Dirty Banana Pants

Last Wednesday, I called my friend Ramona and left a message on her voicemail:

Me: Hey Ramona!  In exactly one month you will be Mrs. Jones!  Ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!

And I hung up.  She left me a voicemail a few hours later:

Ramona: Hey Christy.  Funny message.  By the way, I think the wedding is off.  Some crazy shit went down over the weekend and I don’t think I can go through with it.

I was in disbelief when I heard the message because I thought since I waited one month prior, that this wedding may actually take place.  The curse!

I called her that evening and listened to her he-said-she-said story.  After I hung up I just thought that it must be true.  I don’t want anyone to ever ask me to be in their wedding again…not that I enjoy it, but it’s safer that way.

Thursday, I had to attend a luncheon at a local unversity where Dingleberry works.  She was so excited that I would be there and came to see me after it was done.  I gave her a ride back to her office when she spotted a co-worker.

Dingleberry: Hey, there’s Ann.  She has been dying to meet you.  Will you please talk to her?  She wants to meet you because I told her you ride a motorcycle.

Me: Sure (like, what am I?  A rockstar or something?)

Dingleberry rolls down the window and summons her co-worker over.  I meet her, shake her hand, talk a bit about motorcycles and then the conversation was over.

Friday morning on the way to work my phone rings, it’s Dingleberry.

Dingleberry: Guess what happened!

Me: What?

Dingleberry: Remember Ann?  The woman I introduced you to yesterday?

Me: Yes.

Dingleberry: They fired her!

Me: Huh?!?!

Let’s tally this up, shall we?  My grandmother died…although, I didn’t talk to her, nor see her…so I can’t be blamed for that…unless it was because I didn’t talk to her or see her…  Ramona called the wedding off….and some random person I met was fired a few hours after I met her.

Later in the day on Friday, Ramona called me.  The wedding is back on.  After she told me, I let her know about the whole curse thing.  I had her laughing so hard she was crying.

A few hours after that, Dingleberry called me:

Dingleberry: Guess what happened today!

Me: What happened? (I’m holding my breath…really, at this point, I am).

Dingleberry: They promoted me!

Me: Wow!  That’s great.

Dingleberry: They gave me Ann’s job!

Yesterday I walked into the grocery store and found a $20 bill on the floor.  My items totaled $28…not too shabby.  I have resolved to not talking to anyone for 3 weeks.  If I can make it to August, I’m golden.

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I have continued to visit the laser torture chamber.  At this point, I’ve screwed up the artist’s work, so now I have no alternative but to continue to burn it off of my arm.  Word to your Mother. 

The last session I was going to have the inside of my arm lasered and had been trying to use some kind of jedi mind trick to keep from realizing what I was going to endure.  The session before where they fried the outside of my arm, was so painful, that I saw stars and then I almost cried….almost.  This time, my lovely Mother, mentioned a wonderful cream called EMLA….EMLA…..EMLA…..  If I ever, EVER meet the blessed person who came up with this little ointment, I will totally mow their yard, fold their laundry and pick mites out of their hair.  I think if you went swimming in a vat of EMLA, you could walk through a burning building.  You would be charred to a crisp and not feel a thing.

I think the little fairies were watching over me because not only was my arm numb, the woman performing the procedure was an ex-boyfriend’s wife.  Normally, that would be a bad thing.  However, the one ex-boyfriend I managed to remain on friendly terms with married a very sweet woman…whew!  Although, I am sure, deep down, she enjoyed burning me…whatever…I don’t care…because she only charged me for 1/2…I will let her burn me anytime for 50% off.

The session was fairly painless but my arm didn’t appear so.  Because the skin on the inside of the arm is thinner, the bruising was much worse.  I sported a beautiful purplish-yellow bruise from the top of my arm down to the middle of my bicep.  I don’t wear short sleeves at work but at the gym and on the weekends I noticed several people staring at my arm and when I noticed, they would quickly look away.  Me thinks they fear I am a battered woman.  Previously, when I had the bandage on my arm and no visible bruise, everyone asked me what was wrong with my arm.  Funny, because with the bruise, they acted as if they were to say anything, Stew would pound them.

The Thursday before the 4th of July weekend, I spent a few minutes laughing about it with a co-worker.  Ha ha ha…how funny…now all I need is a black eye.  Ha ha ha ha….

Well, my dears, my wish was granted.  While tossing a basketball around on Friday, some idiot tried blocking the pass….still not sure why….and skimmed the ball just enough to cause it to veer off course and smack me in the face.  The next morning while brushing my teeth I noticed my shiner.  Laughing, I told Stew about it.  He immediately begged me to cover it with makeup….”please….people are really going to think I am beating you.”  So, I didn’t.  I wore a tank top, bandage on my arm with exposed bruising, and my black eye.

It’s all part of my master plan to frame him for throwing me off a cliff.

Saturday we opted to take the kids to a drive-in movie.  One of Stew’s clients owns the theater and they were celebrating their 40th anniversary.  The catch?  It’s located on the South side.  If you want to piss off someone in Oklahoma City, call them a Southsider.  Unless they live on the South side, then I would suggest you run…but do so in zig zags, it’s harder for them to shoot you that way.

We really didn’t know what to expect, but we had told the children about it and they were very excited.  On the way there we stopped for a bite to eat before the movie.  The restaurant, also, on the South side.  Me, my bruises and my bandage…we all fit in.  Afterwards, we pulled into the theater and were behind a late model sedan of some sort filled with large people who looked as if they didn’t bath.  In fact, one fine gentleman in the backseat looked as if he had enough oil in his hair to power a small generator.

Stew carefully drove around the lot and found a couple of well-groomed people to pull up next to.  It was immediately realized by each party, that we were few and far between.  Our neighbors looked relieved that we parked next to them.  The feeling was mutual.  Surprisingly, the bathrooms were clean, not that I would want to linger around there for too long, but it was nice.  The best part was when the sun went down and we could no longer see everyone.

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