Well, people. I’ve been extremely busy writing my novel. And therefore, I’m running short on time and blog material. However, I do have two ‘Facebook Status Updates’ I’d like to share with y’all – just in case you missed them.
1. On ‘Coffee’ and ‘Cleaning Ladies’.
2. MY BOX IS BROKEN!
So tell me boys and girls…
1. Can you talk to anyone before you’ve had your coffee?
2. Anyone else Sneeze & Pee, or, Laugh & Fart at the same time?
Discuss!
It’s no secret that I rarely get ‘Dressed Up’. And by ‘Dressed Up’ I just mean wearing ‘Real Pants’. It’s not that I am lazy. Well maybe it’s because I’m lazy. But it’s more because I don’t see the point in being uncomfortable when I don’t have to be. Therefore, I live most of my life in sweat pants, yoga pants, pajama jeans, and or straight up pajamas. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I’ve gotten used to the sideways glances and intense stares from strangers at the grocery store and CVS. Because I am perfectly content sporting the ‘Clearly I’ve Given Up’ look. It suits me.
And, I have absolutely no qualms shopping and/or attending ‘Family Holidays’ dressed like this.
However, even *I* may have taken things a little too far.
When I got the phone call from my girlfriend, telling me she finally had the time to squeeze me in for a hair appointment, I jumped at the chance. Literally. It had been three months since my last cut and color. My gray hairs had taken over completely and not even a ponytail and hat could make me look ‘Normal’.
So… without even thinking, I grabbed my bathrobe, threw it on over my pajamas, and got into the car.
Yeah, that’s right.
I drove my car, while wearing my bathrobe.
But that’s not the worst of it.
Nope.
I had a very small window of time to get my hair ‘did’ – because my brother, Abercrombie, whom I love and adore was coming over for dinner. And that’s not an every day occasion.
Tiffany, master stylist that she is, cut my hair first, before slathering my hair with rich, creamy, colored goodness. But rather than waiting 45 minutes for the color to ‘set’ – I asked her to Saran Wrap my head so I could drive back home and be on time for my Family Dinner.
And that’s just what she did.
On my way home, stopped at a traffic light, I couldn’t figure out while I was getting so many strange looks from the people in the cars next to mine.
That is, until I saw my reflection in the rear view mirror.
Yep.
I have officially crossed the line, people.
It’s probably all down hill from here.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about my Grandmother, Evelyn. Sadly, she passed away last year. Maybe it’s because the seasons are changing, and this will be my first Thanksgiving/Christmas without her. Or maybe, it’s just because she STILL makes me laugh. Out loud. A lot. But whatever the reason, she’s been on my mind.
For those of you who don’t know about her, Gramma Ev, was the epitome of an ‘Angry Italian Grandmother’ complete with a sharp tongue, and, a voice that sounded like she’d gargled with rocks, or as if she’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes, since birth. Seriously, you’ve never heard a rant, until you’ve heard Gramma Ev. But despite all of her so-called character flaws – no one was funnier than she was.
Anyway, the other day, my father made some shrimp for the family and ‘special shrimp’ for me. Why? Well, because I cannot cook to save my life. Trust me people, I’ve tried and it never ends well. For anyone. Kitchen appliances and I don’t mix! While I watched my father effortlessly maneuver his way through the kitchen: adding spices and seasonings, grilling, sautéing, and cooking with delight, I thought to myself, ‘Why can’t I do that? It looks so simple!’ But then I remembered a moment in time, I had long since forgotten. And, I doubled over laughing. And I’d like to share that moment with you.
Once upon a time, there was a girl named Meleah. She was 23 years old, and a single mother of a two-year old boy. But she didn’t know how to cook. Gramma Evelyn constantly nagged Meleah to learn how to operate a stove, or an oven, or a blender, or anything kitchen related. Nevertheless, Meleah refused. She just lived on take-out, and instilled the ‘hey do you deliver’ method, when flipping through the yellow-pages. Finally, after years of not-so-subtle badgering, Meleah gave in to Gramma Ev, and decided to give cooking another chance.
It was early one Sunday afternoon, when Meleah felt like making egg salad sandwiches. Of course, that meant she needed to make hard-boiled eggs. But Meleah was unsure if she was supposed to boil the water FIRST, like you do with pasta, or, if she was supposed to put the eggs in the pot with cold water, and just wait. Meleah also didn’t know how long she was supposed to boil the eggs, and/or how a person is supposed to ‘test’ to see if the eggs are done cooking.
Meleah figured this would be the perfect opportunity to call upon Gramma Ev for some cooking advice. She also thought her Gramma Ev would be proud of her for making an effort, and that Gramma Ev, would jump at the chance put on her ‘Bossy Pants’ and school Meleah in the kitchen.
But that’s not exactly how it worked out.
Here’s how it actually went down:
Meleah: “Hi, Gramma Ev?’
Gramma: “Yeah.”
Meleah: “It’s Meleah.”
Gramma: “Oh. Hi.” [sounding thoroughly annoyed]
Meleah: “Um…I have a cooking question for you.”
Gramma: “What?”
Meleah: “I have a cooking question for you.”
Gramma: “You’re cooking?”
Meleah: “I’m gunna try!”
Gramma: “Okay. What’s your question?”
Meleah: “When you’re making hard boiled eggs, do you have to boil the water first? Or can you just put them in the pot with cold water?”
Gramma: “That’s your question?”
Meleah: “Yeah…”
*** CLICK ***
Yep.
That’s right.
Gramma Ev hung up on Meleah.
HUNG. UP.
DENIED.
SHUT. DOWN.
Meleah stared at the receiver of the phone in total disbelief. And then she died from laughter. Because she realized the simple act of boiling water did not constitute as a ‘cooking’ question to Gramma Ev.
——————
To this day, I still have NO IDEA how to make hard-boiled eggs.
And to this day, whenever I see a hard-boiled egg, I crack the f*ck up.
Man, I miss her.
I haven’t been sleeping well. I haven’t been feeling well. And I haven’t been eating well. But I had to get up crazy early for yet another doctors appointment. And man, did I wake up in a bad mood. I didn’t even want to get out of bed.
You see…I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting, lately. But not the good kind. I’ve been much too focused on the negative things that have happened over the past year of my life. Cuz, yanno, that’s really healthy.
So there I was in full-blown-pity-party-mode, ready to spend the day drowning my self-inflicted misery with Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, when suddenly, I over heard music. Specifically, one song. Coming from my son’s bedroom. And it reminded me of a very special day he and I shared this past summer.
While driving in the car, my 15 year old, Justin, turned to me with a CD in his hand and said, “Mom, I want to play a song because it always makes me think of you. And I want to dedicate this to you.”
“Sure,” I replied, having NO CLUE what to expect.
He put the disk in the CD player and cued the song.
And then I proceeded to sob big.fat.tears. while listening to the lyrics.
Seriously, did you listen to that?
Yes?
Good.
Apparently, Justin really does appreciate all that I do for him, because that “dedication” came out of NOWHERE. He didn’t want anything from me. And, he didn’t need anything from me. He just wanted to thank me.
It’s funny, how something as simple as a song, can completely alter my mood.
I absolutely love my father. And, I truly love to share stories about him with you fine people. As luck would have it, I have yet another tale from the ‘Daddy Chronicles.’
First, you should know that we don’t have very many parking spaces in our complex. And none of them are assigned parking spaces. They get taken on a first come, first serve basis. Most of the time, if you can’t find an actual space, you can still park within the circle. Except for when it’s ‘Garbage Night’. Then you cannot park your car inside the confines of the cul de sac, because the trucks can’t fit past the cars, so they won’t pick up your trash. And if the trash doesn’t get picked up? The whole neighborhood turns into angry, vocal opponents, serving dire consequences upon the person who parked irresponsibly. Therefore it’s best to park somewhere out on the street. Everyone who lives here is fully aware of the parking situation. And everyone parks accordingly. Usually.
You should also probably know that my father thinks it’s terribly rude and horribly selfish for one person to keep the same car, in the same spot, without moving it, for three weeks, in a row. Especially when the owner of said vehicle has no use for the car, and there are so few spaces.
So what did my father do?
He wrote a note.
I don’t know what was funnier to me. The fact that my father had been pulling an unauthorized ‘Neighborhood Watch’ counting the days, just to see how long that car was parked there. Or, the fact that my father was snubbed, when the owner of said vehicle retuned the note, put it on our own front door, and didn’t move his car. Either way, when I realized what was going on, I busted into a hysterical fit of laughter.
I couldn’t wait for my dad to come home, dying with anticipation to find out what his reaction would be. He does not take being ignored, lightly. So when I saw my father’s car pull up, I squealed with delight. I held his rejected note in my hand, laughing. But he didn’t get out of the car. For ten minutes. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing. Or why he was sitting there for so long.
Apparently, my father had immediately noticed the car he complained about still hadn’t been moved. Because when he finally got out of his vehicle, he was wielding ANOTHER NOTE in his hand.
[Side bar: I think it’s totally-super-hilarious that my father went from casually calling him Jeff, to referring to him as Mr. Katz in the second note.]
Now, it’s not even like my father wants to use the parking space for himself. There’s an older lady on our block that works late. And he thinks she should at least have chance to use that space a few nights a week. He felt so badly for her when he saw her forced to park far away, out on the street, in the dark. Full-well knowing there was a perfectly good spot, right by her house, being hijacked by a Pig Parker.
Later that evening, the doorbell rang. Low and behold, it was the Pig Parker himself. Once again, my father quickly channeled his inner ‘Larry David’ and the two of them stood in the street, holding a heated debate on whether or not, the Pig Parker should move his car.
I sincerely tried eavesdropping on the conversation. Sadly, to no avail.
However, I’d like to imagine it went a little something like this… [of course, my dad would be Larry].
Anyway…. whatever was actually said, my father must have been very convincing.
Because the car has since been moved!
And maybe, in the future, I should give this card to my father – to put on people’s cars:
Yep.
That’s My Daddy.
——————-
* So let me ask you a question. Do you think the guy in my neighborhood should have moved his car? Or do you think he has the right to keep hogging that space all to himself?
Yep.
That’s right.
Yesterday was my 37th Birthday.
So happy birthday, to me.
*Disclaimer*
You should probably know that I was NOT going to post that video. However, I ultimately decided that I should, as per a conversation I had with a very dear friend of mine, Ron, author of the blog, Vent.
And here’s why….
In Ron’s post, he wrote a few things about blogging and why it’s important to stay ‘True To Yourself.’ And quite frankly, he inspired me to be bold.
Here’s an excerpt:
RON: “You unconsciously start grading yourself on how good or bad your posts are by the amount of comments you get. Slowly, you begin to question what you share because you don’t want to lose readers. And then before you know it, you’re not writing your blog to express your voice anymore….you’re tailoring it to your readers; trying to please everyone.”
ME: Oh yes. Been there. Done that. But after five years, I’ve also learned, I can’t possibly please everyone. And now I am back to writing about what I want, when I want to write. If I don’t get a lot of comments on a particular post, that does not equate to failure.
RON: “Don’t ever be afraid to take chances and share topics you assume your readers may not enjoy or initially understand. Because not only will you be denying your voice, but also the chance for your readers to discover something they might have never known.”
ME: I love that. Love that. I have been contemplating about posting a very personal video on my birthday, but I was feeling VERY hesitant about it, because I don’t want my readers to assume I am either conceited, overly narcissistic, or obnoxious, for posting a video of pictures of myself. But after reading this? I feel much more confident about giving it a shot. Thank you, my dear friend. Thank you.
So, I listened to Ron’s advice. And I took a chance. Hope you enjoyed.
* waits nervously for responses *
I talk about my family a lot. Mostly because I love them and mostly because they are all sofa king crazy, you can’t help but laugh. But my father, whom I adore, is the one that provides never-ending blog fodder.
He is an extremely smart man, and well intentioned. He is also a passionate, handsome, life-saving, family-providing, over-reacting, hyper-active, attention-deficient-having, genius. But if there’s one thing in this world that drives my father absolutely bat.shit.crazy.stone.cold.fuck.nuts. it’s when ‘Society’ doesn’t follow the ‘Rules’.
My father has what I like to call ‘Larry David Tendencies’ and he’s become quite the ‘Social Assassin.’
Here’s a perfect example.
It was a typical day in Suburbia. The weather was nice, the sun was shining, and everything was seemingly all right in our little corner of the world. My father innocently decided to go grocery shopping. He just wanted to pick up a few of the basics.
Milk.
Eggs.
Bread.
My father perused the aisles, got what he needed, and proceeded to get into the ‘10 Items or Less’ – ‘Express Lane’.
But that’s when all hell broke loose.
My father looked inside the basket of the lady in front of him, and counted the proper amount of items. However, the lady in front of her, had an entire cart filled with groceries. And in my father’s world, that’s a very big no, no.
He cleared his throat, and said, “This is ridiculous.”
Loudly.
So loudly, the lady in front of him turned around.
Once they made eye contact, my father repeated himself, “Don’t you think this is ridiculous? I mean isn’t this the Express Lane?” He pointed at the sign.
The lady nodded her head in agreement and turned back around.
Now, it’s not like my father was in a rush be anywhere. Or maybe he really did have other shit to do, like hanging curtains for my mom. But, whatever the case, my father was NOT about to let this go.
Nope.
When my father gets angry, he clenches his teeth in rapid succession. You can actually see his jaw pulsating. He began shaking his head, and sighing heavily. As my father became increasingly aggravated, he proclaimed, “The sign says, 10 Items Or Less! Why is that woman in this checkout lane?”
The lady in front of my father, turned back around and politely said, “Sir, you need to calm down.”
“Calm down?” My father asked puzzled. “I don’t have all day to stand in this line. My time is valuable! Your time is valuable! The sign says 10 Items Or Less!”
Suddenly, all eyes were on my father, as he morphed into Larry David.
He carried on and on about how people don’t respect other people. How this is chaos and society can’t function. The lady in front of him did her very best to completely ignore the rest of my father’s rant. And the other people in the store were clearly uncomfortable.
Meanwhile the poor, little, young, cashier, rang up the groceries as fast as humanly possible. You never saw items fly so quickly off the conveyor belt.
But it didn’t end there.
Nope.
Once my father exited the store, whom do you think he saw across the parking lot?
The very same lady, that held up the ‘Express Lane’.
And that’s when my father put both hands up around the side of his mouth to create a bullhorn and shouted:
“IT’S TEN ITEMS OR LESS!”
“IT’S TEN ITEMS OR LESS!”
Heckling her.
In the middle of the street.
Yep.
That’s my daddy.
———————————————–
Have you ever been stuck behind an Expresshole? And if so, how did you deal with it?
And now…for something completely different.
My 15 year old son told me a story last week. And it was the kind of story that made me laugh so much, my rib cage hurt. So I asked him, to please, please, please, consider writing it as a Guest Post for my blog. Much to my surprise, he agreed.
*Dislclaimer: We are both opposed to anyone texting and driving.
*Warning: My son has the same disturbing/inappropriate sense of humor as I do.
Onward.
———Written by My Son———
It was just another seemingly normal day in High School. I was merely following my teacher’s orders when I was told to go to the auditorium today to watch a video on texting while driving. Ironically, I was texting while my teacher told me. I strolled right in, not thinking much of the upcoming video. I sat in my seat accordingly, since classes have to sit in alphabetical order (God forbid someone watched a video while in the wrong order.)
After about 20 minutes of pretty much doing nothing, our gym teachers finally remembered that they had to do something, or at least look like they were doing something, to make that paycheck. So they went on YouTube to pull up the video, because when I think YouTube, I think learning tool.
The actual video can be watched here. But I’ll give a simple summary.
It starts off with a lone, depressing guitar in the back ground that reminds me a lot of those Drug P.S.A.s. You meet a police officer, a few people that lost loved ones to car accidents, and one man that was handicapped due to a car collision. All of these people were deeply affected by car crashes in which the driver was texting. Now I must admit that the video is very depressing and moving and definitely makes you feel like a shitty person for texting.
The only real problem is that at the end of the video, each victim holds a sign that has the last text message that person either sent/read. And this. Is where. I died.
I’m really not sure why, but it’s absolutely hilarious to see someone with a straight face hold a sign that says something as ridiculous as “where you at” or “yeah” on it.
*Come on, that’s hysterical and you know it.*
Apparently however, I was the only person in the audience that thought this as I was the only person that was hysterically laughing at this point. All throughout the auditorium I saw people turn to me, then turn back and say “Dude, that guy’s a dick…” I’m also pretty sure that I saw a few gym teachers say, “I hope that kid DOES text and drive…Little fucker.”
A few girls in my vicinity turned around and asked me how I could be so inconsiderate to which I responded, “He has a straight face and is holding LOL and he’s trying to be serious, that’s hilarious.”
Well, if I hadn’t already I’m pretty sure I’ve secured my place in hell as well as the title of world champion inappropriate laughter.
———-
Yep.
That’s my boy!
*When’s the last time YOU laughed inappropriately?
Last week, I had the pleasure of meeting fellow writer, Margaret Andrews.
She’s the author of the book Sticky Readers: How to Attract a Loyal Blog Audience by Writing More Better. And, she’s the author of the blog Nanny Goats In Panties. Oh, and she’s totally-super-awesome.
Since Margaret lives in California, and I live in New Jersey, it’s not every day we can meet up for lunch. So when I found out she was going to be vacationing in New York City, I seized the opportunity to finally get face-to-face with the woman I’ve adored over the Internet for the past several years.
Considering I have no sense of direction, driving into NYC was absolutely out of the question. And, since I am NOT a big very fan of ‘Public Transportation.’ Therefore, we decided on getting together in Hoboken, NJ.
And here’s how that worked out for me…
I’ve never been to Hoboken, so I asked ‘The Internet’ two questions.
1. Where’s a good / not too expensive restaurant?
2. Will I have to drive over any bridges?
I received fantastic reviews, along with a list of restaurants to choose from.
And, I was promised that I would not have to drive over any bridges.
And you people are LIARS!
Well, to be fair, you didn’t lie about the restaurants.
There are a crapton of kick-ass restaurants up and down Washington Street.
But no one warned me about the mother-effin, Pulaski Skyway!
C’mon guys!
Haven’t we already talked about my fear of bridges?
[I have a sneaky suspicion y’all lied to me, because you thought I wouldn’t go. And you would have been right. I would have canceled.]
Now, some of you might not understand my fear of bridges. So I will try to explain it simply. For me, driving over a bridge is just as terrifying as: rock climbing, or skydiving, or bungee jumping down the Empire State building. And while those things may be fabulous, if you happen to be a ‘Thrill Seeking’ kind of person, but I am NOT one of you.
I am not only afraid the bridge will suddenly collapse, without warning, but I also imagine the ‘Worst Case Scenario’. Like what if my tire suddenly explodes, and I loose control of the car, and go careening off the side of the bridge, and drown a fiery death, and the only thing they find to identify my body are the serial numbers on my breast implants.
So, yeah. Meleah + Bridges = Massive Panic Attack.
That being said, I’m going to give you a quick run-down of my drive into Hoboken.
I had borrowed my parents Garmin GPS to lesson the likelihood of getting lost. And let me just take a second here to acknowledge how awesome that little machine is. Seriously, I am buying my own, like immediately.
Anyway, 99.3% of my drive was smooth sailing.
The New Jersey Turnpike wasn’t overly crowded.
I didn’t get lost.
And I didn’t feel nervous.
Hearing that little voice from the GPS tell me, “Turn Right, in 0.2 miles” gave me a false sense of confidence.
After I exited the NJTPK and paid the toll, I prematurely congratulated myself on a job well done. Because that’s precisely when everything went awry.
I drove underneath an underpass, and thought, ‘Oh, this isn’t scary at all. In fact, this is pretty easy. Yay, Me!’
Not less than 5 seconds later I found myself going up an on-ramp. The very on-ramp that led me onto the mother-effin, Pulaski Skyway. I rapidly tried to figure any possible way for me to turn the car around in order to avert driving over the bridge.
Alas, I quickly realized I could not stop the inevitable.
HOLY.
SHIT.
I immediately went into panic mode. My heart raced, and I thought for sure I would to black out. I turned on my hazards. And then, I drove a maximum of three miles an hour, staring straight ahead, ignoring the vulgar language, middle fingers, and car horns blaring in my direction. With a knot in my stomach, shaking hands, and sweat dripping from every pore on my body, I forged ahead.
Now, I also should probably mention, that my car does not have air-conditioning. So I had all of my windows down. Which would explain why the other drivers on the bridge looked at me as if I was a real-live-escaped-metal-patient, when they heard me screaming, “FOR THE LOVE OF WRITERS” on the top of my lungs the whole way across ‘The Longest Bridge’ on the East Coast.
Just when I thought I would die a certain death, the GPS directed me off the bridge.
HALLELUJAH!
And AMEN!
The next thing I would have to tackle was finding a place to park.
Hoboken is like a mini NYC. And I don’t have a clue how to ‘Parallel Park.’
So as soon as I found a spot where I could go in ‘Head-First’?
I took it.
Wrinkled and sweaty, I walked a few blocks, while texting Margaret. The restaurant we had initially agreed upon was closed. And just as I was about to turn a corner, we spotted each other on the street. We immediately squealed like high school girls, and then embraced.
Margaret is EXACTLY as I had imagined her.
Only more better.
She’s absolutely adorable, super-sweet [but not nauseatingly sweet], wicked smart, and sofa-king funny.
We grabbed a table, ordered unsweetened iced-teas, and lunch, and chatted away for over THREE HOURS. We talked about writing, and blogging, and Broadway plays. I tried my very best to use my ‘inside voice.’ Because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, or sound like a stuttering idiot, while in the presence of greatness.
Of course, like a star-struck fan, I asked her to autograph my copy of her book, and she was more than happy to do so.
I felt so comfortable around her; I may have divulged way too much information. But if you can’t divulge TMI to a fellow blogger, than who can you tell? Am I right? We discussed BlogHer, and conferences, public speaking, Apple Products, and different types of parenting skills. We even shared a few secrets with each other.
And now I love Margaret more than ever.
I swear if I were a lesbian, I’d totally marry her.
After we left the restaurant, we walked back to my car together.
Still overly excited about such a successful lunch, with such an amazing woman, I didn’t even care that I ended up with a $30.00 parking ticket on the windshield of my car.
Honestly to blog, meeting Margaret was absolutely worth the parking ticket AND the heart attack I had to endure while driving over the Pulaski Skyway.
Because she “Rocks the Casbah.”
No.
Seriously.
Where the hell am I?
That’s what ran though my mind, as I stopped at the intersection of ‘F*@% If I Know’.
I had already been driving for over twenty minutes, on back roads, with no street signs, and no streetlights. Nothing looked familiar, and yet it all looked the same. Dark. Cold. Creepy. I was fairly positive at any given moment Zombies or Vampires would come crawling out of the woods to kill me.
There weren’t any painted yellow lines on the streets. And, there weren’t any other cars on the road. Trying to navigate my way through a thick layer of fog, while praying I wouldn’t crash into the deer that fearlessly jumped in front of my car, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
This is not what I had signed up for when I agreed to pick up my 15 year old son, and a few of his friends, from some party.
But there I was.
Lost.
In the middle of nowhere.
Alone.
My eyes darted back and forth from the pitch-black road, to the Google Maps Application on my iPhone, which, by the way, provided the only source of light for miles. I refreshed my map application to use ‘Current Location’. I took a deep breath and nervously waited for the information to load.
* Proceed North onto Perrineville Road *
Now that would have been a handy piece of information, except for the fact, that ‘F*@% If I Know’ is as confusing as the one-hundred-year-old Poincaré conjecture. I had to choose from 6 different signs, for 6 different streets. Apparently, 99.2% of the roads in this particular town intersect with each other. And yet, NOT ONE of those signs said ‘Perrineville Road.’
Lovely.
I had to make an executive decision.
I turned left.
If you’re guessing that was a mistake? You’d be right.
I drove down the winding street with sharp curves and unmarked bends, certain I would end up in a ditch. I maintained a healthy speed of 4 MPH. Gripping the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned power white. I thought I saw Jason hiding in a bush with his axe and ski mask. But then I remembered it wasn’t Friday the 13th and calmed down. A little.
However, when I saw a narrow bridge ahead, I knew not even the magical power of Dorothy’s ‘Ruby Slippers’ could help me now. I am absolutely terrified of bridges. There was no way I would drive over that bridge, on this road. Not. Happening. My son and his friends would either be stuck at that mysteriously located house, forever, or they would eventually have to call for a taxi.
I made a K-Turn in the middle of the road and turned the car around.
And, then I drove right back to the intersection of ‘F*@% If I Know’.
Oh, hello.
Again.
Seriously.
Where the hell am I?
And why do I feel like I am about to be in a scene from the movie ‘Deliverance’?
Forced to make another executive decision, I turned right.
But of course, that road, was just as terrifying.
The heat radiating off my sweating skin, fogged up the car windows. And forget about turning on the ‘Bright Lights’ because that only intensified the fog outside of the car. I used the sleeve of my sweatshirt to wipe the inside of my windshield, to no avail. I longed for concrete dividers on well-lit highways, and neon city lights.
Just about to give up, I spotted a strip mall shopping center.
Eureka!
For the first time all night I felt hopeful, civilization would soon be on the horizon.
Eager to ask for help from any breathing person, with a pulse, I gingerly skidded on the wet road, fishtailing my car into the parking lot. Sadly for me, there were no signs of human life. I could hear the crickets chirping, and the ribbiting frogs. But there were absolutely no people. The building had long since been abandoned.
FML.
It had been well over an hour.
I turned the car around.
Again.
And, I drove back to the intersection of ‘F*@% If I Know’.
Again.
I sat at that damned 6-way-Stop Sign utterly defeated.
Sweating profusely, on the verge of tears, and desperate I yelled aloud, “For the love of all things holy! PLEASE G-D, let someone, let ANYONE, show up! Send help, now!”
Seriously.
Where the hell am I?
And that’s precisely when I saw dim headlights in my rear-view mirror.
I wiped the tears and disbelief from my eyes.
Is that another car? Squinting, I realized, OHMYZOD… IT IS ANOTHER CAR! Thank goodness! It’s a miracle! Please let them speak English! And please DO NOT let them be a serial killer!
I waited anxiously with my hazards blinking until they pulled up next me.
“EXCUSE ME!!” I shouted from my driver side window. “EXCUSE ME! PLEASE!!”
The driver of the car, heard my loud shrill. Lowering the passenger window, “Can I help you?” He asked.
“I sure hope so!” I exclaimed. “I’m sorry to bother you sir. But, I am REALLY lost. I have no idea where I am, and I have no idea how to get where I am going. I’ve been back to this intersection at least four times tonight. And I’m supposed to pick up my son and some friends from a party.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Well, according to my iPhone, I need to get to Perrineville Road. Do you know where that is?”
“Um…yeah.” He smiled, “You’re on Perrineville Road.”
“Really?” I could feel my face turning red from embarrassment, “But there’s no sign.”
He chuckled, “Yeah, it’s confusing around here.”
For a second I felt relieved, “Okay, well, do you know where Dregress Court is? Because ultimately, that’s where I need to end up.”
He scratched his head, “No. I’ve never heard of that.”
“How about Steeple Road?” I asked.
“Hmmm….” He paused, “I don’t know that one either.”
I began thinking this guy might not be so helpful after all. “Well do you know if I am I supposed to make a left or a right at this stop sign?” I pointed in front of us.
“Let’s get out of this intersection. The Fire Department is right up the road. Follow me, and I will see if I can help you out.”
I didn’t know if I should be fearful, or not. But instead of over-analyzing things, I just thanked my lucky stars ‘Totally-Super-Awesome, Kind-Random-Stranger-Guy’ did not seem like a psychopath, willing to assist me. And G-d only knows how long it would have been until the next car came along.
We arrived at the local Fire Department, within a matter of seconds. I immediately got out of my car, walked toward him, extended my hand and said, “I really cannot thank you enough. I hate being lost like this! What’s your name so I don’t have to call you Random Stranger Guy?”
“My name is Tom.”
“Okay, Tom. I am, Meleah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands.
Then I shoved my iPhone in his face, “See…this! Can you please look at these directions?”
He stared intensely at the map on my phone and sighed, “Gee, this says you should be on Perrineville Road, which you are, but it also says you should go onto Rt. 571. And that’s all the way in the other direction. This doesn’t make any sense. Can you call the house you’re trying to get to?”
“Um…” I realized, I couldn’t. “No, I don’t have that number. But wait; let me call my son’s cell phone. Maybe he can get an adult in the house on the phone with us?”
“Great idea.”
And that’s exactly what we did.
“Justin, this is your mother,” I screamed. “I am totally lost. I’ve been trying to find the Party House for over an hour, but I’ve been trapped at the nexus of the universe. Right now, I am in the street, with some stranger, Tom, who’s being nice enough to try and help me find you. Please go get an ADULT and put them on the phone, right now!”
I mouthed the words ‘I’m sorry’ to ‘Totally-Super-Awesome, Kind-Random-Stranger-Guy’ otherwise known as, Tom.
The mother of the Party House quickly came to the phone and I put her on speaker.
Unfortunately, she was only able to give very vague driving directions. According to her, a lot of the street names have been recently changed, due to construction and zoning. Therefore, she didn’t know the names of the roads either. She only knew ‘Landmarks.’
“When you get to the next intersection, look for a tiny blue sign, then make a right, on your left you’ll see a ball field. Go two or three miles and look for a white fence, then turn right on the street after that.”
W.T.F.
“Then….” She continued to throw out impossible clues to find the house. But, when I hung up the phone I still had NO IDEA where the hell I was supposed to go. And Tom must have seen the look on my face.
Luckily, he knew exactly what ‘Landmarks’ the ‘Party House Mom’ was talking about. And rather than trying to re-explain where I was supposed to go? Much to my surprise, Tom graciously offered to let me follow him.
All. The. Way. There.
And, I could not have been more grateful.
The drive from the Fire Station, to the Party House, lasted no more than TEN minutes.
By the time I picked up my son and his friends, my nerves were shot. Three teenage boys piled into my car, laughing, completely oblivious to the fact that I was thoroughly distraught. And now, we had to figure out how to get the heck out of there.
It’s a good thing my son can read a map, without needing to know any street names. Because if it weren’t for my son and ‘Totally-Super-Awesome, Kind-Random-Stranger-Guy’ otherwise known as Tom, I honestly think I’d still be out there, driving around, hysterically. Because even on a good day, full of sunshine and unicorns, armed with: maps, GPS systems, and a compass, I can’t find my way around my own neighborhood.
But for the one time, my son told me to turn RIGHT and I accidentally turned LEFT, the ride home was much less eventful. We turned down the very last dirt road of uncharted territory, before we finally saw a sign for our highway.
“SWEET BABY JESUS!” I bellowed with glee.
Here’s an FYI:
Time I left my house to pick up my son: 10:15pm. Time I finally arrived home, safely: 12:45am.
Yep.
That’s right.
It took 2 hours, and 30 minutes, for me to travel, what should have been, all of 18 miles.
I can promise you two things.
1. I am on a mission to ‘Pay It Forward’. Because ‘Totally-Super-Awesome, Kind-Random-Stranger-Guy’ otherwise known as, Tom, really didn’t have to help me out the way he did.
2. If my son, ever even thinks about asking me for a ride to or from that area, again?
My answer will be quick and simple, “Not. Gunna. Happen.”
So tell me boys and girls…
Has this ever happened to anyone else? Or am I the only moron out here, with no sense of direction?
[PS: ‘Totally Super Kind Random Stranger Guy’ otherwise known as Tom, if you ever miraculously stumble upon this blog post – I want you to know that I love you!]
