Wannabe Drama Queen...

Quick backdrop: If you played the word game correctly, some of y’all noticed a ring on my wedding finger.  Not an engagement ring, rather like a place card at your shitty, mandatory Christmas party showing what dickhole you’ll be stuck sitting next to all night.  Well, that’s what this ring is – kinda holding a place for now – cop gave to me fairly recently.

Tuesday the Giants won (great news!), and combined with me having a crime scene in my pants (yucky news!), cop and I had a major-league fight of unprecedented proportions – and that’s plain sad news...  But he’s never really seen this kitten’s claws, and for everything he threw at me, I screamed, gritted my teeth, squinted my eyes hard and furiously and shredded him like a stray dog through a wood chipper.  But I KNOW in the back of his mind what he was thinking: “She’s not crying, uh oh…”  Not one tear and either intimidated or scared him I'm certain.

I grab my purse heading for the door, but I have to do it with some drama.  And shut your mouth, I’m the one practically blowing a fuse through my tampon, so I will damn well leave any way I want.  And I’m going to rip off this ring and chuck it at his head with such force Jacque Kennedy herself will emerge from the grave to pick up pieces of his head scattered “back and to the left”.  So I took a step towards the door, he says “Karyn, don’t…”, and I spun around DARING him to come closer.

“Just go fuck...” I start to scream and rip off ring.  Nada, it’s not budging.  Try to get a tighter grip and give a hard yank again.  “You need to just go fuck your…”  Hard tug only pops my knuckle.  Oh Christ, I have to get it this time, or I’ll I swear I'm going to start laughing and cause drama-interruptus,  “Why don’t you go fuck yourself!!!” and with a final pull I manage to free my personal Excalibur of a ring from it’s stone talon.  Collected in hand, took aim and sidearmed it like a Kent Tekulve fastball, wizzing it past his head and down the hall somewhere to hopefully imbed itself in the wall or something dramatic like that.  Drama finally accomplished, but I’m not near done yet…

Reach for the door one-handed – point in his direction and screamed, “And don’t you fucking think of calling ME…”  Gonna time this ending of “EVER AGAIN!” perfectly with the door slam, right?  God help me, the damn door was locked, so not only was drama lost, practically dislocated my shoulder in the process.  Unlock, repeat, SLAM!!!  “Oh, that was good K” was all I could think.  Stomped especially loudly down steps, fumbling for keys while talking to myself like Amanda Bynes in…  well, anywhere.

Approaching Jeep anticipating revving and screech out parking lot, but within a few steps of car door, realize I left keys in the little bowl we keep our keys in – wow, drama squished…  Lean head against window and start crying.  Walked to hidden dark side-street, called roomies to drive to SF to get me, and just sobbed.

So maybe drama isn’t my thing – I tried...

K

The Toothpaste Does NOT Go There...

Holy cats, a minor little toothpaste incident really blew up on me recently…

So cop leaves for work, and I was running late - showered, dried off, got mostly dressed and went potty. It’s a trusted zone, so don’t hover – plopped down, saw my electric toothbrush within reach, and figured I’d multi-task and brush teeth to save time. Heaped Crest Gel–Cinnamon Rush on, hit the button and whirrrrrr – oops, it flung the red blob smack in the financial district of my panties. First trying to pinky it out, then standing up to waddle to sink, really smooshed it, but got out what I could. Oh well, in a hurry, so out the door…

On hour work commute, I felt a little warm and tingling downstairs and caught myself fidgeting in my seat. Get to work, grab equipment and have to drive to Fresno, CA – 2 ½ hours away. Around Modesto, I’m really feeling something baking and hot near the baby oven. Against the angels’ wishes, I leaned back in the seat and jammed my right hand down my jeans – just to see if my maybe my panties were scrunched or sitting funny – even fanned some cool air down the mineshaft, but all appeared perfect in Panty-ville.

Few miles later, something smells good – like a bakery, like pastry, like CINNAMON! Jesus, it’s my fingers on the steering wheel – that freakin’ toothpaste is why I’m squirming like McGwire in front of Congress. Pull over next exit, find bathroom, created cinnamon paper trying to wipe clean, but what to do with panties? Not tossing and certainly not going without. Got it! Turn them inside out – ugh, so Ohio State skank-ish of me. Back on road.

Made it to Madera before I really had to do something about this now fire in my front window. Burning and waddling to convenience store potty (which is filthy, tiny, stinky, and wizz-drenched), I now get a fistful of toilet paper soaked in the sink – have to get some cold water on this bush fire. Lock door – whew… but look down to see this giant red stripe in my white panties. Not exactly the Red Stripe I was hoping for in my day. Not-wearable, so take off, rinse out, then go to dry myself off – no paper towels? As God is my witness, I've never felt more trashy in my life as I actually kicked a leg up half-naked on the sink and had to use an air hands-dryer to funnel hot air to my already scorched lava-labia in a disgusting, rarely cleaned Sip ‘n Pump bathroom…

Wet panties fisted in hand, I leave. Thought it might be a good idea to maybe dry them out. No close cars, so at 75 mph, I rolled down my window, hooked them on my index finger, sloooowly eased them out to the window and TTHHWWOOOOP – gone like a David Blaine magic trick… Red-faced and watching my red-striped panties fly in the rear view mirror was not part of the plan. Later I called my “girl doctor” because still irritated. Something about perhaps upsetting the pH level in my southern playpen, so today in about a half an hour, you’ll find me in the stirrups getting my Cinnabox checked out most certainly smelling like a pack of Big Red.

Karyn