The Beatles sound nothing like a flat tire.

I suddenly realized that I promised to share the story of my first flat tire here. So here you go.

I was maybe 18 years old. My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It was champagne colored (which is a fancy way of saying "old lady gold" colored), and it was a manual. It took me far too long to learn how to drive the bastard, so once I figured the transmission out I was constantly driving somewhere.

It was a lovely day in Atlanta. There was a cool breeze, and my senior year of high school was coming to a close. I was driving down Briarcliff Rd, headed away from school and toward home, more than likely. I had a Beatles song ("I Want You" from Abbey Rd) playing louder than my now 25 year old self would be able to enjoy. I love that song because of the bass line, and as I was listening to the bass kick in I heard an unfamiliar, "WHUB WHUB WHUB."

I listened for a minute, and then begrudgingly turned the song down. The "WHUB WHUB WHUB" continued.

I turned off onto a side street, pulled the E brake, and got out to investigate. The rear passenger tire was so flat ("How flat was it?") that it could be confused for Calista Flockhart's chest. Or pancakes. Or Otto after K-k-k-Ken c-c-c-came to k-k-k-kill him.

Being the little go-getter that I am, I decided to change the bastard myself. I had a spare tire in the trunk, and all the tools I would need to handle the job (despite the lack of a smartphone to coach me with its incredibly useful internet access).

As I pulled all the crap I would need out of the trunk, I suddenly figured out why a spring/summer day in Atlanta had such a lovely breeze. It was bringing rain. Or, rather, it brought the rain, which chose to pour down upon me at that very moment.

I looked up, scowled at the asshole clouds and their shit timing, and continued to search the trunk for the jack. I found it, went around to the side of the car, and started to try to change my tire.

I positioned the jack, figured out how to lift the tail end of the car with the hooked, hangar-esque rod I had, and raised that flat tire off the ground. Then I went to actually remove it, and realized that the lug nuts had last been put on the car by the Hulk. It was physically impossible to get them off.

Believe me. I sat crouched there for what seemed like hours, in the flash-thunderstorm, trying to convince myself that I just needed to twist a little harder. I was so determined to prove that I could handle a simple flat tire, and prove that I was an "adult" at 18, and prove that I wasn't afraid of a little rain, that I would've succeeded were it not for those high powered drills that shops use to put the lug nuts back on wheels.

I eventually gave up, frustrated, and managed to half-trip over the curb. Which then caused me to step in the most poorly-placed anthill in the history of ants. In flip flops, no less. And (still) in the rain.

I escaped the anthill with only a few bites on my foot. I got back into the car (gently, so as to not disturb the jack that I had entirely forgotten about/given up on), and searched for my old, flimsy flip phone.

I called my dad's office (he refused to have a cell phone, so it was the only way to reach him), and got his voicemail. So I called home, and got the answering machine (I assume Bec was out picking up Mara from school). I then sat in my car, in the rain, scratching the new ant bites on my foot, and I cried tears of frustration that rivaled those of a 3 year old coming down from a sugar buzz.

After a few minutes, I forced myself to put an end to the itchy, soaking wet pity party I was in the midst of throwing. I grabbed my shitty Samsung and called my grandparents.

Grandpa and Gram lived outside of Atlanta by anywhere from 30-45 minutes (depending upon the time of day.... You know, Atlanta traffic and all that). But they had always shown me that I could call on them no matter what. When my mother would promise to show up and then just find something better to do... when I was confused and emotional and needed to spend a night or two away from Daddy and Bec... when I needed to learn how to drive and Gramps would pick me up at 8am on Saturdays, trusting me to drive his truck around the city... when all I wanted was to build a couch fort and have chocolate malts and watch movies all night with Gram and Ida... they were always in my life, picking up any pieces that I dropped and making me feel loved despite that.

Gramps answered the phone on the third ring.

"Middletons," he said (which is still his greeting when answering the phone).

I sniffled, and tried not to be too upset so as not to worry him. "Gr-Gramps? I have a flat tire, and I tried to change it but can't get the lug nuts off, and it's raining, and ants attacked me and no one will answer their phones and I don't know what to do and-and-and...."

I lost it and just started sobbing.

I could hear Gramps on the other end of the line, trying really, really hard not to laugh at my emotional response to this hysterically ridiculous horrific chain of events.

"Okay, okay, tell me where you are."

I did.

"I'll be there in 35 minutes. Just stay there, stay out of the rain, and try not to step in anymore ant hills."

So I sat in my car, calmed myself down, and finished the Beatles song (well, finished the album) I was listening to back before I could even imagine a scenario such as the one I was living.

Finally, Gramps pulled up in his sparkly, green truck. As he got there, the clouds parted and the rain stopped. For a brief second I felt like Daffy Duck in those old cartoons, except for the fact that Daffy's grandfather never showed up to give that raincloud a talking to. Then Gramps got out of the truck, put the donut on my car, and followed me down the street to Sears.

Maybe it was because I was a broke, soaking wet, ant-bitten high school student... or maybe it was because he just loves me to death... or maybe it was even due to the fact that I managed to provide such unexpected entertainment... but Gramps pulled out his wallet and bought me a set of new tires (which was a HUGE deal, because he is very, VERY... careful with his money). He waited with me, to make sure they were on the car and safe and ready to go, and then he went home. And so did I.

I've since had to change a flat tire here or there, and managed it okay on my own. But despite the rain, and the poor timing, and the douchebag ants that had to bite a girl when she was down, I'm glad I couldn't get those stubborn, asshole lug nuts off that day. I love my grandfather, and damn it, he loves me too.

And that was the story of my first flat tire. Sorry it ended so mushily, but it always makes me feel loved, and that reminds me to be grateful. Sleep well, darlings. Or don't. You know, whatever.

<3
-L

The better to make into art projects that weird out your friends and relatives, my dear.

I may have been an odd child (fuck, I may still be an odd child). I did all kinds of bizarre, strange things while growing up, as I'm sure everyone did. One comes to mind, and has to do with my last post, so I thought I would share (unless you're my father, in which case you ought to stop reading unless you want to experience a serious birthday spoiler). 

When I was, uh, 11 or something, I had to have four adult teeth removed. They were the four teeth that were behind each of my canines (I don't know if they're actually canines.... They're the pointiest teeth people have, so it seems right). The reason for this was that my huge, giant, really loud mouth was physically too small to accommodate all of my teeth. Yes, I was awake during the removal of these teeth. Yes, it was weird as all hell. Also, as a bonus, they gave me the four teeth they removed. 

I've since been told that oral surgeons no longer part with the fun things they remove from the mouths of the public, and I think that's tragic. People ought to fight for that more than they do. I mean, they're your fucking teeth. You grew them. You brushed them twice daily (I hope). You experienced pain with them when they first came in, and lust love with them when they were first touched by the tongue of that weird kid in the 9th grade that thought "french kissing" and "kissing" were the same thing. They were with you through your first punch in the jaw for calling some kids mom a hooker (because you were probably too young to use colorful, more creative terms like "brazen hussy" or "trollop"). They enjoyed your first beer, or wine cooler if you're not a huge fan of beer. They're a part of you. I don't understand why people haven't formed coalitions, or called in lobbyists, or rallied about this bullshit.

But yes, I was one of the lucky few who had their teeth returned to them upon removal. They sat on my bookshelf in a small case, next to my boom box with a dual tape deck, for a good 6 months to a year with no more than the occasional "Hey guys, check this out, it's teeth!" from me and, "Ewwwww, awesome" from my incredibly sophisticated childhood friends.

Life went on. Then, one day, my mum came home after a trip to Michaels. She called me into the dining room, and informed me that she got some craft stuff and was hoping we could do some mother-daughter bonding (probably because she's actually my step-mum, and I am was a horrendous pain in the ass always as a kid). 

One of the crafty things she brought home was a soap-making kit. She also got some shells, and flowers, and other cute things to put in the different molds. There were scents, too, and food color that helped add to the "creativity" bit of the project. Halfway through, while I was arranging some flowers in the oval soap and Mum was sticking seashells into a star-soap, she gasped slightly and looked up at me. "What?" was my youthful, polite response that was not at all in an adolescent, pain in the ass kind of tone. "Lindsey, I just had an idea. Go get your teeth!"

As I realized what she was thinking, I forgot my pointless, cliche, youthful irritation jumped up and ran to my room, grabbing the box with my teeth and running back. We ended up making two clear, heart-shaped soaps. Each contained one of my adult teeth. They were lovely, and thoughtful, and oh, so endearing, and really quite weird as fuck.

So I gave them to my dad for Father's day. His response was something like, "Oh, soap. Did you guys make these with the kit that Bec got? Cool. Hey, there's something in them.... Lindsey, are those your TEETH?! Oh, AWESOME!" Mum and I beamed with pride, and Dad still has those heart-teeth-soaps in a dish in his bathroom, 12(ish) years later. 


Now for the fun part (Dad, totes not kidding. You'll be pissed with yourself if you keep reading. Unless even my own father doesn't read this, in which case, what the fuck, Dad? You give me all kinds of crap for missing dinner at your place because I was sick last week, and you're not even reading my blog? Way to be a huge jerkface). I came across one of my teeth a while ago, when I was trying to clean my house. I have no idea where the fourth tooth ran off to, or how this tooth ended up still loitering around my miscellaneous junk, but I was going through some random nonsense one day and there it was. 

Adult teeth are surprisingly huge when they're pulled out of your face.

After throwing around some ideas with Mum, the fate of this tooth was finally decided. 

*
*
*


I am going to make my father a painting. Okay, that's not really a big deal. I paint all the damn time. It's a hobby, that is occasionally lucrative and a teensy bit more than occasionally relaxing. What's epic is this: I am making my dad a painting of himself, as a zombie. Included in this painting will be my tooth. I'm going to put the tooth on the end of a piece of red yarn, and dangle it from his zombie gums using epoxy. It will be graphic, and hysterical, and if he doesn't put it up in his office at work I will be wholeheartedly disappointed.


This promises to be the most epic zombie-esque painting I've done yet, and I will absolutely post photos once it's nearing completion. 

...

Okay, well, that bulletin was what this entire post was leading up to. So, you know, go to bed, or something. Oooh, or enjoy drowning your disappointment in this anticlimactic end with whiskey. And save me some. Sharing is caring, bitches. Meanwhile, I'm going to go kick the shit out of this insomnia until both Insomnia and I are so tired one of us HAS to sleep. That means I'll get to sleep at least a little, regardless of the outcome of the fight (even though I'm a badass and am going to destroy that perky bastard). 

*Note to self: No more half-watching American Gladiator reruns while writing a post for the blog.

P.S. Here's a photo of my teeth, just to prove that I didn't lose this tooth recently and that I am not actually a secret hillbilly. 

This is often referred to as "The Dragon Face". It makes regular appearances when I know for a fact that an attempt at a smile will result in a horrible drunk face. Because everyone knows that dragon>drunk.

P.S.Again. I'm totally not making a dragon face right now.

STICK your pun up your ass

I spent today being a total puss nostalgic. Somehow, I ended up telling someone about Spidey (oh, my sweet, adorable piece of shit car). Spidey died last year, actually. Talk of Spidey brought up the fact that he had the only super lame transmission automatic transmission I've ever owned, which steered the conversation toward how I learned how to drive a stick to begin with.

My first car was a 1995 Honda Accord. It had a manual transmission, which is great if you know how to drive it. Or, you know, drive at all. The most traumatic learning-to-drive-a-stick story I can recall happened when I was forced to take Honda to rehearsal because my dad went somewhere retarded with his car. My first journey (for which I was not prepared. Like, at all) went like this:

Me: Okay, Honda. Now, we're going to leave the neighborhood. Are you okay with that? Please don't die please don't die please don't die..... K?

Honda: *grumble*

Me: Hey, Honda? How's it going? Look at you, in second gear. Way to go. Now we're going to try third. Are you ready for third gear? Yeah? Okay, here we go.

Honda: KKRRRAAAAAA (that's how you spell what you hear when metal and metal are grinding)

Me: OH, HOLY FUCK. SHIT I'M GOING TO DIE. I'MGOINGTODIE. Oh. Clutch needs to be in. Sorry, Honda. Okay, ready this time? No, really, I'm sorry. Okay, clutch in.... shift to third... clutch out...

Honda: *bucking like a bull with its nuts in a noose*

Me: No. No, no, no, no, come ON you piece of SHIT.

Honda (clearly insulted): *stalls*

Me (with angsty, emotional, teenage tears falling from my eyes): FUCK. I am NEVER GOING TO LEARN THIS. Where the HELL DID DAD TAKE THE OTHER CAR?! GOD DAMN IT! SHIT!

Everyone else in the entire world: *HONK* "LEARN TO DRIVE!"
"Hey, KID! Get OUT OF THE ROAD."
"This ISN'T a parking lot!"
"What the HELL ARE YOU DOING?"

I could hear my dad's voice in my head, saying, "User error, Linds," over and over again, like he does anytime something that clearly isn't broken chooses not to work. So I took a deep breath, started the fucking bastard piece of shit engine, and put the car in first gear while trying to stab people with my almost tangible anger. I think the only reason I couldn't was because the tears water I got in my eyes (it was raining) deflected the sight-daggers/ machetes/ a-bombs.

This drive (that was supposed to be 5 miles or so from start to finish) took me 30 minutes. When I FINALLY arrived I turned into the first driveway I saw that was part of the rehearsal halls property. Having never been there before, I was unaware that this particular "driveway" was actually just a bunch of dirt with miscellaneous clumps of grass clinging to it. And it was still raining, so the dirt was actually some weird, cake-batter-thick mud. Seriously. It was wicked (and not the British "oh, that's so neat but I'm British and have to be all posh so I'll call it wicked," wicked). I'm talking the kind of mud your neighbor's miniature poodle gets into one day, and then the poor bastard is stuck being a hard brown lump for at least a week, even though your neighbor is a prim and obsessive-compulsive gay man, and the dog has a dog show in three days and the neighbor's lover is getting back into town in a week so everything has to be spotless and perfect and the dog is immune to bleach and is washed 24/7, because that shit is so sticky and oozy and gross that bleach is all, "Uh, I'm gonna pass on that one, man," and the neighbor is like, "But I spent a fortune to get a bleach-immune poodle specifically for this reason. Oh, fuck it all." And then he loses his mind because of his OCD and his muddy poodle. Yeah. That mud.

So I end up in the mud, entirely unable to get the car to move because I give it too much gas in first gear, sobbing my angry, hate-filled eyes out, and 30 minutes late for rehearsal. Getting out of the car was just as much trouble as trying to get the asshole to move, and by the time I had escaped my 4-door hell and made it to the front porch I was covered in mucky mud mixed with good ole' Georgia red clay and sweat, I had red, puffy eyes from crying allergies, my hair was tangled and soaking wet and attempting, unsuccessfully, to be windswept, and I was panting like a chow chow during a summer in Buenos Aires.

As I threw open the door to the building, thunder clapped and lightning flashed behind me (it was probably the most epic entrance I've ever made, and it was unfortunate that I was so pissed upset exhausted frustrated dirty distracted that I didn't notice it), and every single person in the entire cast gasped and looked at me as though I were the lovechild of the witch from Left4Dead and their worst nightmare, personified. Their horrified, shocked expressions registered to teenage Lindsey as looks of disgust and embarrassment, and I broke down.

Me: *sobbing* D-d-does anyone... *sob* know.. uh, know how *sob* to drive a- a- *sob* sstttiiickkk shiiifffftttttt *crying and wailing*

Everyone in the room: "Oh my god, are you okay?"
"What happened?"
"Jesus Christ, I thought you were here to murder us!"
"Will someone get her a towel? And a box of tissues?"
"Where the hell did you park?"
"You don't know how to drive a stick shift??"

After I calmed down and dried off (but before the PTSD that was caused by the whole experience kicked in) a friend of mine went out to move my car. She walked through the mud, though it seemed to have no interest in clinging to her clothes or shoes. She started the car on the first try. She had absolutely no problem getting Honda to leave the mud-field-driveway-thing, and that was that.

So, you know, when I offer my friends the opportunity to learn how to drive a stick, they may be wise to decline. I honestly doubt that anything would have taught me as well as the trauma of that afternoon. Fucking bastard Honda. I don't think I could possibly inflict that much trauma on another human being, though. I mean, come on. I'm not that driven by the misery of others.

"Ugh, god. They're so dramatic. They make me want to just... SET MYSELF ON FIRE."

Lucille Bluth, of Arrested Development, ALWAYS has the right thing to say. If you haven't watched Arrested Development, you're missing out. Seriously. It's like snarky, clever Pee-Wee Herman for adults. Although, that probably only makes sense to me, so ignore that unless it makes you want to go out and buy all three seasons. Of Arrested Development. Not Pee-Wee's Playhouse. Even though that wouldn't be a bad addition to your DVD collection, either. ANYWAY, I'm distracting myself from my current ANGER and HATRED, which is why I was talking about snark and insults in the first place. The only person that I feel possesses the ability to top Lucille Bluth (and shut the hell up, I don't know her real name and I am too lazy irritated at the moment to bother looking it up) when it comes to awesome things to say when you're pissed off or irked or disappointed to the point of anger or just generally rubbed the wrong way by someone would be my youngest brother, Bug. Bug (which is what the Step-Monster and Dad called him when he was in the womb, and my sister Mar was only four and trying desperately to understand how they fit an entire person in there) just turned 7 years old this month. He's blonde, and adorable, and a total ham for attention. He must have inherited his love for attention from my darling step-monster, who is an actress (she even has a theatre degree from UCLA, and enjoys bragging about how her major got her out of any math requirements.... Damn brazen hussy. Not that I'm jealous or anything okay, I'm totally jealous).  According to my step-mum, Bug and my sister were bickering at dinner the other night. Now, Mar just turned 11 (holy shit, right? It's insane! She's an entire person! When she was born, I was being a moody teenager but now it's her turn and she has opinions and thoughts and justifications for why her clearly incorrect-due-to-her-age opinions and thoughts are, supposedly, correct! What a strange thing to witness from the opposite side). She's a bit quiet around large groups, and got more of Daddy's "I'm just hanging out, I'm not into the whole 'social' thing. This isn't my forte," while still being the life of any gathering, because that's what genuine people that are just themselves have a tendency to do, while still being slightly uncomfortable (and that much more endearing) about it. With 4 years between them, Mar and Bug are no strangers to arguing with one another. Whether they're discussing the logistics of the latest 893,203-Lego sculpture-mansion-spaceship, or just talking to make noise and finding that arguing opposite points halfheartedly is the easiest way to go about that, they have certainly had more practice bickering with one another than I ever had with any of my siblings. Granted, I'm the eldest, meaning there was no argument (at least, as far as my adolescent brain was concerned), but still. You get what I'm saying. A lot of practice. Tons. EONS of practice. Despite being aware of this, and having lived with the kids for years before being deemed "not a kid" enough to move out, I am still ALWAYS surprised when Bug comes up with some of the shit he comes up with. For example, he once said to me, "Lindsey, Lindsey, guess what I can say?!?!?" I was confused, but decided to humor him because he's such an odd little kid you just never know what you may have missed were you to turn your solemn, adult back on him. Me: Um, okay. What can you say? Bug: ELLLLllllllll!!!!!!! Me: Um, what? "L"? Huh. That's, a letter of the alphabet.... Nice.  Bug: No! Mom said I couldn't say "HELL". But I can say it if I say it like Ron Weasley. (He looks at me for a good four seconds, and then busts out with it yet again.) ELLLLllllll! I think it only took a week or two of Bug going around the house, yelling the guttural, drawn-out, Ron Weasley version of "ELLLlllllll!" for Mom to go ahead and just let him say "hell," while undoubtedly rolling her eyes and half-laughing to herself about her odd children. According to Mum, the other night she, Daddy, Mar and Bug were sitting around the dining room table, having dinner. Mar and Bug were arguing about something, apparently. Finally, it was just too much for the agitated Bug, and he looked at Mar and said, with utmost seriousness and a full-ish mouth, "Mar, I wish this tomato I just ate was you." Apparently both Bug and Mar were scowl-y and angry and irritable, but in the two or three seconds that Bug's statement hung in the air, everything dissipated. And then Mum started laughing, complete with the, "Ppppfffftttt!" at the beginning (and when The Step-Monster thinks something is really, insanely amusing, everyone within 100 feet is made aware of it, because of her laugh... it's like her laugh thinks it's a stage-whisper, but it's already at normal volume, and she clearly has no control over it which is also funny as hell in its own right) and the entire table finally slowed their hysterics to an occasional giggle, and then resumed eating dinner. Not a single person choked to death that night (that's not to say you ought to choke to death right now, in order to give Bug's story merit or anything. Unless you're one of the few that have pissed me the fuck off in the past couple of days. In which case, if you feel so inclined to give a 7-year-old-boy some props, don't let me stop your windpipe.... I'm just saying). *But* my heart choked to death, with mushy, gay, lame as hell pride at my weird brother, and odd sister, and amazingly badass parents that were able to instill such bizarre, occasionally misplaced, but never dull creativity.  ..... And judging by that last sentence, I need to go make another drink, because the one I had was chugged a paragraph ago knocked over by my favorite scapegoat, Lucy's tail. Not to be confused with performance art. Well, unless that was Lucy's intention. Good fucking dog. On that note, good night. Sleep well, unless you're unfortunate enough to be one of Bug's tomatoes.

Llamas get a bad rap.

Today, I want to discuss the word drama (OH MY GOD, NOOOOOO). Unless referring to some theatrical event or show or film of some kind, the word "drama" shouldn't be used. Seriously, people. Come on. All you're doing is asking for drama trouble.

My distaste for the term started in high school. An occasional friend of mine (and everyone has had at least one "occasional friend". The two of you get along amazingly well, and then something happens that escalates into an all-out rivalry, and then you both decide to put it behind you and be friends before it all happens again, on and on, for eternity or until you graduate and never share more than 3 sentences with one another) proclaimed, one day, that she was "No-Drama". That was her new slogan. Also, she declared that her drama-free lifestyle was to be categorized by the term "No-Labels", which I found endlessly amusing because that, in and of itself, is a label. Ahh, high school.

Anyway, this friend would loudly proclaim "No-Drama" anytime anything around her was lacking in magical unicorns and cotton candy clouds and fluffy woodland creatures that do your laundry with a smile and a song. Because most of the rest of us were living in reality (at least, as much as one can while in high school) this mantra became annoying as all hell. And trying to discuss it would lead to more cries of, "Hey, man. I'm just trying to avoid the bullshit. No drama." It was almost like she was calling no-homo or not it, or something. "Yeah, that cup you're wearing really accentuates your junk. Uh, no homo." "Did you see the mess left in the kitchen? Someone really ought to do the dishes-Not it."

Unfortunately for her, and for a lot of people, actually, reality doesn't work that way. If it did, I would spend my days chanting No-Mosquitos, because those bastards don't even NOTICE that I'm wearing half a bottle of bug spray when I take the dogs out. I swear, it looks like I have leg herpes or something (no-STDs). (And anytime I see the word "herpes" in print, I hear it in my head as "herp-s" and it makes me think of a clan of cute, squirrel-like creatures that dance and sing in the meadows of Ireland or something. And then I laugh to myself. And then I feel guilty for laughing at herpes, because some people have been seriously affected by them it, and it's not right to laugh at an STD that does... bad things... to your sexy bits....) And I would certainly call Not-Broke, double stamp, no erase-ies (and don't even try to triple stamp my double stamp. I will punch you in the mouth, [No Joke]).

Moving on.I'm not sure if this helps the miscellaneous situations, or hurts them, but the wails and moans of People Against Drama are so fucking dramatic already that I end up giggling (more than I giggle about herpes... the fictional creature, not the disease), which totally puts a halt on the ominous drama that's about to unfold. And then the person going through/discussing/creating said drama is usually offended that I think that reacting dramatically toward the approach of drama is like a double drama whammy (which, you HAVE to admit, is hysterical) and they are all of a sudden pissed at me for being insensitive and now I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF DRAMA.

So instead of calling miscommunication, disagreements, and hurt feelings "drama", we ought to refer to them as something else. I would say we should call it "Hamburger Time", but it seems Metalocalypse stole that one and uses it to refer to dying. Though, depending upon the situation, you may wish for Hamburger Time before the DRAMA is resolved.