I live in the great Commonwealth of Virginia. What’s the difference between a State and a Commonwealth? I always thought it meant that if you live in a trailer with your significant other for eight years or more, you can enjoy all the rights and benefits of a legal marriage. (If you’re straight, of course. Cough, cough. Wouldn’t want those Gays trampling on the sanctity of marriage set forth by the likes of Britney Spears, Kim Kardashian, and Sinead O’Connor.)
Anyway, what I’ve always loved about Virginia is that we have a little bit of everything. We have beaches, mountains, farmland, college towns, suburbs, rivers, and Nascar. Seriously, it’s the perfect place to live. I’ve always prided myself on keepin’ it real; I like to joke that I bring a little bit o’ trailer park to the country club. . . . as evidenced by the stray toys on our lawn and my propensity for front-stoop drinking.
A few weeks ago I headed to the Northern Neck of Virginia for a funeral. My college roomie, Polly, had lost her dad. After much schedule-juggling and logistical planning, Hubby and I decided I would attend by myself and he would stay home with the kids. Since he would need the Swagga Wagon with the car seats, I was forced to drive Hubby’s car, which I lovingly refer to as the Divorce Maker.
The Divorce Maker has many bells and whistles, which I find to be annoying. First, a key should look like a key. It should not be square and it should not be gently pushed into a square receptacle. It should be . . . um . . . key-shaped and it should fit into a key hole. Second, I need a lever or something in order to switch the vehicle from Park to Drive, etc. Every time I try to put the Divorce Maker in Park, I end up washing the windows at a high rate of speed. I gotta say though, I DO love that @ss-warmer.
The Divorce Maker has so much smarts, it signals the driver when gas is running low. This is a useful feature if you pay attention to it. I was in an area of the Northern Neck which prides itself on its ONE stoplight, so as you can imagine, the nearest gas station was, well, NOT near. It was Northern Neck Near (10 miles,) not Northern Virginia Near (1/4 mile.)
Polly’s brother-in-law is known as Mark the Baptist. Polly’s aunt, upon first meeting Mark the Baptist, told the following joke: Do you know why Baptists don’t have sex standing up?
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
It might lead to dancing.
I was a little concerned that the Divorce Maker might be running low on gas. It had said “28 miles to go,” and then “8 miles to go,” and then “5 miles to go.”
And then “--- miles to go.”
Wonder what that means?
Mark the Baptist decided it would be a good idea to follow me to the closest gas station, so he and Polly jumped in the car and we began our journey.
I pulled up in my Divorce Maker, and I was still dressed from the funeral. Instead of my normal uniform of sweatpants and a ponytail, I was actually wearing stockings and boots, makeup, and I had hot-rolled my hair. I thought Mr. Polly’s-Dad would appreciate a little grooming effort on my part. I pumped my gas and ran in to the “Bird Dog Convenience Store” to buy a soda for my trip home. Seriously, it was called The Bird Dog.
I sh*t you not, I was the ONLY person in that store who was not wearing camouflage. I am not saying this to be funny or hyperbolic (look it up.) I was literally the only person not dressed in camouflage from hat to boots.
Naturally, when I got in line, I leaned over to the gentleman next to me and said, “I must not have gotten the memo about the dress code.”
Thank you! Thank you! I’ll be here all week! Don’t forget to tip your waitresses!
But . . . . crickets.
“Oh honey, there ain’t no dress code,” he replied sincerely.
“Oh, I know. I just meant because I’m the only one not dressed in camouflage.”
More crickets. Quieter crickets.
And I leave you with Dawson crying over his First World Problems, also known as White Whine. (Totally "borrowed" this from a site called crushable.com.)