Sunday, April 22, 2007

pitchforks, law school and pesto eggs benedict ...

there are two schools of thought on my ability to parallel park. a handful of friends think i'm a worthless waste of a steering wheel and say things like: "hey! who abandoned a honda civic in the middle of the road?" or "it's pretty bad when you can't tell which side of the street you were trying to park on."

hilarity ensues.

yet, somehow i have fooled chuck into thinking i am the zen master of all things parallel parking. that i can fit my wheels into the back pocket of a pair of acid washed jeans. i give him a play-by-play.

"okay," i'll say. "i'm parallel to the car in front me. now i'm going to twist the wheel one and a half clicks to the right. okay. okay. now i'm going to put it in reverese until my back wheel is at a precise angle with the front wheel of the car in front of me. okay. okay. twisting the wheel back. easy. easy. reverse. done and done."

once, i really felt in the zone, and i nearly called him from in front of his house so he could watch greatness unfold. [instead i just told him about it as soon as i got inside].

i am a cocky piece of shit.

last night my entire street was abandoned, save for one car in front of my house. i'm listening to "i could hold you forever" all caught up in blah blah blahler land, thinking of the things i'll later eat and drink. then i hear scraping and the sound of metal being mangled and tortured. i had managed to nail that one car on the block with my front bumper. all of my parking hubris left my body via ear valve, leaving my soul deflated.

i looked at the damage. some surface stuff. paint. no dent. i leave a note.

"hi! i accidentally hit your bumper with my car! please call me! i am a rare fourth street resident with car insurance! love, christa!"

chuck comes over to take photos, rubs at the bumper and decides we've merely traded paint.


bubbles had a party last nite. a few friends in her living room and an upstairs neighbor who seems to have some sort of illegal narcotic lodged between his thought process and tongue movement.

"why are you wearing a cast?" i ask him.
"long story," he says. "it involves a princess. i was at caribou and i couldn't come up with a decent line. next thing i know i'm stuck in minnapolis, caught beneath a pillar and i can see the sun."
bubbles, chuck and i give him confused looks.
"can someone come upstairs and roll a joint for me?"
we can't. we go into bubble's apartment.


i start with a box of wine. jcrew shows up. she is livid about 12 things in particular and is in hysterics. now, nearly a day later, her whinny is still vibrating in my head. if you play jcrew's voice backward, you will hear satanic messages.

"i want a cheeseburger," she says.
"me too," i say.
"i mean, i seriously need a cheeseburger," she says.
"i know," i say.
"i need a double cheeseburger from mcdonalds," she says.
"i could go for a cheeseburger," i say.

i segue into a milky liquore that tastes like slimfast. then realize that the box o'wine, billed as four bottles-worth, has been depleted by two knuckleheads on the couch who are drinking it by the pint. i now tap raspberry vodka mixed with seven up. it tastes like gatorade, but has the exact opposite effect.


i wake with the knowledge that, while quite soaked last nite, i was on the more sober end of the social spectrum. but it still hurts worse than being hung over on a beach on the fourth of july.


jcrew and i meet for brunch at pizza luce. she is still in scream-mode and is quite rankled when she can't find a parking spot. she is screaming at me via cell phone.

"JUST ORDER ME SOMETHING!" she screeches.
"waffles?" i suggest.
"NOOOOOO!" she yelps.
"breakfast burrito?" i ask.
"pesto eggs benedict?" i ask.

she screams into the phone and hangs up on me.

my hangover hits when she slouches into the booth. coicidence? i doubt it.

me: "i would actually feel better right now if i was hanging from those rafters from my neck."
jcrew: i would feel better with a pitchfork in my skull.
me: i would feel better if my eyeball was on fire.
jcrew: i would feel better if my arm was ripped off my body.
me: i would feel better if my arm was ripped off my body and i was beating myself in the face with it.


later, i plot with jcrew how i am going to spend the next part of my day.

me: this thing is going to come out of my body as a nine year old that can, like, do cartwheels and knows spanish.
jcrew: it's going to come out with its own boating liscense.
me: its going to come out having already been to three prince concerts.
jcrew: its going to have a degree from harvard.
me: it's going to be engaged to its high school sweetheart.
jcrew: it is going to have travelled to madrid.
me: it ran with the bulls.


"oh look," jcrew coos. she has calmed down. finally. "our waitress even divided up that order of cheese bread on our bills!"
sure enough, she did.
"how cute!" jcrew says. "i'm going to give her an extra big tip."

i look at my friend. minutes earlier her head was spinning, green liquid was squirting out of her orifaces and she was fluent in a growly latin. now she's miss congeniality. what, the ...?


chuck said...

I just remembered taking pulls off a bottle of Jim Beam and raving about how good it was. Jesus Christ on a bike.

some guy said...

law school?

christina said...

whatevs, some guy. literary liscense blah blah blah.