The Long Ride Home

Dear Internets,

My hands are where my box usually is. My Snarky Card Box. The other box is a lot lower.

For those of you who don’t know, I make Snarky Cards: Brutally Honest Greeting Cards. I sell them in bars from a box that hangs beneath my boobs. They will crack you the fuck up. I was recently in California, selling cards, and watching my room-mate, Claire graduate. And it sucked.

Claire and I both had a hard time in the Bay Area for different reasons.  I found out that one of my oldest friends has two kinds of cancer (Scary).  Another best friend of mine decided that she no longer cares for my company -my big mouth was the only explanation I got, in the voicemail (hurt my feelings). My parents have decided to move to Turkey because a demon told them that he and his legion were preparing for their final battle here on earth. After they cast him out of a person. And I’m going to have to go to back to their house to clean it out so that they can sell it to fight in Armageddon. Because apparently they’re still crazy (disappointing). A friend of mine’s father has pickled his brain with alcohol, which I got to see up close (really, really sad). And I spent the weekend hanging out with a bunch of angry chicks who were sure I was going to steal their boyfriends. So they were pre-emptively mean to me (frustrating, I didn’t want their boyfriends). I tried going out selling, and a few of my favorite bars were going through a slump (depressing).

The thing is, all of the bad news I got, were calls I got in California, from people who live in California. Which made me wistful for Portland. I’m never wistful for Portland when I go back to the Bay Area. It made me feel like a woman without a home. And worse than that, all of this shitty stuff didn’t happen in one day. It happened every day. I got a phone call, text, or was faced with something scary and horrible every day.

Claire got to go home a few days before I did. She had a plane ticket. I don’t fly anymore. Because I can’t afford that shit. I’m an Art Prostitute, and we don’t make that much. I rideshare when I go to Seattle or San Francisco. It’s $30-50 for rideshare, $100 for a train, and $200 for a plane ticket. And there’s a lot of traffic back and forth, so you can usually find at least one ride. The problem is, it’s all weekend traffic. So I ended up staying in California for  or 4 extra days, while I tried to find a ride home.

I finally found a rideshare with these two girls, who made fast friends on the trip. I could see why they liked each other. They were some of the dumbest people I’d ever met. Usually being in a rideshare with people I don’t necessarily like doesn’t bother me, I sleep most of the way anyway. But one of those bitches woke me up, because I was snoring a little, and it really bothered her. She wasn’t trying to sleep, she was just trying to ruin my ride back home. After that, I couldn’t sleep, because I was afraid of getting woken up again. And punching her in the throat, thereby delaying my homecoming.

The is one of the most awesome movies I've seen in a while. And it's the best mystery I've read all year.

So, I tried to read The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (awesome, by the way) and tune out the retarded things that kept slipping out of their mouths. It was hard. You know when stupid people talk about something they don’t understand? And you know what they’re talking about way better than they do, but you don’t want to interject yourself into their conversation, because then you would be talking to stupid people? Yeah, that happened to me for twelve hours.

For example: both girls started talking about open relationships. Neither of them had been in one. But one of the girls had worked coat-check at a sex club in The City. Which made her the “expert”. They talked about how and why people have open relationships for 45 minutes. They got it wrong. And they sounded really, really dumb the entire time. The last relationship I had was open. I have a lot of friends who are into the poly-community, I’ve talked some of my best friends through their poly relationships, and I’ve had to sit through countless conversations with my friends about how to maintain your primary relationship vs your secondary relationships. But I didn’t say anything. Because they wouldn’t have listened to me anyway. And I wasn’t sure these girls were smart enough to get past the title of “The Ethical Slut”. They seemed to beleive that ladies want relationships, and dudes want sex. And there were no in-betweens.

We stopped in Ashland for lunch. By then I had decided that there was no point in talking to these girls at all. They were Not Smart and they didn’t think I was funny. Also, the dumbest one kept saying horrible things about fat people and then looking at me and apologizing. I am as offended by fat-ism remarks as I am by racist remarks. (When people make homophobe remarks I’m annoyed, but I also immediately start picturing them starring in a gay porn. Because Homophobia is Hella-Gay, Yo.)

So: Fatism. It’s rude, and it basically proves you’re a total dick. I think when I was younger, I was sensitive about my weight. Now I’m not. I know I’m kinda fat, but I’m also kinda hot. I don’t remember the last time a skinny girl felt sorry for me, mostly because I get more action than anyone else I’ve ever met. But it was clearly happening on this trip. And I was determined not to engage them in conversation, so I just let it happen.

One of the dumb bitches (the nicer, smarter one) had a friend in Ashland. So, we stopped, to meet her for lunch. Once we got into the cafe, this friend looked at me puzzled. “Um are you sitting with us?” she asked. “Um, I was going to.” I said uncertainly, with my book halfway open, and my food looking tasty in front of me. Her friend (The smarter dumb bitch) hadn’t mentioned I was on the rideshare with them. Or introduced me. And since I had literally stopped talking out loud to the dumb bitches, I hadn’t introduced myself. So, the friend explained she thought I was a random homeless person who had followed them!  Wasn’t that hilarious? Yes. I thought. That’s perfect. This ride is like the trip to California but shorter. A shitty end to a shitty week.

We got back on the road, and I tried not to fall asleep or listen to their conversation. Every once in a while, when the urge to physically make them shut the fuck up became really, really strong, I would remind myself that I was once 26 and I probably judged people and sounded stupid back then too. And once the urge to suffocate one of them passed, I would let myself remember that at 26 I was the just starting Snarky Cards. And therefore, I was the same goddamned person I am now, and I have always been more awesome than these bitches. And ohmygod, Alisa, just let it go, so you can get fucking home.

The bitches started speeding right around the time we got to Mt. Shasta. Which is a scary enough road. I have been in 10 car accidents. That’s the reason I don’t drive anymore. I decided that car accidents were The Universe’s way of telling me to stop fucking driving. I have crashed a lot. But I have not died. So I have a healthy fear of crashing and dying. I couldn’t say “Please slow down you’re scaring me.” Because at this point I considered the dumb bitches my enemies. And I would not tell the enemies how to scare the shit out of me. So, I tried to close my eyes, without falling asleep, I tried to bury my head in my book. I took some long, deep breaths. I smoked weed at the rest stops. And I fantasized that I would be the only survivor when the dumb bitch driving flipped the car over.

When the cop pulled us over, I hid my face in my sweater so that they couldn’t see that I was grinning. The dumb bitch driving tried to get the cop to “give her a break” by asking him over and over again if he would “give her a break”. Which the cop ignored. I was embarrassed for her. I mean, what’s the point of trying to get out of a speeding ticket if you’re not going to 1. Cry or 2. Show some nipple? Without one of those two ingredients, you are not actually trying to get out of a speeding ticket. You are just annoying a cop. Which is not a good idea.

I was deliriously  happy about the ticket. Now they would drive slower, and I wouldn’t die. And also: something bad had happened to them. And I delight in the misfortune of others because I am a bad person. After we pulled away from the cop, I didn’t want to hear any bitching about cops- because what do two white, middle class, suburban girls in their mid-twenties have against cops? I mean, really? What could the cops have ever done to these girls, except shut a party down? Also, I felt like that cop was avenging me for having to listen to their stupid conversation for 500 miles. And I didn’t want my knight in shining speeding tickets’ name besmirched.

As soon as we pulled away, the dumbest of the bitches started yelling “I fucking hate cops! This one time-” I cut in straight away. “The cops were really nice to me when I was molested.” I said as loudly as I could.

It was a true story. But it also happened 17 years ago. And I’ve had twelve years of therapy. And being molested is no longer a trauma that ruined my life. Now it’s a story I use to make stupid bitches shut up. And it totally worked. Her mouth was still open, full of her story about how cops suck. And she shut it. And opened it again, and her eyes got big, and she looked a  little scared. And then she started nodding. “Oh that’s good!” she said a few times before settling back in her seat. Getting molested made her shut up for the next ten minutes. I wouldn’t say it was totally worth it, but it was a perk of Child Sex Abuse that I didn’t expect.

When we finally arrived, they wanted to hug me, and thank me for riding with them. And pretend like we were friends. I observed the niceties and then ran up to my apartment, happy to finally be home. “I hated that rideshare.” Claire said. I texted her when they said surprisingly stupid things. “Not more than me!” I said.

We did our Murder She Wrote dance (yes, we have a dance we do to the Murder She Wrote Theme Song, it’s got a lot of elbow action in it) and settled in for a few episodes. Chester was so happy to see me that he raped Tigger all over the apartment. And we ate some yummy food, and solved a murrrder, and I was so fucking relieved to be back home.

I’m still pretty relieved to be back home. And it looks like I might be able to get some awesome plans off the ground soon! More news in a few days,



5 thoughts on “The Long Ride Home

  • June 8, 2010 at 11:31 pm

    My cousin recommended this blog and she was totally right keep up the fantastic work!

  • June 9, 2010 at 11:32 pm

    my best buddy and i adore you. kelly is a chem grad student and i (keli) am a student with 3 jobs, so we hate our lives a lot. at night we make art and laugh so fuckin’ hard at your blog and your cards. kelly used to live in portland and we both visit a ton, so we always bring home snarky cards to the assholes we fucked and don’t want to talk to anymore. you’re so rad, your posts get us through the shitty ass days when we start planning to move to spain and become surrogates for $10,000. right now we both live in santa cruz, so if you ever get back together with that dick California, we’d love to show you the best bars full of boys who put out and never have feelings.

    love always, keli and kelly

  • July 1, 2010 at 12:24 pm

    This reminds me of a ride home from Burning Man I once endured. The girl I drove up with bailed after less than 48 hours, so I had to scrounge for a ride home. The party I returned to the bay area with included the cute boy I had just hooked up with, his ex-girlfriend (whom he lived with) and two retarded early-twenty-something kids who were his ride-share passengers. It was the longest, most awkward 10+ hours ever (except maybe your ride described above) and I pretty much just spent the whole time repeating the mantra “I just have to make it home.” over and over in my head. It sucked balls, and I feel your pain.

  • July 6, 2010 at 2:28 am

    Thanks, Kelli/y’s! I promise, the next time I get together with that dick California, I will email y’all.
    In the meantime, you stay hilarious, and bitchy. And possibly slutty.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.