the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

don’t worry. i’m not driving right now. i may have lost that privilege for good. more on that in a minute.

Yesterday, we dressed entirely for comfort, with no though to our own reputations. I was wearing a baggy gray pair of “trousers that don’t go all the way to the ankles” (as Christopher Hitchens would have it). These Capri’s are made out of soft sweats material. I donned an oversized tee shirt (dark blue, mismatched) that dropped past my butt. On my feet: red, black, and grey wool socks and closed-toe Birkenstocks. I accessorized with prominent leg hair.

Inspired by my example, Michelle slipped into a pair of soft PJ bottoms we picked up last week. They’re white with “HOLLY JOLLY” written all over them in red and green. She was less daring in her footwear, opting for tennis shoes.

We didn’t think a thing of these outfits until we had to make a triple-P stop.* The tiny convenience store was packed with people. (OK. Who am I kidding? It was a Love’s Truck Stop.) It’s not that I was competing with Paris fashions, but I realized at that point that even compared to truckers, I looked like the wife of the Missing Link.

* Petrol, potty, and pop

I’ve been waiting over three weeks for someone to shave my legs, but no one stepped forward. I finally did it myownself this morning, then I put on the same bag lady outfit I’d worn the day before. Mich is still in her PJs, too. (Seriously…PJ bottoms are a great idea. I think I’ll wear some the next time I fly.)

We stopped at 7-11 for coffee and gas. It was raining. I started pumping the gas (on the passenger’s side of this silly car) and bolted in to fetch coffee. The cashier wouldn’t take my credit card for a $1.07 purchase without an ID, so I dashed back to the car in the rain, grabbed some cash, dashed back, paid the lady, wished her a Merry Christmas, then dashed back to the car. I got in, chatting with Mich (who was lording over me the fact that she had a data signal), started the car, and drove off.

Well, not exactly. I drove, all right. About 15 feet. They make gas hoses so long these days.

We heard a sickening CLUNK. I envisioned two possibilities: the gas hose was stretched to the limit, or it had broken and gas was spewing everywhere. I put the car in reverse and Mich said, “DON’T BACK UP!” Apparently, she had had a similar insight.

I backed up a few feet, in case it was option one, and got out to check. Apparently, those things break away from the pump and there’s no wastage of gasoline. Who knew?

I pulled it out of the tank and hooked it back in the pump where it belonged, then kicked the loose end of the hose behind the pump, so it looked somewhat natural. I imagine that whoever pulled up to that pump next got a Christmas surprise.

Then we bolted, like the cowards we are. I even forgot to get my receipt.

A couple of hours later, we were driving through Paris (not France). I’d decided that we’d like some wine at the hotel tonight, and I was on a mission to find a decent bottle. We once again paused at a service station. I suggested we ask the cashier where Texas hides the liquor stores. I left Mich in charge of the gasoline (since I can no longer be trusted with it), and went to the sandbox. She walked in to grab a snack as I was emerging, and she pointed through the plate glass window and accused me of leaving a “huge dent” behind her gas tank. I left to take a closer look as she amassed a small audience.

She got into the car laughing. I asked if she’d remembered to ask where we could get a decent bottle of wine in this town, and she said no. Apparently, she was too busy sharing her new Thing To Hold Over My Head. “Besides,” she said, “I didn’t want to ask them where to find alcohol after telling them that. It would have terrified them.”

And so it was that we drove into the Paris ghetto looking for a liquor store. Here is why: Texas is usually ashamed that anyone in the state would drink the Devil’s juice in any form, so they go for a handful of out-of-the-way, nondescript stores (if you’re lucky enough to be in a county that has any booze at all, that is). I figured that if I lived in a place this run-down and out of the way, I’d be driven to drink myself into an early grave, so there had to be a decent liquor store here somewhere.

Mich pointed out that we were passing a pawn shop so we must be close, but used car lots, soul food restaurants, and several dives slipped past before we found a gas/convenience station that advertised BEER and WINE.

I was right about the “liquor store” part, but if you want to drink yourself to death with decent booze, you’ll just have to move. Depressed towns like this, where the population probably has a median income of $15,000 a year, are not good places to get your hopes up about finding a nice, medium-bodied red. If you want anything better than Boone’s Farm, you just need to make more money and move to one of those fancy-pants places that offers a “selection” of wines.

We eventually found a liquor store (outside the city limits, I think, or maybe in the next town) that offered wine I actually recognized.*

* In a good way. I mean, I recognize Boone’s Farm and Mad Dog 20/20.

And on the gas nozzle thing: Mich can laugh, but as far as I’m concerned, we’re now even for the time she black-iced us into a cow pasture. My dent is nothing compared to that. So there.*

* I just read this to Mich, and she said, “Hey! Black ice is no respecter of persons!”

We’re almost to Louisiana. It’s still raining. I think that means the angels are crying, probably because of something you did.

d