About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
I almost went next door and bought a loaf of bread. But no nuts. Please no more nuts
I’m not angry anymore, even though yesterday morning upon waking Chuck grilled me with “What time is it do you really not need anyone why haven’t we had sex on a picnic table?”
But nope, I’m not angry. Instead, I am hung over. Miserably. And it’s all because the fondue restaurant I went to last night served bread crumbs with its $40 fondue samplers instead of bread chunks or meat, like the menu promised. There was more food floating in the damn sangria. Which is why I chose that as my meal.
I ended up spending the night at my friend’s house and making the Drive of Shame back to Mulletville this morning.
I may have been driving a little too fast, but that was because I thought I might throw up and because I looked so horrendous I didn’t want people to look in my window and see me as they were driving by. That would have caused screaming and violent swerving.
Mr. Policeman didn’t care about any of that. He was having a bad morning, too, and could have given two shits about the reasons why I went through a light that was clearly no longer yellow. But there’s always that hope that if you say the right thing the clouds will part and Mr. Policeman will shake his head and laugh and tell you you can hit the road without that $300 ticket he was going to give you.
So I reached into my grab bag of “perfectly acceptable reasons why I shouldn’t get a ticket” and came up with this: “Mr. Policeman, I passed the point of no return.”
I have been waiting to use the perfectly reasonable “point of no return” for 17 years. Ever since my high school Driver’s Ed/gym teacher, Mr. Narache, shared the gem with me during a Driver’s Ed driving lesson. (Side note about Mr. Narache: His pants were so tight that when he sat down, one of his testicles was forced to the other side, thus forming the dreaded and unsightly uniball. For this reason, he was known as Mr. Na-crotch-y. Understandably, this made driving lessons even more awkward and uncomfortable than usual. I mean, driving around with your gym teacher is bad enough without the looming uninut flashing in your peripheral vision like a neon sign. And sometimes it was so close to the shifter! What if my shaky hand accidentally missed the knob and whacked his bulbous flesh balloon? The horror!)
According to The Crotch, if you were approaching a stop light, you were supposed to pick an object near the light and dub it your point of no return. Once you hit that spot, you were free and clear to blow through the light—even if it turned red—because slamming on your brakes would mean that everyone in the car lurched forward, which would cause the uniball to balloon up even more from the pressure.
And no one wants that.
Sadly, the point of no return logic was lost on Mr. Policeman. He wasn’t familiar with the term and he didn’t want to be enlightened. The good news is that he didn’t give me a ticket. I think when he saw the apple chunk stuck between my teeth, my raccoon eyes and Mulletville address he thought, “Get this rednecker the hell back to her dirt mound.”
And here I am. Going to bed. At 7:30 p.m.
For more Mrs. Mullet uniball stories click here. If you've had enough uniball stories you can relax, I only know one man and one goat that suffer from the condition. So I'm done.