Today I dropped off the truck at the body shop and picked up my Dodge ClownCar. It’s cute and blue, but unremarkable except for the satellite radio. I’ll admit, I have no idea what’s going on in popular music. I don’t listen to the radio and until a few months ago, I didn’t even realize they still made music videos. Every couple of years, I go on a new music kick, listen to a bunch of new stuff, pick out a couple of bands I like and add them to the mix, but that’s about it.  I’m not an audiophile.

Maybe the radio will turn me on to some new people. If not, I’m happy to listen to the Sirius Lithium channel because it plays all of my favorite bands. I’m happily stuck in the 90’s with my grunge bands.

I don’t know how long I’ll drive the ClownCar but at least it gets good mileage and it’s zippy to drive on the curves. I love driving out here in the winding country roads.

I did a nice deep clean on the house today and tried to clean up the best I could, stashing things under the porch and out of the way. Afterwards, I went to a restaurant to hear some music with my mom and her friends.

My steak sandwich was superb, no gristle and very tender but it does not compare to the apple tart which was flat as a pancake and bedded on a wafer-thin, flaky phyllo crust, served with vanilla ice cream and drizzled in caramel syrup. Oh my god. I don’t order desserts normally but when I do, I enjoy the hell out of them.

Tomorrow is a river day with the girls, swimming, tanning and bullshitting. A perfect start to the holiday weekend! The rest of the apricot ice cream will be consumed tomorrow so I can work on the next batch – yes, White Russian! Stay tuned.

I’m an excellent driver. I have a spotless driving record. I have never had an at fault accident. As part of my new reinvented life, I’m even more careful now than ever before. I don’t speed. I don’t talk on my phone while driving (it’s against the law here). I come to a full and complete stop at every stop sign, trying to break the bad habits I got into while living in a lawless country where driving was 200% more fun. I don’t even pass people on the right in ditches on residential streets anymore.

This is why it was particularly upsetting to drive around an S-curve to find a red Honda all the way in my lane coming in the opposite direction. The driver, a woman in her mid 20’s, was yapping on her cell phone and as I slammed on my brakes, she drove into the ditch on my side of the road and I smashed into her car head on.

She drove the front passenger side of her car into the front passenger side of MY truck. She totally fucked up my “surrender the booty” vanity plate. Fortunately for her and her face, she did not render my truck un-driveable. And what’s more amusing is that she tried to pay me off – while at the same time, telling me she had no money! I told her she was going to lose her license and she probably will and then she starts getting all upset and saying shit like, “everyone makes mistakes! Why are you doing this to me??” and I’m looking at the crowd who has gathered around us (no witnesses sadly, but the physical evidence supports me) and rolling my eyes – yeah YOU drive on the wrong side of the road, talking illegally on your cell phone (not hands-free, I might add) and I’m doing this to YOU. Uh huh.

Livid doesn’t being to cover it. But I’ll get some nice body work done to my truck and a rental car for a week or two… I might even get a little chiropractic out of it, so I guess it’s not all bad. So since my cousin was in a car accident, my niece and B-I-L were hit by a car and now I’ve had my own little accident, I guess you guys are safe since these things come in three’s but drive safely anyway!

At several time in my life, men have moved in with me. Never once has it been about love, always about something else. Maybe it’s because their escapee felon roommate hacked up a neighbor with a machete and they got evicted (true story) or maybe because the neighbors complained about the skateboard ramp that went all day and night and they got evicted, or maybe it’s because they were broke and jobless and wanted to try their luck in a new city. For whatever reason, I attract these people and lack the decision making skills to turn them away.

When the last one was living with me, I decided to buy some new furniture. Since the furniture store was having a great deal on purchasing with credit (2 years w/o interest or something insane), we went and picked out some things and it was decided that he would apply for the credit under his name. I had some dings from late payments on my mortgage from when I was laid off, etc..

So we bought some beautiful furniture. By far my favorite was the moss green microfiber couch with chaise, but we picked out a very awesome sleigh bed with a padded, cream colored suede headboard inset. Well, in that house, which was built in 1908, the rooms were very small and because I am not the sharpest tool in the shed, i didn’t realize that sleigh meant that it would stick out from the wall to accommodate the curve of the headboard. So my cool new bed ended up being ridiculously oversized in my tiny bedroom.

We broke up and part of the agreement since I covered all of the bills and mortgage because he was broke and had gotten fired from the job that I laid my reputation on the line to get him, was that he would pay off the furniture to repay the debt he had accrued. It was the only way I could recoup the thousands of dollars I’d spent on his broke ass. But sadly when I sold the house and moved out of the country, I could’t bring everything and so I sold the sofa and kept the bed frame because you can break it down and it’s pretty easy to move, etc…

And so I have dragged this stupid bed from the US to Mexico, through three moves in Mexico and now back to the US so when I moved into a fully furnished house, I had to come to the conclusion that it was time to let the bed go. The room I have is once again small plus there was already a bed there. I had accepted this until I got to the storage unit yesterday and saw my bed again – a bed that is 1000x nicer than what I was sleeping on. I might be cheap but I do not skimp on mattresses and bedding – because my all time favorite thing to do is sleep and I like to do it in style and comfort.

And so since it’s the only thing I got out of that relationship and the only really nice piece of furniture I have left, I had to shove it into my bedroom which meant only one thing, dragging the old bed outside onto the deck so that I can have a real tanning bed all summer just like a fancy resort except that because I don’t live on a pristine beach and have lots of Mexican employees in white uniforms, it makes me kind of white trash instead of chi-chi rich. I don’t care. I like to tan in comfort too (third favorite thing to do after eating).

What’s sad is that the bed is damaged, just like every single thing I brought back with me. Things that were too nice to sell and too expensive to replace, not a single one escaped unscathed. Every piece of furniture is cracked, dinged, dented, scratched or just plain broken. It breaks my heart every single time I look at them.

Sigh.

I’m a hoarder. Not one of those save every scrap of newspaper and every cereal box until I die crushed by an avalanche of National Geographic magazines from the 80’s, but I do alright.

I’m moving my things from the storage unit today and into the compound. I think the house is about 800 square feet, which isn’t bad for one person, but it’s also completely full. It was full when I got here and now that the owner is off to her other home, I can’t very well start taking her crap to Goodwill. I’ve somehow got to fit what I brought from my two-bedroom, probably 1100 square foot house and shove into this, already packed to the rafters, fully furnished cabin in the woods.

I’ve been rearranging the furniture that exists now because I brought in just a few of the smaller pieces I have and already I feel closed in on. The drawers on the tiny dresser that lives here now (and will be replaced with my massive one) are bursting and the closet is full. So yesterday I began to really make the hard choices like deciding which of my 9 pairs of black yoga pants had to go. This leads to the shame spiral of my closet.

I’m much better now (although perhaps if I had the space, I wouldn’t be) as in my old house, I turned a bedroom into a walk-in closet. It was my happy place. I had a nice make-up table, a dresser and two walls lined with racks and stuff with clothing. I like buying clothes. I like wearing clothes. I like having options. What I don’t like is when I have to go through it all and self-assess what kind of person needs 22 pairs of jeans. I don’t have that many now, I have about five pairs which is reasonable. Twenty-two pairs is not reasonable. Nine pairs of yoga pants, or even six pairs of black yoga pants when you don’t actually DO yoga is not reasonable either. Especially not when combined with the three pairs of ice blue trackpants, one pair of gray yoga pants and one pair of red track pants. I don’t run – on a track or anywhere unless someone is chasing me with a knife. Yesterday I whittled it down to my three favorite pairs of yoga pants and 3 additional pairs of track pants. That is reasonable, especially since I work from home and live in comfy track pants.

I sleep in my underwear and a tank top. Always have, probably always will, yet I have 11 nightgowns and three pairs of pajamas (and one nightshirt that I think I’ve worn once despite it being from American Apparel). I don’t even wear the pajama tops because they are too constricting when I sleep (I’m a toss and turner) so basically, they are just three more sets of comfy pants with tops I sometimes wear when I sleep at relative’s houses when I’m up and around.

Do not get me started on bras. Does anyone else have to merchandise their bra drawer? Yeah, I didn’t think so. I wear exactly four of them, but I have what? 15? 20? When I start contemplating how many clothes I have and how little I wear most of them, I am disgusted with myself. Absolutely disgusted. I filled an entire waist high box with clothing yesterday and that was just the one cabinet of clothes I went through. Appalling.

1) Block your number from *69

2) Bust out the ex-boyfriend phone list

3) Have this conversation:

You: Happy Father’s day!

Ex: Uh, I think you have the wrong number… I don’t have any kids.

<pause>

You: That you know about!

4) Hang up

5) Resume drinking

Happy Father’s Day!