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.”
Huh.
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.
Tough crowd.
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.)
Love it!
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