stereotypical single woman

I haven’t written much this week because it’s just been a very bad allergy week. The kind where it feels like your head is imploding. The kind where you can concentrate on little else other than the fact that your sinus cavities are throbbing in time with the music on the radio. The kind that makes you move very slowly because you swear that when you move too quickly you can feel your brain bang against the side of your skull, and damn, it hurts like a sonofabitch. It’s a state that’s not terribly conducive to witty, or even coherent, thought. And yes, I am taking allergy pills, but while they take away the pain they still leave me in this sort of mental fog. And when I’m in this fog I’m incredibly drowsy and absent-minded. Which makes me do very stupid things, like lock my keys in the car. Or forget to lock the house up at night. Or forget to turn the iron off. The kind of stuff that makes the paranoid freak in me about shit it’s pants.

So in order to cope I have little tricks to keep myself awake and alert. This afternoon I had hit a wall around 3:30, I simply wanted nothing more than to go home and crawl into bed. But unfortunately the bills have to be paid so I promised myself that if I could just make it through the day I could get an ice cream cone before cleaning the bank. Which made the two-year old in me very very happy and obedient, because she loves ice cream. And then angry, because the two-year old really really hates having to clean the bank. She’s a moody little bitch. But luckily she also has a very short attention span.

By the time the clock said 5:30 (approximately 10 hours later) and I’m leaving work the only thing going through my mind is the fact that I really don’t want to go clean the bank. I’m tired. It’s too hot. My brain is bruised and sore from being banged against my skull all day. I had completely forgotten about the ice cream. But then as I’m driving up Michigan St. the two year old in me starts screaming “ICE CREAM! YOU PROMISED ME ICE CREAM! I WANT ICE CREAM!!!!!!!” as soon as the golden arches come into view. I’ll spare you the diatribe, but let’s just say that under normal circumstances I wouldn’t have gone near the place. But the inner two-year old is a persistent little bitch, and this was the quickest way to shut her up, so I pull into the drive thru.

I place my order for a single vanilla cone and sit there for what feels like a half an hour. There was an older woman, I’m thinking late 40’s/ early 50’s, in a Volvo convertible in front of me. Short blonde hair, suit, and sunglasses = very chic (for GR). Not someone you’d expect to see picking up dinner at the McDonald’s drive thru. I’m much more entertained by the man in the pickup behind me, singing along with the radio, wife beater, farmer’s tan, and a gun rack. Completely oblivious to the outside world, stereotypical redneck, not someone you’d want to run into in a dark alley - but the music he was listening to? Patsy Cline, I shit you not. He was belting out “Crazy.” Which he may very well have been. But since he didn’t sing that badly, and I too like Patsy, I passed the time looking in my rearview mirror watching the very moving duet.

A few minutes later I pull up to the window to hand over my $1.06 when the cashier leans out and says “Don’t worry. The woman in front of you paid for your ice cream cone. I don’t know why, but here’s your receipt.” I’m shocked and confused so I look up and she’s looking at me, trying to make eye contact, winks, and waves until it’s time for her to pull up to the next window for her food. I have absolutely no idea who she is. But I smile, mouth thank you, and wait until eventually she drives off. Leaving me to wonder if she was just doing her good deed for the day or if she was trying to pick me up. I wasn’t looking particularly attractive (one of the upsides to having a broken heart, it takes far less time to get ready in the morning since there’s no one to try to look good for), so it leads me to believe that maybe she just wanted to buy the poor single girl driving a 6yr old Saturn an ice cream cone. At least I hope so, because even though some of my very dear friends are lesbians, when it comes right down to it, if I’m going to go home with someone not only do they need to have bought me more than just an ice cream cone, but they need to be tall, dark, and geeky - and have a penis.

Speaking of male genitalia, and please don’t ask how I found this (but it would be on the very same blog that I found this), men, do you honestly know all the facts? (and how many of you have performed the fun little scrotal science project? do any of you have a “crotch buddy?” would “peachy-keen” really be the best safety word?)