Thursday, January 14, 2010

She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy

God bless you, Kenny Chesney. God bless you. For you have made one of the greatest songs in human history, as I was reminded today on my way to the doctor.

Also, at one point, I was driving through one of those extended zones where two radio stations battle back and forth, along with a little static. It was Miley Cyrus's "Party in the U.S.A." versus unknown old man singing a hymn. It was like Jesus was beating down Miley Cyrus. It was blissfully perfect.

At the doctor's office, they have this odd little procedure where you are moved from one waiting room to another when it gets closer to the time when you will actually get called in to see the doctor. Today I was a little miffed because I thought I had left the waiting room with the Reader's Digest for the waiting room with the shit magazines like "Economics Today," but I found one I could enjoy, I forget what it was. In any case, I hadn't been bold/brave enough to transport the Reader's Digest with me into the next level waiting room. I would also like to say that the next-level waiting room procedure makes the waiting a lot easier - it breaks up the monotany and frustration of waiting; it gives you hope.

On the way back - which went much easier this time because I followed the directions I got from MapQuest instead of disputing them, substituting my own better judgement and common sense, which got me two hours lost - when I got very close to home, my stomach decided that it wanted to empty itself. Immediately. Apparently, this is what happens to me at the end of a travel of more than 10 miles now. It happened last week on the way back from L's baby shower.

Again, this time, I found myself thinking: This is it. This is really it. I've come close so many times before, but this is the time, the real time, that I doodie on myself in the car.

I weaved through traffic, accelerated through red lights, paused - briefly and barely - for the black man in the brown leather coat and trucker hat to cross the road (he was already half way across and his will was apparently much stronger than mine, though he didn't seem in a rush to doodie or anything like that), then turned onto the last two-mile stretch. I was driving rather recklessly (65 in a 45, a two-lane road), trying to decide whether or not I would really be able to say to the officer that I had been rushing home to doodie, realizing that I probably would have pooped on myself by the time he sauntered up to the side of the car.

Anyway, then I remembered that there is destruction construction going on at the point where I turn into my neighborhood, so the last 100 yards toward home I began to muster up the emotional detachment required to mow down a man with an orange vest and a stop sign.

I made it home.

Update: Later this afternoon I went over to get some of the canned cat food on sale at Petco and went to Red Lobster with M for lunch where I had chicken tenders and shrimp with a side of run-to-the-bathroom doodie.

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