

The second time, I was much too busy with important affairs involving pillows and blankets, so I put my instantaneously designated office manager, P. Peregrine Took, on the phone.

The conversation went like this:

RCB (Rude Collector Beotch): "Can I please speak wit ARI?"

PM (Puggin Manager): "snnnnnnnnnnnorrrrrrrrrrt sniffsniffsniffsniff sssssnnnnnnnnortttt"

RCB: "Hello? HELLO!?"

PM: "sniffsniffsniffsniff snooorrrrt snooorrrrrrrrrrrt sniffsniff"

RCB: ::click::

A third farce ensued at about 8:51 a.m.:

RCB (Rude Collector Beotch): "Can I please speak wit ARI?"

PM (Puggin Manager): "snnnnnnsniffnnnnnorrrrrrrrrrt sniffsniffsniff sssssnnnnnnnnortttt"


RCB: "Hello? HELLO!?"

PM: ::jumps at phone, hitting it with one paw::

RCB: ::click::

So far, I am impressed with how Mr. Took handles himself, dealing amicably with high-pressure clients within moments of being hired. I think he'll be finding a something-to-do-with-chicken type raise in his pay packet very soon.

If all goes well, his rudimentary understanding of currency, debt collection and the mails will result in 651.93 ounces of his "earnings" (a.k.a. what he makes) being delivered in full to Genesis Financial Solutions, Merchants Credit Guide Co. or Ken Hughes, either in Hauppage, New York, Chicago, Illinois, or any of the other FIVE ADDRESSES on this pointless communique sitting here on his "desk", or preferably all of the above.


Monday, January 16, 2006

Vijf Eigenaardige Gewoonten

or, not in Dutch, Five Odd Habits.

Julie tagged me to list five odd habits I have.

This is my FIRST TAG EVER. I am so proud. So here I go:

1. I usually cut my fingernails and toenails outside on my patio, because I think nail clippings are gross.

2. At restaurants, when I drink iced tea, I put Equal into my unsweetened tea, then fold the packets lengthwise, inserting them (and their ripped off tops) one into another into another like those nesting Russian dolls until they are all neatly in one long foldy piece. Then I roll the combined packets into a spiral shape and usually put it aside until I can put it into a used dish that will then be taken away. If I get a straw, I twist and twist the wrapper into a tight little twisty rope, which I then continue twisting until it twists around itself tighter and tighter. Sometimes, I tie it into knots repeatedly until I cannot tie anymore. If I don't like how the table is arranged, or if the spiral bound drink/dessert menu annoys me, I move things to the side, another table or put them in the window or something.

3. I remember things that little kids say, and repeat them in the appropriate situation, forever. For example, many years ago, I baby sat a kid who wanted more french fries. "And more shicken (chicken)!" she requested. That kid is 16 now, and I still say "And more shicken!" This year's favorite was from my 2 year old niece: "Missmas liiiights, missmas liiiights, in the town!" I've said that all season.

4. If I write something, I will read it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. No exaggeration there. At least that many times. Sometimes I am editing, sometimes I am just OCD reading. Heck, I've already reread this post 6 or 7 times, and I'm not even done writing it.

5. Most of the time, when I pick up a magazine or catalog to look at, I don't start at the first page and go in order. At least half the time, I start at the back and go back to front. They say you can get an infection that way, but it's never happened to me.

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Some like their water shallow, I like mine deep, so very deep. - C. Robinson

Thursday, January 05, 2006

Hacks Who Hit the Big Time

1. Joss Whedon

2. Marilyn Manson

3. J.D. Salinger

Hack who most assuredly did not hit the big time: me.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Billy Idol Style

She didn't mean New Wave MTV vests fashioned from violently vulcanized inner tubes.

She meant "dancing with myself."

A few weeks back, she mailordered some new "dancing shoes,"strumming shaky signals of ones and zeroes across a sticky web.

She didn't like going to the "dancing shoe store," for she had abominable snowwoman feet.

For days, she feared the discovery of the all too pretty "dancing shoes," for they would have caused alarm and disarray in polite company. There were three "pairs," a gluttonous number, one glass, one rubber, one plastic. Still, in her head she visualized all the ways, the steps, the positions, the pirouettes.

Finally, the day arrived. Propped against the doorframe lay the box: intact.

Inside she took the things, unable to wait any longer.

Box torn asunder, ripped passionately apart, she put the "shoes" to their proper use.

It had been too long since she danced this way.

And it was good.

Wuh uh uh oh.


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