Today, I managed to get the Twitches out to a “play date,” which to me, is code for “maybe there will be something snarky to blog about and/or an open bar and/or sushi and/or a chance to recruit women to my cult.” I love days of endless possibilities.
The play date was at Betty Bop’s house. You may remember BB from such blogs as “Filty Martinis” where we encountered the IRA Server or the Equality March. Since this is the third blog in which she is mentioned, I’mma say that she’s a keeper. Plus, her walls are two shades of orange (pumpkin and, well, pumpkin), which absolutely delights me.
BB lives south of Stepford, in Southern Stepford. Southern Stepford, about six years ago, used to be trees, with maybe some dirt thrown in, and possibly a raccoon or deer. Now, its like… oh… Stepford, on steroids. I live in Townhouse Stepford, BB lives in “Did a housekeeper come with this house” Stepford. I pulled out my GPS, Dr. Nightmare (who now speaks with a female Australian accent, so I call her “Max”), mapped the address and heard a very faint, almost French-sounding dialogue. Dr. Nightmare Max was speaking Afrikaans. Somehow, evil gremlins possessed my GPS, and changed its language… to something that kind of rang a bell (hooray for five years of French!), but not exactly anything I could pick out, which may be important when trying to get somewhere without having to think of its bloggable possibilities. What if I had been driving? I would have ended up in… Africa? I shudder to think of the parking lots I would have turned into, as I searched for a caramel brulee latte piece of sanity, coping with the strange language.
For the record, its a lot easier to change the language when not driving.
It gets better, though. Max, the Twitches and I all head out to BB’s house. We’re trucking along, listening to “my fay-brit” KidzBop songs over and over and I see, on Max, that the turn is just ahead… and then, suddenly, its not. Somehow, by driving 10 feet further south, I was no longer on a road, but in this strange white landscape, flying upon my broom. My conveniently-placed turn was nowhere to be seen. It was gone. I was driving on an imaginary road, becoming totally aware that I was now experiencing a full out acid flashback. In truth, I was probably still at home, writing this blog, because Max is never wrong. I was not where I was. This is why KidzBop is bad news.
My hallucinated road, and the GPS proof that it doesn't exist.
I kept driving while taking a very safe photo of my journey. Well, not driving, since there’s no way to drive on a road that doesn’t exist. I suppose its possible I somehow transported into the future of Stepford for a brief moment, and Max was just slacking. Within days seconds I was at a dead end, seemingly where the world becomes pudding, yet Max assured me there were plenty of streets ahead of me, to my left and to my right… streets I could not turn onto because I was on a non-existent road. So, dammit, I turned around because that seemed like a better idea than stopping at the dead end and claiming the territory for my own sovereign nation and went back, figuring I could somehow find Target (and that latte) when suddenly, there was a real road again. So, in effect, as long as I drove north, all was well. Driving south, well, that obviously never happened. Have I mentioned I am about 20 minutes from my house?
Made it to the play date, had fun, left to hit up Target until we had to be home for Enigma. We looked at Princess Christmas trees because while I’m not Christian, religious or prone to fits of holiday bliss, we don’t have a tree and I know the kids like to decorate them so they can later break ornaments and blame the cat. I was totally rooting for the silver holographic tinsel tree, and I had the Twitches 99% convinced of its disco superiority, but they chickened out, so now we have a plain old boring green tree. Sigh.
On the way to the tree department, we strolled through the bra section (note to self: bras would be awesome tree decorations) and I was drawn like a moth to a flame to a black bra with a pink sticker on it. As I got closer, I read the sticker:
New! Concealing petals!
I paused, and thought. Then, honestly, I thought a little bit more. Concealing petals, the sticker place over the nipple area (if you have porn star boobs) was this saying that… is there really a reason…
Woman 1: “Its cold today!” *slurp latte*
Woman 2: “Yes, I’m feeling a little *teehee* nipply!” *giggle* *slurp latte*
Woman 1: “I wish my pesky nipples wouldn’t be so responsive to this temperature stimuli, its almost as inconvenient as… wow, there’s Amanda! Look at her, not even wearing a coat!”
Woman 2: “You sure couldn’t tell the temperature by her nipples!”
Woman 3 walks up to table where lattes are being slurped.
Woman 3: “Hey, I see you two checking out my nipples, and no, you can’t tell how cold it is by staring at my boobs because I’m wearing CONCEALING PETALS” *big cheesy wink at camera*
Ahem. The only thing funnier than nipple-concealing petals was the woman behind me who high-tailed it to the next aisle as I took photos of bras with my phone. I think she may have left a child behind in her haste to get away from the crazy lady on acid who thinks its hilarious to take photos of lingerie in Target while slurping her real (I think) latte.
