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May 04, 2004
Best News Ever!
It’s amazing how so much shit can transpire in only two days. Two days as in the weekend. I would have told you about this on Monday, but when I can I don’t treat Monday as a weekday because Mondays, all my life, sucked and when I can control what a Monday means to me, I treat it like a Saturday. All of this is dumb anyway because Tuesday means Monday now. I’m a real g though, and today, Tuesday is fixin’ to be a Saturday too. And what? I’m a grown ass woman. I can do what I want with my days.
I’ll start this off by saying don’t judge me. That’s all I ask. There’s tons of backstory we need to get through first.
Now, I had an appointment with a friend of my manager’s at a car dealership. Knowing somebody who knows somebody can make or break your bank in this town. The appointment was for 2 p.m. NOW, WE ALL KNOW AT 2, THE SUN IS HIGH AND HOT. With a raggedly little Civic, I have to wait for the sun to go down to do anything. Ain’t that some shit? Too hot to go get some soap and toilet paper. Better wait this one out. Aha, but that’s what yummy.com is for. Again, don’t be judging me. It’s not laziness. It’s taking full advantage of the technology of 2004.
Jackie, the wardrobe girl at my job, insisted that I come in for a fitting around this time. I wish there was no such thing as tangents, but the other day Jackie had on some vicious nail tips and rather than put her on blast and say, “Jack, your tips are wack” I go, “Do you wear tips?” as if it wasn’t obvious. She said she did and I nicely suggested she start going to my nail salon. Just then Shondrella chimed in talking about “Ooh girl, I’m so glad you said something because Jackie, those nails are done. Get those redone today.” She followed this up with her signature Shondrella laugh that is very contagious and adorable. Jackie knows us like this. This is a standard level of communication. I then said, “Yeah man, those are pretty beat.” I mean, they were totally thick Lee press-ons. She couldn’t dig in her nose if she wanted. Jackie told us that the night before, she did express her distaste for the nails and was offered free new nails the following day. I told her to cut her losses and never go back. She went to my nail place, and later that night, I checked my messages. She left a five minute message that started with, “Bitch, pick up one of your phones so I can share my joy with you!” and it ended with “And Gisele was getting her nails done there too!” I never get to see anything. Gisele was there. I always get the so so celebrity sighting. I want either supermodels or celebrities with lots of plastic surgery or I’ll take ones with no makeup on. But no I get David Faustino in a parking lot and Jody Watley at Nine West. She was good, I guess.
Back to the story. Since I had to go to work for a wardrobe fitting, I called the dealership man, who I’ll introduce formally in a minute, and left a message to cancel my appointment. I love voice mail when canceling. It’s much harder to face the music and flake. This work situation made me a little happy because I have buyer’s apprehension. Buying a new car is intimidating as hell. It’s a rush, but that initial buyer’s remorse is off the chain. I have buyer’s remorse with everything though, so don’t listen to me. I bought those new disposable toilet brushes and felt bad. But why should I? Toilet germs are fucked up. I should throw the brush away every time. Why not?
I show up at work. Try on the clothes. Smile along. Hug, kiss. All the while thinking about making that car appointment. It was all the way far far away though. You had to drive over hills and through valleys to get there. It was so hot I couldn’t even imagine doing it in traffic. The dealership man called me back and told me that today was a good day for car-buying because it was the last day of the month (insert car salesman hype) and assured me that if I made the appointment, I wouldn’t be disappointed. Even if that wasn’t true, every day in my book is a good day for car-buying especially when you have to face burning alive in your current hot box and being clowned by friends and co-workers. I left the fitting but I had forgotten something on Jackie’s desk.
Now, upon driving back to work, I see Chelsea leaving and she stops her luxury vehicle and goes, “Where’s your new car?” and I swear she was holding back a laugh as my Honda sat idle making ridiculous guttural sounds. I told her my sob story. How I can’t go far in the heat, how I had to come in to work instead. She said something along the lines of “Get a new car bitch…” (lovingly though, Chelsea’s brand of lovingly) and peeled out in her luxury sedan with A/C, tint, stereo, all the fixings. I run back upstairs where Shondrella was still trying on clothes. Girl can put clothes on for days. Accessories, well shit, she’ll be there all day fucking around with accessories. Earrings, flowers, pins, brooches – she loves it all whereas I can’t stand to be forced to wear even just a necklace. Shondrella don’t play. Girl drives a luxury VEE. HICK. LE. with her hair bumping to match. Shoes, handbags, lip glosses, all kinds of goodies. She just does it, snaps up in a circle, every day. She’s been trying to convince me to just get a new car already. In Atlanta at an ungodly hour, while she was halfway in makeup, hair still wrapped as she sat eating oatmeal that she didn’t like very much she goes, “Girl, you need to go on ahead and step up your game. Chelsea used to drive this beat up little Toyota and now look at her, she stepped up her game…” I looked over at Chelsea, eyes still closed, wearing a robe, face pink from working out that morning, eating a single slice of bacon as she waited for the makeup artist to begin, and even then, she did look like her game was stepped up. As Shondrella went on and on about how ugly Chelsea’s old car was, detailing stories of mutual embarrassment with the car, Chelsea rolled her eyes and laughed a few times, but it was true. She needed to get out of the Echo and into luxury. I sat on this information all day wishing I too could be in luxury.
I’ve been daydreaming about luxury for a month now. I can’t even pay attention. You see, I’m the type of person that visualizes. Do you do this? If not, start. I visualize success (which is really just thinking about owning a washer and dryer to me). I visualize love. I visualize abs. I visualize straight up heroic feats. I can kick ass in my mind. I will sit there, mid-conversation with someone and go, “Yo, what if you had air conditioning blasting in your face at the same time that you just deposited $50,000. That shit happens to people…” and no one will know what I’m talking about. I decided it was time to make my visualization a reality. I was going to make that appointment. No heat is going to stop me. No trepidation about being a girl, all alone, on the car lot is going to stop me. Fuck that. The reason why I should get a deal is because I am a lady and I’m about to get my swindle on. I am about to command respect at the dealership. I’ve done my research. I know what I want. I’m about to do this. I will be a luxury car driver today. Fuck all you people. No air conditioning, my ass. I wear stilettos. I smell like Janet Jackson must smell which is probably like rich people. (You too can create rich people smell in your own bathroom with layering – details later). I will get a new car today.
But first, I’m so fucking hungry and I sure would like a McDonald’s Coke.
I was starving. And two days away from starting Body for Life because my friend Lori said it was really good for her. So I thought, I will eat one disgusting McDonald’s cheeseburger and have one large McDonald’s Coke (best Coke ever) and make my way on over to the dealership. That same morning, I went online to Bank of America and noticed all these random fees charged onto my account. I hate Bank of America and nothing pleases me more than to send them a nastygram or get one of those fools on the phone and exercise a few of my demons. I know, I know, it’s not the customer service reps’ fault but they ought to be ashamed of themselves. As ashamed as I am for even banking with those assholes. I asked for the fees to be removed etc. And it became this whole ordeal. Transfer me to this department. Speak to this supervisor. Blah blah blah. I didn’t know it would create so many problems and be the underlying reason why I faced future humiliation, as you are about to see.
I roll into the McDonald’s. Order the cheeseburger (and the fries and the shake and the Coke because Body For Life was starting soon, I swear). I look into my bag and boom, no cash on me. I don’t carry cash for some reason. My car was clean clean clean as I thought I’d be selling it today and so there was not one iota of loose change in the bitch. The Latina girl at the window rolled her eyes as if she wasn’t accustomed to people not being ready with their cash at the window, popped her gum and goes, “We could take your ATM machine card…” Not wanting to be a bitch and tell her that “ATM machine” was redundant, I just pulled my card out and said, “Okay, thanks…” Now, I’m trying to charge $5 worth of shit. She runs the card. Nothing. Runs it again, and says the most demoralizing thing I’ve ever heard in my entire life.
“Your card is declined Miss…” Declined? Five bucks? Declined! Bitch, I’ll stab you.
I could do one of two things. True Self wants to: Start bucking in the drive-thru, but what I look like bucking in the drive-thru? Actualized Self wants to, so badly she wants to and hopes she can: Apologize for inconveniencing her and nicely remove my vehicle from the line that is now backed up because of my predicament. But she forced me to do another thing entirely. As she handed my AUTOMATED TELLER MACHINE MACHINE card back, she goes, “Aren’t you…” and before she could even put her lips together to even say “the girl off Real World” I snatched the card, yelled thank you matter-of-factly and stepped on the gas. Still hungry and now cursing the day I ever sent that stupid audition tape in, I drove off with what was left of my dignity. I’m doing Body for Life anyway, whore.
Cut to, a couple hours later.
I make it to the dealership where they only sell luxury.
I’m swindling, making straight up deals with my new best friend Neil, the car dealership man. He put me in a luxury vehicle for a nice price. I have power everything. A moon roof. A baby flashlight in the glove box that is always charging. A stereo that I can control from the steering wheel. Cruise control. The thing on the keychain that everybody else has that can unlock only my door if I’m in a dark alley. A trunk that I fit in with a lever that you pull if you get trapped in it for some reason (and I do fit in the trunk, I already tried the lever and everything). AND THE COLDEST AIR CONDITIONING THIS SIDE OF THE MISSISSIPPI. I know I said I have brand loyalty with Honda, but German luxury is where my heart is these days. If y’all want to think I’m driving a Benz, go right on ahead. Don’t hurt me none. Sometimes, I like to keep really great shit to myself. This is like falling in love. I wouldn’t really tell you about that so I’m not going to divulge the details of this. Until, of course, my new car high runs out and the shit is dirty with more than few dings. Then maybe, but I think I’ll be high off this for quite some time. I can’t believe it happened to me. It’s like being the only person in your family to graduate college (and having put yourself through the shit). It’s that good of a feeling.
I didn’t need that stinking cheeseburger anyway. I should go through there today with a bunch of crisp ones, throw them at her and be like, “How you like me now, fool!” but I won’t.
Posted by melissah at May 4, 2004 11:56 AM