In Fried Green Tomatoes, one of the best scenes ever filmed, Kathy Bates rams the car of some teen-age beauties who stole her parking space and then laughed at her. It is an age old battle cry for middle-aged women over the edge.
I didn’t go quite that far.
It all started because I just simply wanted to wash the car and vacuum its’ interior. I love my car, a hot Dodge Charger with a hemi that will blow away anyone attempting to cut me off at an entrance ramp. I had great intentions.
First, I stepped out of the car into the wash bay, sneezed, and immediately peed myself just a little bit. I was wearing a skirt.
I was relatively surprised by this turn of events. The sneezing/peeing thing is kind of new for me. I first noticed it when we got a trampoline. Two babies, one 9 pounds, the other 10 lbs., 11 oz., did something to my original organ design. Suffice it to say I will never be the same and maybe those chicks who schedule cesareans to keep their vaginas in tact are not that stupid after all.
Fortunately, on the other hand, it also damaged me psychologically to the point where a little bit of pee does not affect me in the least. As a young girl I was embarrassed to wipe my own ass; today I could do any stranger on the street with a handy wet wipe supply.
Second, I decided to see if I could just finish the job by stuffing a big wad of paper towels in the general area. I had always wondered if this was a technique that would work. How many times in life are you in your car, need a bathroom & can’t find one, but a roll of Bounty is tantalizingly nearby? I figured I would probably sneeze again in the near future, let’s just take care of business.
Unfortunately, even the plumper picker-upper does not have the same absorbency as Pampers. It was something akin to a homeschool science experiment gone awry.
Third, when I noticed the lack of containment issue, I quickly jumped out of my good shoes. Then my feet got wet due to the fact that I was standing in a dirty car wash. So when I put my feet back into the Birkenstocks . . . dammit. I now had to fill my shoes with paper towels.
Fourth, I washed the car. No problems. Except for the fact that I was wearing those previously mentioned favorite shoes, the Birkenstocks, which had some water, a little bit of soap, and specks of pee on them by the time it was all said and done.
It was time to vacuum the carpet. I pulled into an end bay and after 40 tries realized that the damned thing didn’t work. Now I was forced to get back into the car and move to another spot. I have major spatial issues, I do not like parking near others, but I had no alternative.
The space I moved to had the vacuum hose laying in the middle of the parking spot, since some jackass had not wound the hose up. I had to stop the car, with the intention of getting out and moving the vacuum.
The young girl parked next to me, with two passengers, pulled out as I was attempting to pull in. I waited for her to move to the left and leave. She chose to head to the right, which put me in her travel path.
The bitch then laid on her horn as I waited for her to drive on by. I wasn’t thinking clearly, didn’t realize she was waiting for me to make a move. And I obviously did not move fast enough for her pleasure.
I do not remember any conscious thought from that point forward, only a simple-minded fugue state. Remember, I’m wearing expensive but damp shoes that will never, ever be the same. And, now that I can clearly see things with a rational mind, I realize I was in the heavy-handed grip of late stage PMS.
I put my car in park, stepped out of said car, faced the offending honker and gave a double-barreled, two-fisted “Go fuck yourself!” to said honkee.
I had on an old blue & gray sweatshirt pulled from the trunk, inside-out, over a brown skirt. I am sure I looked practically homeless, definitely mad and completely deranged. I walked past the open passenger window of the car and screamed at the smoking occupant, “Go smoke another cigarette and hopefully you’ll die from cancer!”
I do realize the second comment came out of nowhere. I apologize in advance to my smoking friends. I worry that this is an indication I may one day be a roving, screaming schizophrenic like the ones that marched in front of my home in San Francisco years ago. If only those screams could be turned against myself: “Don’t pick up that fucking fourth donut, you fugly big-assed bitch!”
After removing the vacuum hose from the middle of my parking space — first, I tripped over it in my blithering state of funkadelic mania – I noticed that the SUV had disappeared into thin air.
I later realized that, if someone had called the police about the raging middle-aged woman at the car wash, my husband might have been too embarrassed to claim me. And I couldn’t blame him, not in the least little bit.
It’s really not that surprising that my bout of PMS lost the “pre” status within hours of this ordeal. I didn’t realize that until my husband pointed it out. It’s his favorite part of the story. He thinks he’s so freaking superior.
I’m thinking this may be the beginning of those oft mentioned “golden years.” I just never realized before that the colorful adjective relates to pee. Who knew?