One of the hardest things to do, when trying to write, is to not revisit themes you’ve been to before. When you write a blog with specific ideas and parameters in mind, that can be hard. Sometimes, you need to abandon those specifics entirely and just write what you know. My intent, namely putting a real face on depression and calling it out for the nasty, lying bastard that it is, can be just that – depressing. One of the best ways to escape the daily drudgery is to do things to combat it. So for today, fuck depression. I have other things in my bag of tricks and experiences. I can write about other things that I know.
And, here is what I know: my life has been a series of “What the fuck is this?” moments. Some of it, you cannot make up. A lot of it, you can. But only in an Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland While on Drugs with a Good Half-Dozen Shots of Tequila sort of way.
Let’s recap last week, and not in a Breaking News fashion, because with what’s happening in this country alone, this could be the blog that never ends. I’ll hit on that this way:
The President is a stagnant dribble of douche-waste, a discarded baby diaper that has been left in a parking lot and run over by cars for a week. John McCain is an American hero.
There. That is the best I can do today, because I am exhausted by the minute-by-minute cacophony of political pundits, tweets, and “He did what?” exclamations that rise into the air in a muddled symphony of exasperation. Today, let’s be all about the love, the silliness, and the profane. I threw in profane because you all know how much I enjoy a perfectly-placed expletive.
I bought a bicycle last week. Not being able to drive because of my eye condition has been pretty confining, and definitely contributes to the tendency I have to burrow down into myself. I walk every day, but I thought that putting some serious exercise into that routine and being able to go farther in a shorter period of time would be grand. The local bus lines don’t get you everywhere, and not always at the times when you need to be places. Let’s set aside the fact that the last time I regularly biked, I was 19. I tried to revisit the activity one time in my late 20s but I weighed about 75 lbs more than I do now and that ended rather quickly. (Me, wilting in the summer sun on a bike trail at State park, tearfully crying to my ex-husband that this was a baaaaad idea and then walking the bike the rest of the way.) I wasn’t physically ready. Now, I am.
I picked out a sweet black bike with white and pink striping at my most favorite Hell Store in the world (the husband still works there, and a 10% discount is still a 10% discount, yo) and the husband took it back to the automotive department to have the tires inflated. He also adjusted the brakes. We headed for the check out and were ringing out when suddenly, a ear-shattering BANG! sounded. Bomb? Gunshot? The whole place went silent. Hesitant voices rose in unison: “What was that????” People emerged from crouched positions and hiding places. I should point out that we had an active shooter situation in our store last Autumn. You do not forget that shit and it kinda makes you expect it again. Especially there.
The husband said, very loudly, “IT WAS THE INNER TUBE IN THE BIKE TIRE EXPLODING.” He said this loudly because he was balancing the bike and his right ear had just taken on a deafening, concussive sound. Casualties that day included various pairs of underwear, his eardrum, my esophagus stretching to accommodate my heart, and let’s not leave out the possibility of cardiac arrests that could have occurred when various out-of-shape employees came huffing and puffing to the scene of the bang. Apparently whoever filled those tires is not very educated about tire pressure, which is frightening given that the department is Tire and Lube Express. Reason #676 not to shop there, kids.
Anyway, a replacement bike was procured and then I made the husband ride it home while I took the bus because I was scared. Yep. That is what I did, and he did it because he loves me, and we got home at the same time, which was interesting. I rode it that evening, just a couple of turns up and down the street. I didn’t wreck. I figured out the gears, which are on the hand grips now and not in the center of the yoke like they were back when Hector was a pup and I had a gorgeous turquoise ten-speed with the curled handlebars.
Sidebar: who is Hector? Is/was he an actual puppy or was he referred to as a pup because he was young? What did he do to gain such fame as to have a “saying” coined about him? Did anyone ever actually meet Hector or is he an urban legend?
Anyway, the bike revealed the fact that I will need wind-canceling goggles to wear over my glasses because that’s one bad aspect of having severe dry eye syndrome. This means that I will either look like a complete moron or a serious poseur when I ride depending the style of eye coverage I buy. Or can afford, more importantly. The bottom line is that there can be no vicarious bicycling until I do, which is probably good, because you just know that there will be a crash in my future. Let’s put that off for a while, shall we?
On Friday, I was walking as usual, and passed one of the 4 churches I usually lower my head and look away from so as not to catch any Christianity cooties. This is what I encountered on the sidewalk in front:
A man had apparently dropped his undershorts. In front of the church.This happened to be a Baptist Church, and you know those Baptists are passionate about their worship. I speculated with my friends that perhaps this was a new religious movement, or maybe it’s like Vacation Bible School, where a bunch of guys stand in the community hall bare-assed and speak in tongues. Then they have cookies and Hawaiian Punch and color a picture to take home and put on the fridge. I came up with some titles for the program:
Get Naked For The Lord
Moon If You Love Jesus!
Geeking Out For God
Mother Mary Says ‘Never leave home without clean underwear!’
Shake Your Willie For the Holy Trinity!
Nude Christian Men For God
Commando For Christ
Commando For Christ was the clear winner. On Saturday, the skivvies were still there but on Sunday, they were suspiciously absent. It can only be one of three things:
1. A bad advertising angle
2. The group was secret, like a cult, and didn’t want to risk being found out
3. My suspicions were wrong and someone just dropped their laundry and a conscientous church member considerately retrieved them and deposited them in the Lost and Found
My money’s on #2.
At any rate, it is Monday again. This means there are all-new and interesting “What the fuck?” moments to come. Stay tuned, because I guarantee you that I attract them like flies to shit.