No but officer… you don’t understand: this was not supposed to be my life. Honestly, I just missed registration; that’s all. Yes… that’s correct, I missed registration and I didn’t get to sign up for the one I wanted. The life I wanted.
So you see, it isn’t my fault that I’m trekking down Sunset Boulevard with a sack of
wheat clothes over my shoulder, like I’m in
Shel Silverstein’s “The Googies.”
Ok… well, maybe I had some say in this, but I’m still standing by the fact that I missed registration.
Let’s go back to Labor Day. It’s still September, after all, right officer? Do you want me to sing the song about the Calendar and the syllables in September, right now? Cause I will… No, NO DON’T CALL FOR BACK UP, JUST LISTEN TO ME!
Labor Day. Can I tell you about the life I envisioned for myself? I wasn’t asking for much. I just wanted a nice mediocre boyfriend, with whom I could do some kind of nice mediocre Labor Day activity, like… go hang out on a boat somewhere, you know? We could drink nice mediocre beer like, uh, what do the kids drink these days? PBJ? Wait, wait – PBR? Is that the one? Yeah! That one. We’d drink PBR on our nice mediocre boat on our nice, mediocre Labor Day weekend.
Perhaps “mediocre” is too dark a word. I just wanted something average… Instead- INSTEAD, Officer, do you know what I was doing on Labor Day? I WAS LABORING! I WAS LABORING LABORIOUSLY!
There I was at midnight, Officer, in my ninth outfit in ten minutes, filling in holes in the wall with spackling paste.
I know- I KNOW! Surely not this girl, right?! But it’s true: after roughly 365 days off, I was going back to school and I needed a First Day Outfit. And let me tell you, Officer, picking out an outfit is no easy task for me. Ironically, I’m going to blame this one on my education.
If I hadn’t gone to a school with uniforms, maybe I would have learned how to dress myself.
But I didn’t.
So I can’t.
So I was on outfit number nine, asking my roommate what she thought about it, what kind of message she sensed that the outfit was sending, and how she felt about that, and what she was thinking about how she felt about it… BE GRATEFUL FOR YOUR UNIFORM, OFFICER.
And then the spackling paste- oh, the spackling paste. You see, if I’d been married at age 19, I’d be in the 2.5 bedroom house by now, with our 2.5 kids; white picket fence and all. But I was in an apartment, about to move, still very single (Sorry, Dad) and in order to get back the maximum amount of our security deposit, I was filling in the numerous holes in the wall and painting over them, between outfits.
If the fates had granted me the Age 19 Wedding and the white picket fence, then perhaps Jose the handyman would have filled in the holes from photos on our Walk Wall, when David, the baby and I moved out of our first house (You know “Walk Wall” like “A Walk Down Memory Lane,” the wall with all the photos of our family and our life together) but alas, Jose the Handyman looked more like “Grace the Handyman” (yuk yuk yuk) and I was filling in the holes and letting the paste dry, before using sand paper to get rid of residue, and then painting over it. Well, I use the term “sand paper” lightly. I was too cheap to go out and buy sand paper, so I was using a glorified loofah, that I got at the 99 cent store. If it can slough off dead skin cells then it can slough off dried spackling paste, am I right, Officer?!
Oh… The Googies. I should explain the bag of clothes that I was schlepping down the sidewalk in the Palisades…
To no one’s surprise, I get paid very little to be a teacher. So I have to supplement my income. Let’s be real: it was clothes schlepping or prostitution, officer. NO, I DIDN’T CHOOSE PROSTITUTION, WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP TRYING TO CALL FOR BACK-UP?!?!
So this particular afternoon entailed running errands for someone, which included the grocery, the dry cleaners to drop off clothes, and getting the car washed. I was counting on running into Ralph’s while the car was being washed, because the car wash was right next to the grocery store, but I was told that it would take about 45 minutes for the car to be finished, so I figured: why not run up to the dry cleaners?
It’s not my fault that the dry cleaners was actually about a half a mile away, when I estimated it to be about a block. If I could blame that one on my education, I would, but regardless: it isn’t my fault.
It’s not my fault that I looked like I did, in my monkey shoes and visor – I DON’T WANT WRINKLES, OFFICER!
And it is certainly not my fault that I was seen by Brody Jenner, whilst traipsing up the sidewalk, visor, monkey shoes and all.