Let me tell you a little story I like to call "How I Ended up Barefoot and Eating an Eighty-Four Cent (tax included) King Size Super Pop at a Sketchy QuickTrip on the Outskirts of Wichita at 9:30 on a Thursday Night."

What? It's a working title. So shut-up.

My day began at 4 am when rolled out of bed and drug my sorry ass an hours drive to the hospital for a glorious morning and afternoon highlighted by various encounters with the Holy Trinity of nursing care: shit, piss, and sputum.*

And let us not forget the MRSA. Always the MRSA.

Drove home in the afternoon with the remnants of the above mentioned encounters and the beginnings of a headache.

Then some boring things happened that in the movie version will be a 1-2 minute montage including one of those where it shows the girl getting ready for her big date. Only it will occur mostly in the dark because by now the headache is a migraine and the light is not a friend.

My big date is with ST Princess. And Joel. Joel is a mid-nineties issue Plymouth neon with a faulty speedometer, malfunctioning gas gauge, and a check engine light that burns as continuously as the vacancy sign at a by-the-hour motel. To cruise with Joel is to live dangerously, but STP sweetly offered to drive as this would be my second hour long one-way trip of the day.

And I'm a dangerously living kind of girl.

Our destination is the campus of a Catholic university where we will be presenting poster projects at the nursing equivalent of a fifth grade science fair. Six Excedrin and a giant Dr. Pepper later we arrive in dire need of the facilities and none of the buildings are marked. I ask the giant Jesus statue in the middle of campus for guidance, but nothing happens.

We park the car at a randomly selected building. I sarcastically thank Jesus for all of his help. Get out for the mad dash to the bathroom, shut the doors, look at one another and realize that STP's purse is sitting in the drivers seat. With the car keys. And the doors are locked.

And did I mention both cellphones are also locked in the car?

See what happens you run smack on Jesus?

STP runs to the shitter. I try and break into the car with a stick. I stop trying to pry the window down and look casual when anyone walks by. The windows that fall down sometimes on their own when you are speeding down the highway sure are set on staying up when you want them to come down.

STP returns. She found an off duty police officer who is working security at the basketball game. He tells us we should go to our meeting and find him when it is over as it will take a while for someone to arrive to help us get in the car.

Since we're on the wrong side of campus we hike back past Jesus in search of the right buidling. I tempt fate and flip him the bird.

When we get to where we need to be and find our professor she is concerned that our posters are locked in the car.

Seriously?

Now our school will never win the science fair. Oh no!

Call my dad, who is working nearby, from a borrowed cellphone. He agrees to meet us when he gets off work in half an hour or so with a wire coat hanger.

We leave the meeting early, we hike, we stand and wait. We aren't sure we gave very good directions. The heels I have on are killer. Take them off and on while we stand in the parking lot as the pain and cold weather dictate.

Help arrives. Our hopes are buoyed. We cheer.

My dad, in true old school car-thief style, produces a wire hanger and a putty knife. No go. Seems Joel is much harder to get into than his passengers.

We admit defeat and find Officer Floyd. We feel considerably relieved now a man with a gun is involved. He makes some calls and 20 minutes later a slightly shady cab arrives. A man gets out with a larger wire hanger and two putty knives. Joel yields. Cash changes hands.

We stop for gas, caffeine, and sugar.

Fittingly as we drive toward home the last frozen bit of my syrupy wannabe Bomb Pop falls from the stick and slides down my chest into my cleavage leaving a sticky trail of Red #40 in its wake.

*There is an argument to be made for the inclusion of puke in place of the sputum, but personally get up close and personal with the sputum on a much more regular basis.

Becoming a grown-up eats it.

And costs quite a lot of money that I don't have.

Bleh.

A bus bit the dust so am stuck at work. And know you are jealous that I get to man the radio so it's okay to go ahead and admit it.

Am busy putting together a Fourth of July picnic menu. What's that you say? It's February?

My current favorite coping mechanism seems to be focusing in on trivial decisions that are easily and quickly settled rather than obsessing about the logistics of the big things coming up. (Please see yesterday's post for further evidence.)

Things like changing states of residence, becoming a licensed nurse, seeking gainful employment.

Aaaack.

But, back to the picnic.

My love has been commissioned to fry up a mess of chicken. Like his grandmama used to make.

And I just found a recipe for a cucumber salad and one for cole slaw* at Smitten Kitchen. Bonus that the coleslaw recipe is from Ina Garten who I have an minor crush on if only for her coconut cake** and massive tulip garden.

Berry dessert? Yes? No?

Either way if you're planning your days well in advance like I am you are welcome to pencil*** in a picnic in Austin for the Fourth of July.

It'll be hot.

Bring your beau.

Public displays of affection will be encouraged.


*I understand that some people (Boyfriend) may not need recipes for lowly things like cole slaw, but other people (me) do.
**I made a smaller version of this cake last Fourth of July with less vanilla and lots more almond extract and it was almondy, moist, coconut heaven.
***Really do use pencil because yours truly sure better have a job by then so the day may need to be adjusted slightly before or after the actual Fourth.

Important

Got some cash for my birthday.

Want to buy a tote bag for when have a real job and crap to haul back and forth to it.

This or this?

What say you?