file:///C:/Users/Tasha.Huebner/Desktop/google96fe44e4b6d98b3e.html

Thursday, October 13, 2016

On the road again


So last week I went back to Burns, aka my current most favorite place on earth OKAY FINE IT’S ANOTHER MECCA OKAY??? Geez.


Anyway. I realized that I had made some serious tactical errors on my previous trip. Namely, I did not come home with a hot cowboy in tow. What the hell, right? My mistake was in not doing the whole “damsel in distress” thing – which, by the way, I discovered on RAGBRAI that guys like a LOT. Like, a lot. To wit: there I was on day whatever in Iowa, puttering up a hill that happened to be alongside yet another craft beer stop. I slowed, then kept going up the hill, when (of course) my chain got stuck and my bike came to a complete standstill. In front of many people. Whereupon my bike (and I) proceeded to thunk right over to the ground, because that’s what happens when your bike stops and you’re clipped in and can’t put a foot down. Thud.

This would have been embarrassing and disastrous, BUT. Suddenly I was surrounded by hot cycling guys. Like, truly hot, all asking if I was okay, helping me up, etc. Then discussing with me the Most Important Question: WAS THE BIKE OKAY? It was. One guy wanted to help me get the chain back on, but fool that I am, I told him I could do it myself. Damn. I really need to work on the whole helpless thing. THEN, the high point to this whole thing: let’s recall that I fell over on a hill. And we all know it’s hard to get going back uphill while trying to clip in, especially when there isn’t enough space to do a Shriner’s Circle. So what happened? Hot Guy #5 decided to give me a push up the hill, put his hand on my lower back, kept it there way longer than technically necessary, and helped me up the damn hill.

I learned something important that day.

Well no, apparently I didn’t, because I neglected to put this important lesson into action during my first trip to Burns, dammit. Nope, I just soldiered along in the 100+ degree heat, waving on the pickups that slowed down to see what this damn fool idiot (me) was doing riding in the middle of the desert with actual towns many many miles away. Most Excellent Friend Jules suggested that I could have dropped from heat exhaustion, and then would have been rescued by hot emergency guys – except I threw a monkey wrench into that plan when I pointed out that there was no cell phone reception where I was biking. And very few vehicles going by.

Jules: Damn them and their remoteness! No cars, no phone service, how are you supposed to fake a crash???

Indeed.

Another thing I learned during my last trip to Burns: there are some really angry cows out here. There I was, biking along, when I came across Rage Cow, glaring at me from behind his fence. I get closer and closer and he’s still glaring. I stop, he continues to glare. Me, him, me, him. If looks could kill, as they say.

I then notice that he’s somehow telepathically gotten his homies to join him in staring at me balefully. All I can think is, thank god there’s a fence between me and the Rage Cow Posse, because otherwise that would be one hell of a sprint for me. See, you dumbass Bundy potatriots, this is why we need fences: because cattle are raging psychopaths who would just as soon shiv us as look at us.

This continues to be a theme, me and the Rage Cows, though on occasion I come across a younger cow who is scared shitless of me, and as I bike closer, will kick up his heels and bellow and run off.

Last time I also made it to the Malheur refuge, after biking into the middle of nowhere in ridiculously high temperatures with no water in sight. #becauseofcourse. And naturally, after biking my little heart out in this dusty oasis, I discover that the refuge is at the TOP OF A STEEP HILL. What the hell? I ask myself, how did the FBI manage this kind of exertion on a daily basis, where they......…oh, forget it. Let’s just acknowledge right now that the FBI motto is probably not anything like mine, aka Doing the Stupid Things, so You Don’t Have To.
 
Point being, I decided to head back to Burns because bike riding, and coincidentally my role at Big Corporation just ended so I’m untethered at the moment. As an aside, I find it rather ironic that a company that puts a stake in the ground regarding its commitment to the “liquid workforce” will then enforce a rule that everyone needs to live 60 miles from the closest office – even though no one ever goes into an actual office. Way to preach. And so it is that they hire a perm person to replace me, as a contractor, even though I ran their most successful social media campaigns ever, bar none. Hmm. I actually would have recommended they keep me on as a proofreader or editor, so that they don’t make the mistake again of putting together a video for a new launch – and spelling the name of Super Important Senior Guy wrong. Uhh, yeah, if I hadn’t caught that, let’s just say it would not have been pretty.


But I digress. Burns, aka Mecca, it is. Onward.

Friday, August 19, 2016

An ode to Burns



Or as I call it, Mecca. Oh sure, I know what you’re all saying right now, the hoi polloi chiming in as they will. “But Miss Tasha, there’s supposed to be only ONE Mecca – that’s kind of the point – but here you are with all these Meccas: Cedarburg, Superdawg, Farm & Fleet, The Manor, and now Burns.”

To which I say, yes yes yes, I hear you, and I acknowledge that you’ve said something.

So, moving on. I set out knowing full well that I may meet the icy cold Specter of Death on today’s ride, given that there’s apparently one water tower in all of eastern Oregon, and it’s about 591 miles from Burns. So be it. These are the kinds of sacrifices I bravely make, dear friends, if only to serve as a lesson to others. The day starts off on a good note though, as I’m trying to get onto the main road (“Main St.”) so that I can head north on my route.

I’m coming off a side street, so I wait for a pickup truck to pass. The driver stops. He looks at me. I look at him. He looks at me. I look at him. Stalemate. I wave him on through. He looks at me, then waves me on through. We could be here all day at this point. Stubborn though I am, I decide to graciously let him have the win, and forge on.

Soon enough, I find my road – 395, aka “Tarpman” Highway. Yes, this is the road where that dumbass Lavoy Finicum got himself shot and killed during the criminal takeover of Malheur Refuge. If you read between the lines, you can probably tell that I don’t give a shit that he met his demise; if you’re (like him) yelling at law enforcement things like “shoot me! Go ahead and shoot me now, you’ll never bring me in!” and then reach for a gun, well, you’ve pretty much decided your own fate right there. So it’s a bit of Snacktivist history that I feel compelled to check out.

Plus there’s wind from the north, so coming back I should have a tailwind. Win-win!

As I’m biking along, I notice a chill in the air, which makes me think I should have worn long sleeves. Clearly it’s going to be a cool day! I then notice a strange sign: “Scenic Devine Canyon.” Canyon? No one told me there would be canyons. But really, how hard can it be – that’s a bit of up and down, right?

5 miles in

Okay, so, I might have erred there, as “canyon” in this context means you’re going just uphill for miles and miles. Well, it can’t last TOO long – it’s not like this is a mountain pass in the Alps, haha – and hey, at least it’s scenic. I seem to be in Malheur Forest territory, so it’s lovely. Trees, and as our erstwhile pal Mitt Romney would say, they’re the right height! Whee, I love eastern Oregon!

10 miles in

Still climbing.  How the hell did those FBI agents handle this? Oh right, they were in cars. Fucking MENSA members slackers.

20 miles in

Still. Climbing. Really? REALLY?

63 miles in

I think perhaps I was once not on a bike that kept climbing and climbing into the clouds, maybe. It’s all fuzzy now. That could be a lie, and I might have always been on this bike, always. Pulling over to regain my slight hold on sanity, as I ponder all the ways in which I’m an idiot, I notice a pickup truck slowing down and the driver looking over to see if I’m okay. I give him the jauntiest of waves, to indicate that I’m fine, just being the usual dumbass riding my bike in the desert on a blazing hot day. As I do.

249 miles in

Because yes, did I mention yet that it’s hot as hell, and I’m running low on water? Burns seems to fall into the typical Oregon bullshit, where it’s chilly enough in the morning that you pull on a hoodie, and 3 hours later when you go back outside, you look like a moron because it’s 98 degrees. How the hell did the FBI agents stand this? Oh yeah, they were here in winter. Fucking totally hot smarter-than-me-guys pansy-asses.

1,062 miles in

There’s a sign up ahead. Let’s see. Oh, of course, it’s telling me the altitude of the summit. This was a damn mountain after all. Argh, foiled again! I had wanted to go to the TroutLand camping ground, or whatever it’s called, but this calls to mind my fruitless gas station quest, and I decide to turn around while I can. It’ll be a straight shot back; I’ll zip on through, since now I’m really low on water.

Heading back

Hey, what’s this? “Mountain Forest Road #31.” This sounds incoherent and yet intriguing. And best of all, it’s a beautifully paved road! Sure, I have to try to not break an ankle as I cross a cattle panel, but still, how can I not check this out?

I’m zipping along on this gorgeous road, shaded by forest, smooth as butter, and no cars. Nada. Zilch. It’s not hilly, a few gentle up and downs, and seems to go on for miles and miles. It feels like being the only person on all the rides at Disneyworld.

I am suspicious.

It’s clear this is some kind of government conspiracy plot masterminded by….uhh….by the AGENDA 21 cabal, who are….uhh…….oh fuck it, I don’t have the sort of idiocy that one needs to come up with some half-assed ridiculous theory on why there are so many gorgeous smooth roads around here. Maybe Trevor the Hot Road Paving Cowboy takes an inordinate amount of pride in his work. Yeah, let’s go with that. I also soon realize – and not for the first time – what a dumbass I am, because I was running out of water a while ago, and the Water Fairy hasn’t suddenly shown up to put a clear mineral spring in my path. I am disappointed, but we soldier on, parched.

The road back is indeed ALL DOWNHILL THANK YOU SWEET JESUS. I have just one thought as I’m cruising back, and that is this: I will be royally pissed off if some asshat in their car plows into me, because I have earned every damn inch of this downhill. Luckily I remain unscathed, so no one has to feel my wrath.

But speaking of cars: while there haven’t been many, there have been some, mostly pickup trucks, large trucks, and campers. Without exception, every truck has given me a wide berth on the road, basically getting into the opposite lane. The three vehicles that didn’t give me any room? Two cars and some douchebag in a gold-colored SUV, who flies past me leaving around 3 inches of space. Lest we stereotype about drivers in trucks or pickups. Oh, and those pickups? I lose track as to how many of them are TOTING HUGE TUBS OF GAS. I kid you not. Talk about conspiracies.

I finally get back to town, having sucked down my last bit of water, and find myself wondering why Burns isn’t the cycling destination it deserves to be. The roads are incredible – by far better than Wisconsin or Illinois – and there’s little traffic and gorgeous scenery. Oh sure, it’s a desolate inhospitable wasteland environment, but you’re telling me that’s not the case in Wisconsin? And okay, there’s the occasional shootout, but where isn’t there?

Tomorrow, more riding of course, heading south this time. Apparently that way there’s “more of nothing,” according to my wonderful hosts. Godspeed.





On the (desolate) road again.....



Oh sure, I know I have a lot to catch up on, from the tale of Harmilda, who now resides on the Manor estate, to of course RAGBRAI, and the myriad of lessons learned there. And those tales will be forthcoming, my dear nineteens of readers, never fear. But first, this: a TALE OF DRAMATIC STUPIDITY from which I may not emerge alive!

 See, I’ve learned that’s what all the hip bloggers do these days, to keep people on the edge of their seats. Not write about things weeks after the fact, when everyone knows that things turned out hunky-dorey rather than argle-bargle, but rather IN THE MOMENT WHEN ANYTHING CAN STILL HAPPEN.

 So. That brings us to me, right now, sitting in a gorgeous loft in Burns, Oregon, in preparation for some crazy-ass bike riding this weekend. Here I must digress and state that the fact that I even made it here should be accomplishment enough for the weekend. We all know that my true love involves riding my bike in the most middle-of-nowhere places possible. And sad to say, I have yet to find anything like that around Silverton, that’s at all like my beloved Cornlandia, with nothing but corn fields and very few cars for hours and hours. That helps explain (a bit) why this afternoon I was driving off to Burns, which purportedly is the very definition of middle-of-nowhere TumbleweedLandia, or so I’ve been told.

 This started to become evident the further east I got, as Snow-White-esque forestry gave way to scrub-brushy desert as far as the eye could see. I realized suddenly why the pilgrims or pioneers or whoever the hell forged west via cover wagon made it all the way to Silverton and The Manor; it’s because they took one look at the scrub-brushy vast swathes of land and said “Oh hells no, we’re noping out of this bullshit. Hither.” That might be an exact quote, in fact.

The pilgrims clearly faced the same problem I did as well, and let this be a lesson to all of you, my gentle readers, who dare to venture off into the Here Be Dragons parts of the country. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, ALWAYS HAVE A FULL GAS TANK. I don’t care how you make this happen – perhaps toting along a few drums of gas attached to a hitch? Something, just make it so. Because otherwise, the following will unfold: you drive through Bend, note that you have just under a half tank of gas, and even though you’re always cautious about such things, you think that’ll definitely be enough to get to the next gas station. Because even places like Missouri and Nebrahoma warn you if the next one is more than, say, 50 miles away.

 Off you go, noting that the next town is a mere 20 miles due easterly: Millikan, or some such shit. 20 miles later, you see that said town once consisted of a single building, the Millikan Market, which is now a boarded up shell. No matter, the town of Brothers is only 24 miles away. You get to Brothers, and it’s a slightly wider road, with TWO buildings. And…..both are closed. Including the gas station. Now you start to panic slightly, but lo, what’s this? Yes, the good people of Brothers have, on the former gas station, placed a helpful sign! “NO GAS HERE.” But then arrows, one pointing east, the other west. “GAS 44 MILES, GAS 20 MILES.” The way I’m going is 20 miles. Huzzah! I’m saved! 

Except I’m not. Because I get to the next wide stretch in the road, and that building is closed too. There’s a gas pump that seems like it might be functional and a building behind it that says “OPEN” – but it’s not. Hmm.

 Now, I always say, my mom didn’t raise many stupid children. The next town is 44 miles away, and while I might make another 10-20, ain’t no way in hell I’ll get to 44. Rather than running out of gas on the side of a desolate (this is the only word that truly describes Eastern Oregon) windswept road, I figure I might as well just hang out in what passes for a semblance of civilization, the “town” of Hampton or whatever it is, with my snacks and water, and call AAA from here. But then I see a sign on the door of the not-open building – a phone number. Could it be? I call, and get an answering machine. I then notice the faint scratched out number with another one written in lightly, and try THAT number. SOMEONE ANSWERS IT’S A MIRACLE! The guy sounds like I just woke him up, and says he’ll have to drive “a ways” to get to the gas station, and according to the sign gas is $4.50 a gallon, but FUCK IT I’M SAVED!

 He actually shows up about 10 minutes later, and is lovely albeit a bit taciturn. He makes some mention of “the new pumps, which is why the gas is so expensive,” and I reassure him he could be charging gold ingots and that would be okay too.

Me: I’m just glad you’re out here, for the idiot tourists and travelers like me.
Gas Guy: Well….I don’t like to call people that exactly….
Me: That’s okay, I just did it for you. Let’s be honest here.
GG: Ayup.

I get my gas, and let me tell you people, it’s a NEW DAY in town! Woo hoo! I can turn on the AC in the car! I can pass slow trucks chugging along without worrying about burning too much gas by revving up! LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL! I LOVE EASTERN OREGON!

 Uhh, so, I finally make it to Burns – though I’ll note that the town before Burns did NOT have gas either, making it something like 438 miles between gas stations (I’m not so mathy, but that sounds right). I meet Jen, of the family from whom I’m renting this incredible loft apt. for the weekend, and we chat about bike riding around here. Because if gas stations are 631 MILES APART, what hope do I have of finding water on my crazy-ass long rides?

According to Jen, slim to none. Coincidentally, when I picked up my bike this morning after its mid-season tune-up, bike guy told me he was unable to put the extra water bottle holder on my bike since my seatpost isn’t round. To recap: almost ran out of gas, will only have 2 water bottle cages on my rides in 90+ degree weather. In the desert. In the middle of nowhere. I hope these aren’t harbingers of things to come. To which I say my usual: fuck it.

 Though somehow this doesn’t exactly sound like the greatest recipe for success……

Monday, June 20, 2016

What the world.....needs now......

People seem to think that just because I’ve been slaving away for my Corporate Overlords #layinglow, this means that somehow the usual Don’t Fuck With Me rules no longer apply.

Sigh.

Not so, my friends, decidedly not so.

This was brought to bear last week at the rezzy, where The Kone and I continue to go every day, defying the Corporate Overlords and their requirements of “work” and an “8-hour day” or some such nonsense. As if royalty (Kone) and perfection (me) could ever thusly be contained.

Anyway.

We went on our usual walkie, and as is our occasional habit when we come out of the woods, I let HRH off the leash so that he can go chase the duckies down by the piers. He runs down, bravely barks and barks, they pretend to be scared, and then immediately swim back as soon as Kone looks away. Win-win for everyone. Except for this time, when Kone went trotting down one of the piers and sniffed at the stuff that some fisherman had spread all over the damn pier. Fine, whatever. While he was doing that, I noticed a surly-looking guy in a wetsuit, and had the following conversation with him:

Me: How’s the water?
Surly Guy: Frigid.
Me: What’s the temp?
SG: I don’t know, 58 maybe.

I snort, of course. 58? As in a barely-wetsuit-legal 58? “Sounds pretty warm to me,” I say under my breath. And YES it was under my breath – because in retrospect I wish I had guffawed and said it really loudly. Seriously though, try swimming in Lake Michigan when it’s 48 degrees, and then we’ll talk cold, wimpy man.

Then Kone went to the other pier, and in the meantime Surly Guy had gone down to the end of it. Kone had barely even gotten to the end, when Surly Guy opened his mouth.

SG: And all dogs are supposed to be on leashes. Get him away from me.

OhNoYouDidNotJustSayThatAsshole

Well. Needless to say, the claws of Momma Bear are now out, because hell hath no fury like me when someone disses my happy little boy. But first, this leash bullshit.

Me: No they’re not.
SG: Yes they are.
Fisherman Dude pipes up: Yes they are.
SG: Yes they are.
Me: No they’re not. But you know what? Fine. Have me arrested. Really, go ahead! Call the police! BE MY GUEST!

Now of course I have no idea about the actual leash law here, but everyone has their dogs running around willy-nilly and it’s never a problem. As I’m yelling for Surly Asshole Guy to call the cops, I’m walking up the slope to where the cars are parked, and where there are signs for the reservoir: rules, a map, etc. I’m staring at these and reading them, next to the car of Guy Who’s There Every Day. I have no idea what his actual name is, but he’s this older guy who parks there pretty much every day and just hangs out. Super nice guy. Let’s call him Steve.

Steve: Hey, how’s it going? What’s going on?
Me: Oh, just reading the sign here, to see if it says anything about leashes.
Steve: Is that what that guy was yelling about?
Me: Yep, can you imagine? Yelling at Kone! And gee, lookie here, nothing about leashes. Imagine that.

Naturally, I turn around and take a few steps down the ramp, towards the piers where Surly Guy still is.

Me: Hey, guess what! There’s nothing at all here about leashes! So really, you can just FUCK RIGHT OFF!

My voice carried nicely, so let’s just say this might have garnered a few stares from the other people at the rezzy, fishing and such. As if I care. Steve and I start chatting again, and of course he’s totally with me on this, when Surly Guy starts walking towards the parking lot.

Me: Maybe you should take a look at the sign! Oh, if you can read, that is, if that’s not too tricky for you.
SG: Your dog was bothering me anyway.
Me: He didn’t even go near you. So hey, why don’t you go fuck yourself?

Surly Guy has nothing to say to that, and sullenly walks past us, glaring but silent. Steve and I then spend 10 minutes talking about how horrible people are, how they apparently exist just to try to bring people down, how unnecessary that is, that life’s too short, etc. After I say bye to him and walk to my car, I notice that Surly Guy is next to his car, still changing out of his wetsuit. I think to myself, hmm, maybe he heard some of our conversation, and realized that yes, he IS being a total dick for no reason. And will become a better person for it. Yes, I’m sure that’s what will happen, a total epiphany on his part. Totally.

A few days later

Right. So. I’m back at the rezzy, and see my pal Steve and start chatting with him.

Steve: Hey, I have to tell you, after you left the other day…
Me: Oh yeah, the day with the asshole guy.
Steve: Yeah. So a little bit later, a cop shows up!
Me: What??
Steve: That guy flagged him down on the road! Complained about you! The cop drove around, looking for you probably, then drove up here and started reading the sign. And I told him there was nothing there about leashes.
Me: Haha, exactly!
Steve: Then he said something about how even if that’s the case, it’s in the city ordinance. And I told him, but it’s not on the sign. At all. And if they want to enforce it, they should put it on the sign.
Me: Uhh yeah, I think I’m safe.
Steve: Pretty much.

So much for that brief shining hopeful moment for humanity. Sigh.


Thursday, November 12, 2015

Rage of angels

 

The worst Friday of my life, ie the day I learned that my future child died and my dreams along with him, will be written about in another blog post, my dear nineteens of readers, but suffice it to say that it was only through the support of my wonderful friends and family with their Fuck cake and alien toys for Kone that I managed to not walk in front of a truck that day. Said truck probably would have just winged me and sent me to the curb and drove on, leaving me with a broken hip or something else equally inconvenient, because that’s just how my fucking life works.

But that’s for another day. This post will instead focus on what happens when one just doesn’t give a fuck anymore. It’s really kind of glorious.

Saturday

I decide to go to meet some of my Canning Posse at an estate sale, that purportedly has canning jars. Of course I’m running late thanks to the fact that coffee shoppes in Silverton open at 8AM, ie a ridiculously late hour, so by the time I get there Deirdre has snagged the jars, though I get a few of the cool blue ones. Then I’m bitter because Liesl sees the cooking pots before I do, dammit, but I manage to find some baking sheets and am walking around with them, when I turn to look at something else in the kitchen.

The pan slightly brushes against a woman, and I politely say “Oh, excuse me.” At which point she snidely says to me “It’s really tight in here, so…….,” clearly implying that I need to be more careful and apparently bumped into her on purpose.

OhNoYouDidNotJustSayThatBitch.

Well. I turn around slowly and look at her with a no-nonsense incredulous look.

Me, loudly: Did I not say “excuse me”? Did you not hear me?
Lady, suddenly meek: Umm, yes…..

The room has gone completely silent. A room full of estate sale fanatics, and you could hear a pin drop, and everything is frozen in time.

Me: Wasn’t that good enough for you? Do you think I bumped into you on purpose?
Lady: Umm, no……
Me: Okay then.

I then turn around to look at a cabinet of ceramic chickens, and state to Liesl, “I can’t believe how bitchy some people can be.”

No one came near me the rest of the time I was there.

I did manage to find some cool things, but then I walk into a bedroom to see this fuckery:


Now I ask you, fellow readers, when in the entire history of time have you seen a freaking unicorn clock, completely with a baby unicorn? Perhaps never? Shall we try never for the win? I look at it in rage and point it out to Liesl, as I’m putting my things down to get my phone out. Because really, even I can't make this shit up.

Liesl: Umm, no, you….
Me: OH no, I am most DEFINITELY taking a picture of THIS fucking kick in the teeth. What the fuck? Who does this? Since when have you EVER seen a fucking UNICORN CLOCK WITH A BABY UNICORN?????

The room has suddenly emptied out. I get my picture of this effrontery and leave before I kill someone over a chipped sugar dish or something equally inane, because stay out of my way people or you will feel my wrath.

On the way home, I decide hey, since I’m in Salem, I might as well stop at the vaunted yet secret fig tree! This is on public property, that of, well, something very much like the Oregon Dept. of Animal Husbandry and Green Things. Not quite that – I don’t want to give up any secrets of figgery – but close enough.

I get to said location, and merrily start picking figs. No one is around since this is near a government building, and of course they don’t work on weekends. The tree is monstrously huge, and the figs are plentiful. When I go to my car to get another plastic bag, as I do I see someone walking from the outside of the building to the parking lot. Because I’m still nice to people until they cross me, I call out a hello to this woman in some kind of uniform, and jokingly say “I’m just picking some figs, that’s okay, right?”

Jokingly, because who the fuck would have a problem with this?

Her: What’s that?
Me: Figs, picking, me.
Her: What? Here?
Me: Umm, yes.
Her: Do you work here? Do you have permission? This is private property.

OhNoYouDidNotJustSayThatBitch.

Me: It’s PUBLIC property, my taxes pay for this.
Her: You can’t just take things from here.
Me: It’s a fig tree, the figs are rotting with no one picking them.
Her: People can walk around but they can’t take things.
Me: Well. Why don’t you just go ahead and have me arrested then?

And I start walking away.

Me: I’m just going to walk around now!
Her: Ma’am! Ma’am! What do you think you’re doing?
Me: Walking around on taxpayer property! Why, and I might pick a few more figs!
Her: Ma’am! You can’t do that!

I wave my bag at her and walk back to the fig tree, and keep picking. A little later I think to myself damn, it would suck to be arrested today, I have a lot of canning to do. Plus I figure I have enough figs at that point, so I wander back to my car, where I see her talking to someone on a phone outside the building.

Me, waving at her: Are they coming to arrest me? Because that would be awesome!

She just looks at me as she keeps talking, and I can tell from the look on her face that whoever is on the other end of the phone thinks she’s a loon.

Me: What’s your name? I’m going to call and report you for being rude to the public!

I drive off, figs in hand, waving at her out the window. Because fuck her.

Sunday

Sunday morning dawns with….the toilet overflowing for no reason. Seriously. I pee, flush, the fucking thing overflows for no damn reason. I view this as being my George Bailey moment, where I ask for a sign, and this is what I get in return, my version of a punch to the mouth. I’m not sure if I’m more like George or Mary, the old maid closing up the library. Maybe both.

I then decide to go to whereverthehell Oregon to get glass French liter jars I see on Craigslist, even though I don’t have a particular use for them at the time, because what else the fuck all do I have going on? Nada. Well, other than canning every fruit within a 100-mile radius of Silverton. I tell Laura I’m heading out to get more jars to add to the billions I already have, and instead of getting the usual “you’re insane you know” from her, she just nods and says “Oh yeah, that’s a good idea.” She understands.

I get to said Bumblefuck location and hand over the cash to this woman, probably in her late 20s. There are 2 decent-sized boxes, and I ponder carrying them out to my car myself in one trip, down three flights of stairs.

Jar Lady: I could maybe help you with them.
Me: Oh, I think I can manage them myself.
JL: Oh sure, because you’re a hefty one aren’t you.

OhNoYouDidNotJustSa………..

Nah. I contain my wrath at this sally, because the woman seems a bit…..special, or perhaps just French. Instead I think to myself, really fate? That’s the best you can do? I’m not even insulted, really, because what the fuck. That’s like hardly even trying. And I head out with my very cool jars that will soon likely hold fruity liqueurs. Because fuck it.

As I’m driving I wonder if the unicorn clock was a sign, to not give up hope, that I’m really actually pregnant, like in some Lifetime movie where everything is all magical and shiny and wonderful.

I am definitely not pregnant. BFU is dead.

Clearly my existence is more like a cautionary tale on A&E, where life is just all about how many times one can be kicked in the teeth and stomped on and crushed and pulverized into the ground, while fate laughs, merrily. Miss Tasha, you didn’t really think anything could actually work out for you for once, did you?

That day I start decorating The Manor for Halloween.




I fear the neighbors are starting to speak of me in hushed tones.