Shallow Waiting World

Ask and she shall receive.
I've been so under worked over the last few weeks and today, that changed.
Which is good, my Sherries, it is good.
I also have a lot of plans for this week which is kind of weird. Plans Wednesday, plans Friday, plans Saturday. I'm not really sure when I am going to get to Target to spend money that I don't have on crap that I don't need but history tells us that I will no doubt fit in the described activity at my earliest possible convenience.
Target has the gall to take away like, 83% of my expendable income because they are assholes who offer everything and it looks so discounted and adorable and I get home and write THAT receipt into my magic checkbook of disappearing cash and every time, EVERY TIME, I am shocked at how much of a reduction one innocuous trip to the discount barn has in my financial capabilities for a pay period.
I'm a whore to you, Target. Is that what you want because that is what you got.
See you Friday morning for our regular payday date, jackass.
I know, it's disappointing from a Freecycler. I'm like a Baptist Minister, preaching Thou Shall Not Covet they Neighbor's Wife while I am counting down the minutes until the end of the service and I can go have one-on-one Bible Study with Mrs. Norman.
Which is a euphemism for really hot middle-aged porking in the church's basement pantry that nobody ever uses.

I scored free tires on Freecycle today and then about 15 minutes after the whirling excitement of my MAJOR find settled in, I realized that I have a few things I might have considered:
1. What size are my own tires?
2. How will I pick up four tires in my Bitchin' Honda?
3. They are 25% worn - is that good? How worn are mine?
4. Isn't there some kind of balancing that has to happen to tires before you put them on your Bitchin' Honda?
5. Who can put my tires on my car? This is so redneck to do myself and to be brutally honest, I've never changed a tire in my life. Ever. The one time I got a flat, a trucker stopped to change it for me and talk to me about Jesus. When I got to where I was going, an Uncle took me out to the back lot where I was parked and taught me how to change a tire but I didn't pay that close of attention. I was probably 23 and I'm pretty sure I thought that truckers who love Jesus will stop for me whenever I get a flat, even if I am super hung-over and smelling like the bar from last night. Plus, that tire change lesson was on my Saturn. I don't even know where to begin with my Bitchin' Honda as far as the tires are concerned. I know who to call when I need to get the keys out of the trunk but tires are a whole new level and I'm not sure I understood the ramifications of that quickly-drawn: "Tires? I'll take 'em!" email.
To make this even more the comedy of errors that comprises my daily life, I asked Namoli for advice on what to do.
That's how much I don't know about tires.
Folk singer.
Fashion (sometimes questionably, ala Sienna Miller) Icon.
Sometimes Astute Political Commentator, but Not All the Time By Any Stretch.
Nowhere on that list do I see anything that might hint at "vehicular expert" but the damage, times 3 (once for responding to the Freecycle post, twice for sticking to it, and thrice for selecting Namoli and the Car Lady), is done.

I just totally stereotyped my ex-honey as a gear head lesbo.
Smooooth, real smooth.
I need to find a way to blame that gaff on Target.

I got the weirdest compliment today. I will never knock a compliment - god, you could tell me that the freckle on my wrist looks really pretty today and I will smile generously and dip my head a little when I thank you.
And I will mean it.
But today, two people complimented me on my outfit. Okay, no big deal, right? Well, one of them said to me, I swear this is real, "Your hair really matches your outfit. That looks great.!"
Of course I smiled warmly and flashed the 3/4 profile that shows the dimple, and for a split second, I forgot that I live in this lovely desert hamlet of Tucson and thought, just for a second, that I was in Los Angeles and someone was either taking a lot of drugs that made my pretty, pretty hair match my pretty, pretty sweater, or that we were both totally, stone-cold serious in our ever-so meaningful exchange about how well my hair matches my sweater.
Here's the thing. Matching my hair to an outfit isn't something I strive to do. Why not? Because there's not challange there. At all. I have black hair.
I mean, it's like roofing tar black. It doesn't NOT match anything. Except maybe a sweater that's like, crayon black or something.
If I had beachy brown hair like I wanted a couple of weeks ago, or strawberry blond or something, I could see the deservedness of the compliment. As it is, I'm just not sure that I earned it. Of course, I'll take it and I'm silently happy that I didn't cut it all off and make it beachy brown because now that the humidity is gone, my hair is worthy of any complimentary action that anyone wants to take because, I'll be shallow, it hasn't rocked like this since I was like, fifteen. Awesome.
"Wow. Your hair really matches your outfit! Stunning! Bellissimo!"
It was a little surreal and yet exactly how I want the universe to feel all day, everyday.

No go out and learn about tires and match your hair to your outfit! Come on girls! Do you believe in love?
'Cuz I got something to say about it!
And it's gonna turn into a Target commercial that will subliminally make me buy even more shit at that wasteland!

arizonasarah at 12:38 p.m.

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