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July 27, 2005
Driven
The other day I drove into a tree.
Not head on into a tree, but the debris of a fallen tree was all in the road – totally rude – and I had to make a decision. Swerve to the right and hit a UPS truck with my whole face and car or just hit the tree and hope for the best. I lost the passenger side mirror and I pulled over and cried. It’s just a baby luxury vehicle. How could this be happening to me? I should have been really excited that it wasn’t worse like death or being transported by helicopter to the hospital with my ugly panties on or chipping my new fake teeth on the steering wheel, but I love that car. So much so that it still has new car smell because I’m obsessive like that. But now that the mirror is broken off and I’ve got GPS (I’ll get to that) I decided I could totally off-road that bitch.
So I drove into the city. MANHATTAN. NEW YORK CITY. I drove there. This is huge.
I have to preface this whole story by telling you a little something about my driving skills. I fucking suck at driving. I sit way up on the steering wheel. I can’t have the music too loud if I really need to concentrate. I can’t parallel park. I basically drive like a little old Filipina lady. With cataracts. And a nervous condition. Like my mom, actually. She sucks at driving. She stays in the same lane all the way to the destination. If the mall all the way 40 miles away is on the right side, she keeps to the right. No loud music, no distractions. One time we were listening to Too Short in the car, the uncensored version and she snapped,
“I cannot dribe dees one ip we hap to listen to dat rap music. Put it easy listen or else no listen…” We had to listen to Xtreme More Than Words all the way to the base. She makes up her own words by the way. More dan words is showing you peeling dat dee lub is bery nice. Dude, mom…
So I suck at driving. But lately, I’ve been feeling very trapped. I’ve been complaining about not being able to get adjusted because I have no sense of direction. And by that I mean, I seriously can’t figure out the cardinal directions. I don’t care if that makes you think I’m really stupid. I guess everybody knows north, south, east and west. I don’t. But I can explain.
We had to learn it in this program called Nature’s Classroom when I was in 6th grade and I wasn’t feeling that shit. First, I had to ruin a perfectly good pair of brand new Keds (real ones, like I didn’t have to take a blue Sharpie and color in a rectangle on my generic BX shoes) by walking into the river and trying to catch some fish with a net. Fuck that. Then, I had to be outside all day in the blaring hot Florida sun singing camp songs and hanging out with kids that weren’t even in my class. The heat made the gel in my hair totally flaky and I was forced to braid my rat tail so it wouldn’t get frizzy. I was so upset about this braiding, by the way, because I thought it made me look like a boy. I was an asshole. I had a rat tail. Why couldn’t my mother help me to know that wasn’t cool? Why? Because she’s the same person that sent me to school with a Teddy Ruxpin lunchbox with foil balls of rice and leftover adobo inside. That shit was devastating.
I hated Nature’s Classroom. They mixed up the population! When you’re in the gifted program, hanging out with people that don’t yet understand Algebra or read chapter books is so not happening. They were cool and had Cavariccis and Billabong jackets. I was a nerd and couldn’t believe they were already French kissing. Hello, MONO.
So I blame the whole classroom camping episode for my lack of direction. I had a bad experience. Same goes for dogs. Can’t make me fall in love. I had rabies in a third world country. I must say fuck dogs for that one. Same for telling time with clocks with hands. But that I can explain too.
It was a standardized and timed test. The TIMMS test, I think. This would determine whether or not I would get into college or be loved unconditionally by my parents – both determinations that I created in my little over-achieving head. Third grade. Had to pee bad but I was never one to raise my hand to make a request. I never volunteered answers or information. I just sat in the classroom knowing I was the smartest and I would keep this fact to myself and let the idiots around me eagerly wait to be called on. They needed it more than I did, obviously. I was a silent and smug, but arrogant little bitch of a 7-year-old. My teacher’s name was actually Mr. Kruger. Was Freddy even out then? I don’t remember but the teacher Mr. Kruger was evil. He snatched up this kid Bryan during Charlotte’s Web one time and we thought his arm would come out of the socket. I only knew how to tell military time. All of these circumstances were weighing on my precious third grade mind. I was tripping. I had to fucking pee! I can’t read these here clocks AND squirm around in my seat. This is a timed test! WHY!
I peed on myself.
In all of the anxiety, I just blanked. I had to draw the hands into the clock. If the paper said NOON, I had to draw in where the little hand and the big hand would be. I couldn’t concentrate. I just drew all the hands exactly the same size, hoping that the answers would count so that I could go to college. I fucked that all up. My mom had to come and get me. She covered for me so I wouldn’t get a whooping that night. She said my Thermos leaked all over my clothes. Ever since then, I don’t fuck with traditional watches. I won a watch during a raffle at the Bob Guiney premiere of The Bachelor and the memories came flooding back. I might have even said something unnecessarily nasty to Bob Guiney upon accepting my prize. I’m still trying to pawn that thing. It’s worth $1800.
I hate clocks and watches. And I especially hate it when people respond to “what time is it?” by saying “quarter to whatever…” or “quarter til” or “half past”. Just say the time man. GOD. But I also hate north, south, east and west. I thought I was a reasonably intelligent person but I can’t get down with a compass and I refuse so I guess I’m not that smart.
I hate it when people say, “If we’re facing the water, we’re facing northwest because the bay is that way…” I don’t know what the fuck that means. Do I turn left at the Donut Hut or what? I need driving directions. Leave house. Go left. At stop sign, go straight. That’s what I understand. None of this head four blocks south of Broadway shit. New York is the worst too. How can you go west on the Southern State Parkway? Just say south is south and create a new name for west – like west. The lettering system is stupid too. W doesn’t mean west around here. It could mean Wantagh Parkway. There’s even an O and what the fuck is that? I get lost everyday.
J had gotten really frustrated with me. At about the third time that he had to leave work and get in his car to find me stranded on a dirt road in Commack when I was just trying to get to the rich people mall in Manhasset – he’d had enough. So he bought me a little navigation system.
Yup, I’m straight up free-wheelin’ now, son.
Well, I had to learn the navigation system first and that was a hard-earned lesson. I had to go exactly 2 miles to J’s sister’s house to bring her a housewarming gift and see her adorable daughter and I got so lost. Hard right, slight left? But where? How? I ended up back in the parking lot of J’s job. I stormed up to him screaming at the top of my lungs –
FUCK LONG ISLAND. FUCK THIS HUMIDITY. FUCK THIS TOWN. FUCK YOUR BAGELS. FUCK YOUR PIZZAS AND YOUR PIZZAS AND YOUR PIZZAS! AND FUCK YOUR LITTLE RAGGEDY NAVIGATION SYSTEM! I’M GOING BACK TO LA! MY HAIR IS FRIZZY GOD DAMN IT!
I got back in my car and burned my back because my leatherette gets hot, man and that sent me over the edge! I came home and craigslisted apartments in West Hollywood for a whole hour, but then Oprah came on and I got over it. However, I spent the rest of the evening wondering how I’d ever show my face in that parking lot again. Plus, the navigation system does work. I just didn’t have the little antenna thing that gets the signal so it kept telling me to go to places I’d already been. I felt so bad for yelling at J. Ooh, it was awful and I was embarrassed. What could I possibly say?
When he came home he was like, “Did you get it to work?”
I nodded, and scrunched my face up in shame and he muttered, “You putz…” and I pulled out my Friday apology because I couldn’t do a legitimate sincere apology. I was too ashamed to do that. I’m sorry, Craig, you have to be remindin’ me…
But enough about me being a total impatient ingrate. The real news here is I’m on the road!
First I went to Astoria and lounged on a new friend’s couch, reading tabloids and brainstorming ideas for inventions that would make us rich so that we could buy all the expensive handbags ever. There was an awkward silence when I said I wanted a python bag because she’s vegan. Oops. I changed the subject by asking, “Yo, what is that whole Mexican family doing on your porch?”
Then, after I listened to the R. Kelly song about having sex in the kitchen next to the buttered rolls (her favorite), I broke her toilet and now I’ll probably never see her again.
That’s the worst! The first time ever hanging out at somebody’s house and the toilet is on the fritz. It wasn’t all the way my fault. After I’d already been in there panicking, she came to the door and said, “Don’t panic! It always does this. Here’s what you have to do…” A few jingles and jangles and knob turns later, I was entirely devastated and couldn’t wait to leave to get J at the train station. When earlier, my hands were all sweaty with just the thought of getting to the train station all by myself, now I was like SEE YOU LATER SORRY WE CAN’T BE FRIENDS BECAUSE I AM AN ASSHOLE THAT BROKE YOUR TOILET.
J was coming into the city to meet me so that we could go see Altar Boyz with Spriteboy. Spriteboy canceled so I hung out with gay Will from Big Brother. Love him. And I plan on abusing his nursing skills forever.
Will took us to this place called Therapy. All gay. Precious J was getting straight up bombarded with hungry gay man stares. They were like, “He is fine, girl” and “You’re the best boyfriend ever, aren’t you?” as they put their little index fingers to his chest and eyed him down.
I didn’t think The Gays would love him so much. J rolls around town in a signature outfit that does not scream hot. He wears old, paint-stained work boots, ankle socks, gym shorts and a ratty green basketball jersey and a forever wool cap (you won’t see him without it) with a pen tucked underneath it. Will says that’s what makes him so hot. He’s got this artsy masculine don’t give a fuck vibe. Is that what it is? I’ll guess I’ll have to consider that the next time I’m tempted to shred that shirt and throw his work boots in Paco’s direction. He is adorable, but his outfit isn’t so much. Every time we have to make an appearance with his parents or anybody I’d like to keep as a friend he says, “Can I dress like a dirtbag?” and if the answer is yes, he’s totally excited.
So anyway, I just wanted to share my excitement. I can go wherever I want to go now. All by myself. Without J. Whose identity is something that some folks are just dying to know which is so weird. Do you just want to know because I don’t say it out loud? Or do you want to know to see if his band sucks? Anything band affiliated with anything Real World affiliated usually sucks so I understand if it’s that. His band doesn’t suck though and I’m not just saying that.
But to you RL in Florida who has figured him out, you’re good. Gigi told me everything.
Posted by melissah at July 27, 2005 02:10 PM