My husband is in an originals, hard rock band called The Murnane Tribe. A couple weeks ago, they had their first out of state gig in Indiana. I was really excited for them, and very happy to be jaunting out of town to see them play. But, of course, we’re talking about ME, so you know that some sort of mayhem had to occur, and neither I nor the universe would disappoint.
First of all, I like to get all dolled up when I go to their gigs. So, I spent a good bit of time trying to tame my unruly, naturally curly quaff and doing my makeup, etc.
However, before all that, I decided to wax my eyebrows. Big mistake. I’ve done so before without a problem.
Anyway, I heated up the wax, removed excess fur from the right eyebrow, no problem. However, while eradicating the unwanted fuzz over my left eye, I applied too much wax, and a large glob dripped onto the bathroom counter and another big goober of wax landed on my eyelashes!
DAMMIT! I tried to squeeze off the wax, but it held fast like lava cementing to the earth. I should’ve taken a picture because it looked rather bizarre – akin to some kind of strange eyelash pimple…
I took a hot wash cloth to the blob and tried to roll it off my lashes. No luck. I hopped in the shower, thinking maybe I could sort of melt it off, which didn’t happen, but I did manage to extract a bit more. But a pin-sized dot of it remained.
Finally, after straightening my hair somewhat, I made another go at operation wax removal by holding my captive lashes up and scraping at the wax repeatedly with my fingernail against my brow bone. Hurt like hell, and it didn’t budge.
I began to fear I’d have to coat my new eyelash booger in mascara and pray no it wouldn’t be mistaken for some sort of TUMOR, but then…it broke free. And I smiled until I noticed it had snatched 3 or 4 eyelashes with it. DOUBLE fucking dammit.
And…I’m not holding my breath that they’ll grow back. Luckily, I do have relatively thick eyelashes. So, the missing lashes aren’t noticeable – especially with a liberal splash of mascara.
And I often wonder if there’s an Orangutang somewhere about my family tree. Not only given my bushy tresses – but the thick thatch of hair on my legs often requiring a machete to remove, not to mention the uni-brow I might have if I didn’t pluck/wax regularly.
First problem solved. Onto the next. I sped off for Indy around 1:30 that Saturday. My husband had left HOURS earlier with the band, and they were probably crossing into Indiana by then. But I’d still get there in time to have dinner with my cousins before the show, so I was a happy camper…
But first, I had to get gas. Afterward, when I zipped onto 270 West, I heard this THUNK, CLUNK. I glanced around, fearing I’d hit something. Nope. Glancing in my rearview mirror, I realized I’d neglected to screw on my gas cap, and it was now flapping wildly on its rubbery little rope. FUCK.
And, of course, I was driving through a long stretch of construction with a concrete wall to the left – gravel, bulldozers, and a seemingly endless string of orange barrels to my right. There was nowhere to pull over and no exits in sight.
I got in the far right lane anyway in the hopes there would be a break in the construction barriers soon before my gas cap became road kill. Concerned that the force of the wind would SNAP the little bungee cord in two that was holding my gas cap to my car, I slowed down to 45 MPH.
While scanning the horizon for a in the construction, a LOUD HORN squawked beside me. I look over at this old, multicolored Pontiac occupied by at least 9 dark-haired, scruffy-looking men consuming jammed into the front and back seat – all smoking cigarettes and pointing to the rear of my vehicle.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, I know. The gas cap,” I muttered to myself with an annoyed sigh. The men in the backseat pointed fervently again toward my gas tank. “Jesus H, where should I pull over?” I barked, waving my hands in the direction of the barrels, a slew of backhoes and dump trucks on the right side of the freeway.
They charge past me, shaking their heads. What? I’m not bumping and grinding around a bunch of bulldozers, over nail-spiked rocks and chunks of old cement, not in my Escalade that took me YEARS to afford. Maybe, in my husband’s 14-year-old truck that’s held together by rust, spit, and duck tape (which he refuses to trade in, but that’s another story), but not in my Caddy, ladies and gents, not happening.
An excruciatingly long five minutes later, I spotted a large slab of concrete about 100 feet ahead. I snapped on my blinker, pulled over, jumped out, fastened the gas cap, and off I went.
So, now you’re thinking smooth sailing, right? Fat chance of that…
I made it to Indianapolis in record time around 4:30, just as the spring in my sun visor to broke! I moved it to the left to block the sinking blob of sun, and BOING. Down it went. It was hanging awkwardly, and in this case, a picture really is worth a thousand words:
Then, I misread the directions and passed the exit for 65 South. My cousin Juliana moved about a year ago, and I’ve only been to the new house once. When I realized my mistake, I called Juliana and spoke to her husband, Tom, who had no clue where I was, other than I was on 465, the beltway around Indianapolis.
While talking to him, I saw an exit for 65 North and thought the exit for 65 South should appear momentarily. Nope, must’ve been first. I was having trouble keeping the visor out of view, so I’m sure that contributed to my missing the exit again. My GPS is now defunct, so that was of no use.
A few minutes later, I saw a sign for 65 SOUTH. But, no, the universe HATES ME because there was an accident on that off-ramp, and it was blocked off by two cop cars, road flares, the works.
I did the math and calculated that I was 15 minutes from the 65 South exit in the opposite direction or 15 minutes to the next exit, according to a sign in front of me, which was, in fact, the exit I should’ve taken the FIRST time round. So, I just kept going.
An hour and 55 miles later (and after completely circling Indianapolis), I finally pulled into my cousins’ driveway and gleefully accepted a large glass of Merlot. We had pizza and chatted away until 10:00 when I departed for the Rock House Cafe, and the Tribe totally rocked!
Not much turmoil coming home except stopping at Steak n Shake for 30, yes THIRTY MINUTES because they screwed up my order twice. However, when contemplating all the adversity I encountered along the way, that was a minor inconvenience I could live with…
PEACE OUT from HOME SWEET home where my visor still hangs awkwardly in my face because Tom’s duck tape repair has now become dysfunctional. So, guess what my husband is doing this evening?
Love and chocolate chip cookies,
TenaciousBITCH and her crazy aplenty…