Guts

I stopped writing because I was beginning to feel like an egomaniac. I needed a break from talking about myself. And the idea of subjecting other people to my blathering was making me sick.

I wasn’t sure when I’d write again. Maybe when something funny or exciting happened.

But today I write for me. Sitting at these keys always makes me structure my thoughts. I’m not talking intros and leads in and proper grammar. Some of my bad days and uninspiring days have ended up with the funniest writing. My own self-reflection often leads to the humor in life. Cause writing out my internal grumblings makes me realize how trivial it all is. Negatives are backspaced into positives. To have my problems staring back at me in type forces a change in perspective.

So here’s hoping….

The costume was perfect. All details were materialized. The essence was captured. I aimed for hilarity. I chose Peggy Bundy for the humor. For the nostalgia. My red wig became 2/3 of my silhouette. One word ... ridiculous. As the costume came together I realized I had an added bonus I wasn’t expecting… hotness. Somehow peach leopard print still has sex appeal. I embraced every ounce and set out for my night.

It’s strange to walk to your minivan dressed as a white trash character from the 80’s and somehow feel a little sass in your step. The hotness was paused as I climbed into the driver seat and my wig slammed into the door frame, dislodging the hair piece from its strategic position. Only a minor confidence hiccup. That was the first and last time I used the mirror in my sun visor.

Small bumps in the road pressed my towering hair into the roof of my car. Stop lights hung uneasily in the air. They were all looking. I know it. But there was one person that night that surely did not see Peg Bundy coming … the driver in the car that hit me. I started that night out thinking about the potentials of who may notice me. There were people that I was hoping to be seen by. Now, the only person that I wish would have seen Peggy Bundy is this dude. The dude that told me he was too busy looking for trick or treaters that he stopped watching the road. The guy that blindly turned left into oncoming traffic – that oncoming traffic being me.

When I saw that his car was no longer waiting at the stop sign and was on route into the side of my vehicle, the only thing I could think was …. Oh Shit, I’m wearing Peggy Bundy wig!

The humiliation of climbing out of my ruined vehicle dressed as Peggy Bundy didn’t seem tolerable. I decided that this was real life – not pretend Peggy Bundy life – and quickly pulled the red locks from atop my head. This was a serious moment and needed a serious face. Instead I exited my car looking… maybe like a hussy. That seemed easier to talk to a cop in.

The accident was left on the side of the road and my night went onto Halloween activities. I wasn’t shaken by the event. I said that’s life like I always do. I wasn’t mad. I didn’t cry. Instead, I went out and had a great time. Serious life can wait curbside.

I laid awake that night wondering how to deal with all of this before my 11 am shift on Sunday. I got to a workable point. The next two days I was figuring it all out. Talking to all the people that I needed to be talking to. Asking all the right questions. Getting myself all over town by bus. There was a plan; it was in motion and working like clockwork.

Somewhere in the last two days I have lost my ability to say ‘that’s life’ and let this roll off my back. Somewhere in the last two days I can’t find the humor in any of this. My ego can’t admit to being lost. I haven’t the slightest idea what to do and I hate asking for help. This whole process has made me grateful for the people that have given me advice and rides, but ultimately this whole thing has made me feel completely alone. There isn’t a single person in the Twin Cities that I feel guilt-free asking something of them. No one close enough to utilize “that’s what friends are for”. And frankly I can’t do this one alone. A sentence that is strange from the hands of a girl that does EVERYTHING alone.

I am ashamed at how bothered I am by the total loss of my car. I am embarrassed by the fact that I told my mom to fuck herself. Last night was the first time that I’ve gotten angry in a long, long time. I can honestly say that the last time I yelled at someone was in 2003. Those kind of emotions and reactions are a waste of time in this short life I have.

I write to rethink my situation.

Here’s what I’ve got…

I am a dangerous woman. I am bringing you all down with me.

It seemed this thing started with my own bad luck, but it may have started earlier and not ended there.

I will single handedly destroy every vehicle I come in contact with. I am dictating vehicular fate and the results aren’t pretty.

An hour in that wig led to my own bad luck. On Tuesday I get a call from the owner of the other vehicle that Peggy Bundy road in that night. My rescue ride called me saying that on her drive to work a ladder fell off a truck in front of her on the highway. The ladder politely stayed on the road, instead of through her windshield, and scrapped her undercarriage and flattened her tire.

I was convinced the red hair brought this fate upon us.

Last night, a friend took me to dinner. I did not even sit in her vehicle. Didn’t even see it. But this morning I get a text that she got a flat tire on the way into rehearsal.

Ok, it’s not the hair, it’s me.

Channeling back… I guess this could have started with my friend’s car that didn’t start as they left my house last week.

I wonder what other vehicles will be left in my wake.

Somehow I managed to get the rental car back without damage.

Seriously, dangerous, dangerous woman.


I will also say that I am surprisingly saddened by the passing away of my minivan. I actually liked driving that car. This summer it was filled to the top with all my favorite things. The seats were rarely inside. I needed the room for adventure instead.

Mostly, what I will miss was the humor of driving it. I loved people’s reactions to my driving that car. I loved people’s confusion and people’s laughter. I loved owning up to the fact that I actually liked it and all its soccer-mom glory. I wore t-shirts that declared my love for it. A normal car won’t carry those moments of laughter. I mean, what will it be like to have a blind date walk me to the door of a Honda Civic? I won’t be able to count on that laugh at the end of the night.