Confessions of A Naughty Girl

Warning: Objects May Be Closer Than They Appear

In an homage to one of my writing idols, Aaron Karo, I am sticking with the themed post tonight. Here goes:


Driving in the city of Atlanta is a lot like playing ice hockey with running shoes (or broomball, for you Redhawks): both require balls, you know that a collision is inevitable at some point, and when someone cuts you off en route to the goal, you tell them to go f*ck themselves.

That said, driving in Atlanta is also comparable to my love life: I know my destination, but the only thing that helps me head in the right direction is taking a really wrong route; everyone else seems to know where they're going and getting there, except for me; and every time I get lost, I end up finding a Dunkin' Donuts and stuffing my face with creme-filled long johns.

On my way to my sister's house, I was tailing a Jaguar convertible. The guy in front of me seemed good-looking, at least from the back-of-the-head view. As I changed lanes, passed him, and prepared my best inter-vehicle flirtatious glance, I noticed that he was at least 50 years old, and clearly in the throes of a midlife crisis. And it occurred to me: I'd rather not sit on Daddy's lap and feed him Viagra in exchange for driving around in that beautiful car. I'll take the hot guy in the Ford Festiva, thank you very much.

I've noticed that since I've moved to a city where having a car and driving everywhere is a necessity, the trunk of my Pathfinder has become a veritable closet. Wearing high heels to work? No problem. I drive in my flip-flops and change footwear in the parking garage. No time for makeup in the morning? No problem, that's where the makeup case in the glove compartment can help. Not-so-fresh breath? No problem. That's what the mini-mouthwash is for. But I can see this going to excess. When I find myself stashing a box of Trojans and a spare pair of underwear in there, I'm forcing myself to buy a MARTA pass and start taking the train to work.

On my way home from work tonight, I heard on the radio that Jesse McCartney is playing in Atlanta this week. And I found myself wondering if I could negotiate with Ticketmaster and cut a deal like they do in the movie theaters: half admission for those over the age of 12 to encourage more adults to attend. This is pathetic.

Last weekend, while driving, my "check engine soon" light came on, and it hasn't turned off yet. I'm going to get this fixed (one of my many errands for the upcoming long weekend), but what the f*ck kind of warning light is this? Check engine soon? Well, okay, why don't I just check it along with the oil, the air filter, the wiper fluid, and all the other shit that all drivers know they need to check, none of which have designated lights to remind me? What would be more helpful to me in this situation would be a "change CDs in changer" warning, a "close the sunroof because it's supposed to rain" warning, or maybe even a "you're out of condoms in the glove compartment" light. F*ck me.

posted by KA @ 12:47 AM