I Am That Idiot

alternative title: My Ass Is Damp

A few weeks ago, Hot Guy put air in my tires (not a euphemism). He also left my car window open. Naturally it poured that night. Towels soaked up the surface puddle, but they did jack for the deep wet that rooted itself in the upholstery.

My ass was damp for three days. Hopefully you have no idea how uncomfortable that is.

This is what my ass looks like. In my head. Or 1996. Whatever. 

When I mentioned it to Hot Guy, he claimed that he did it to himself all the time. He seemed confused by how bothered I was. Of course, he was probably hoping that I'd just shut up about it. But all I could think was:

"My ass is damp, motherfucker!"

Also: "What kind of idiot does this more than once?"

You know where this is going.

Yesterday at the Y, I left my car window open. And it rained like hell while we were inside. Since I spent all of my time in the basement and in the pool area, I had no clue. Until we got back to the car, anyway.

My ass was damp.

Again.

And this time I didn't even get my tires inflated. (This all sounds kind of dirty, doesn't it?)

Making Friends at the Y (and a plea for help)

So yeah, that was my ass at the Y this morning, because I pretty much live at the Y. Though I don't spend that time working out, which you could probably tell as you stared at my fat ass while it stuck out of the recycling bin.

There's nothing like diving into a recycling bin to find the snack pack your 2 year old threw in there, while wearing your ugliest pants, only to stand up and find 25 (approximately) skinny women carrying yoga mats staring at you uncomfortably.

Okay, it might have only been 2 women and an old man. But still.

I'm not sure whether it was my ass, my ugly pants or the fact that I looked like I was dumpster diving at the Y that horrified them. Hugmonkey's screams and the fact that Ironflower and Lovebug were playing tag probably didn't help. Even when I pulled out the snack pack triumphantly and put my ass back in its proper place they still looked a little shocked.

But the recycling bin had just been emptied, it's not like I was really dumpster diving. I suppose some people wouldn't reach into any kind of refuse bin to retrieve a $4 snack pack. Those people probably have a much bigger snack pack budget than I do.

On a totally unrelated note: If you can do anything to help the people of Joplin, MO recover from the devastating tornado, go here: CNN's How to Help Joplin Tornado Victims or to Facebook's Ten Million United for Joplin. Hot Guy went to college near there and has friends who are (thankfully) okay, but still going through so much. I can't imagine.

Get Off My Ass

In my years away from Jersey, I missed some things. Great pizza. People who speak quickly. Bagels. Fellow Yankees fans. Delis. The shore. Diners. But I never missed the cramped movie theaters and I cringed at the thought of driving out here again.

They've fixed the movie theater situation, but I'm afraid the driving has only gotten worse.

It used to be that as long as I avoided the highways filled with aggressive speeders and tailgaters, I felt okay. One of the great things about Jersey is that there's a back way to get pretty much anywhere, so this was not the problem it could have been. But since moving back, my knowledge of the back roads has not been enough.

The psychos are everywhere now.

Sometimes they're like the bitch who followed me yesterday, two inches from my bumper, gesturing. I was going the speed limit AND there was a lane she could have used to pass me, but she preferred to stay behind me and risk rear-ending me.

Then there was the person today, going ten miles under the speed limit, braking at each (unlit and unsigned) intersection and flipping me off when I darted around her.

And you can't forget the people driving their hulking SUVs (and I say this as a minivan driver) while talking on their hand-held cell phones (illegal here), who can't park - or turn - for shit.

Of course there are also the douchebags who think that I too will be charmed by the fact that their car stereos can play R.Kelly very, very loudly. I mean really, why would anyone want to play R. Kelly at all?

Occasionally there seems to be cross-breeding, such as when a tail-gater needs to play his car stereo at full volume, or when a slowpoke is also talking on his cell-phone.

Finally there are the people who really scare me. The ones that think our little provincial highway is, in fact, a NASCAR track. They weave in and out of traffic at 100 miles per hour, as though they were playing a videogame. And I swear it's not only bitterness because I happen to suck at any videogame that requires driving - though I think it's really odd that even though I've never caused an accident in real life and hardly even get honked at I can't drive an imaginary car worth a damn - it's because it's fucking dangerous.

So here's a little message, lousy drivers of the world: Get OFF my ASS.

You didn't think this would be about exercise, did you?