“I get really sick and tired of boys up in my face.
Pick up lines like “What’s your sign?”
won’t get you any place.
When me and all my girls
go walking down the street,
It seems we can’t go anywhere
without a car that goes “Beep-beep!!”
- “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”, P!nk

Bryan, my dear, I owe you an apology.

When I got my car, and got my tag, Bryan balked.  “I don’t like driving my son around in a car that has XXX in the license plate,” he’d whine.  I reminded him that XXX is a movie.  And warned him to get his mind out of the gutter.

Then, the other night, we were driving home from dinner and Bryan stopped me, mid-sentence, to say, “DO YOU KNOW THAT EVERY GUY WHO PASSES YOU CHECKS YOU OUT?!  BECAUSE OF YOUR TAG?!”  I disagreed with him, really kind of tickled and flattered that he cared.  He said, “I JUST WATCHED THE LAST THREE GUYS DO IT.”

Well, okay.  So maybe some guys do.  So what?

So last night, I AGAIN was ill.  Really, this is getting old.  There has not been a week in recent memory where I didn’t spend half of the evening hovering over a toilet.  I don’t have a FREAKIN’ clue why this is happening.  I was the girl growing up who would rather eat live bugs than throw up.  I went for DECADES without vomiting.  Now, it’s become routine.

Anyway, so I was slow to move this morning.  I slept the latter part of the morning on the couch (meaning, from 5 a.m. till Bryan left), and then, the dogs went apeshit.  Then the doorbell rang.  Since I was half-naked (the cool tub feels better on bare skin), I threw on my short bathrobe and answered the door.  I’m sure I looked, as my daddy always said, “rode hard and put away wet”.

There stood two day laborers.  “Go away,” I said.  “I don’t need any of what you’re selling.”

They looked me up and down.  Then the one with the mullet, obviously the leader, said, “Wow.  The tag makes sense now.”

Alright.  I told them to come back in half an hour (they were doing work for our landlord.. although a CALL WOULD’VE BEEN NICE), and I threw on a cashmere sweater, threw my hair back into a headband and messy bun, and ran out the door.

Pulled into the parking lot and sat in my parked car.  I take a minute every morning to assemble myself before I leave my car; it’s a mile trek to my building and I don’t want to make it more than twice if I can help it.  I noticed a car parked directly behind mine, but I figured he was waiting on someone else.  When I finished applying my lip gloss, I stepped out of the car. 

 ”I have to ask,” he said, rolling down his window.  “You’ve got my curiousity up.  What does your tag mean?”

I smiled.  “I’m Sarah,” I said, extending my hand.  “And I’m sorry that you don’t know what the word “moxie” means.  You should look it up when you get to your desk.  Please excuse me; I’m late.”  And I started to walk away.

“I’m Mike!” he shouted behind me.

Jesus.  I flipped back around.  “I’m GAY,” I shouted back.  He then drove off.

I’m sorry, Bryan.  You were right.  I was wrong.  Mark it on the list.

IN OTHER NEWS, if you missed Shel’s Shorts last night, you suck.  Make it up tonight by coming at 8:00 p.m. to Renaissance’s Alpha Stage.  And laugh in the damn second scene, you bastard ass-face people.