Crunchy Thoughts

Since I have been — and still am — too mentally exhausted to write about our moving experience in a fun and witty manner, I shall give you this lovely piece called “Thoughts @ the dentist whilst the teeth are being picked,” which is leftover from last December. Enjoy.

“Ow. ow. ow. ow. ow.”

“Eww, something’s on my tongue, something’s on my tongue!”

“I wish I could switch off my saliva glands. I wonder if they think I rewater my mouth too much.”

“Uhh, a fleck of something landed near my eye!”

Then the toothpaste comes out:

“Oh, God, no, cinnamon! Worst. Flavor. Ever. I wonder if they’re celebrating the Christmas season [with the cinnamon toothpaste]. Gross. Why did they not give me a choice? Oh, God, oh, God, its on my tongue; it BURNS! Aggghhhh!”

Morning! The Great Big Easter Move Extravaganza is now upon us — we close on the house Monday — and I’m only able to sneak in here to write some cause I woke up at the butt-crack of dawn to check on the storms. No Great Big Easter Move Extravaganza is complete without a major tornado threat, don’t ya think?

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I don’t think the cats are happy that we’ve been ignoring them, what with the Great Big Eas . . . ahh, you know what I mean. Last night I was getting ready to crawl into bed beside a sleeping Steven when I notice something squishy-looking by the dresser.

“Ewwww, kitty puke,” I wailed, waking Steven up.

Five minutes later I am able to fall into the bed — after cleaning up the kitty puke, of course. Immediately Renton, fresh out of the litter box, comes bounding up to get on my pillow. What? Oh, excuse me, HIS pillow.

“You better not smell like kitty litter,” I mumble to him as he runs up to my head. He’s not there for long, though. He sorta falls on my head, then gets up and heads down to my feet where he starts to clean his butt.

I was a little curious about that because neither of our kitties are known to keep a clean ass. They are the perpetual hoarders of butt nuggets.

Before I had a chance to see what was going on, Renton then did the butt-scoot maneuver, a-la ‘Shay, and started wiping his ass across our VERY LOVELY comforter, with is feet in the air!

I think I managed to get out an, “AHHHHHHHHH! NO!!!” while getting up and pushing Renton off the bed at the same time, once again waking Steven up.

Renton runs out while I quickly ponder a small, dark ball-looking thing on the floor. Oh, no.

“RENTON!!!”

I was able to finally get to bed about five minutes later after scooping up Renton’s stowaway turds and their skidmarks. However, I think my pillow is a loss; I’m going to petition for a new one.

I drove my Contour to work today. It’s been a while since I drove her last, and I haven’t driven her reguarly since June. As we zip along Hamilton Road with my A-tag dangling on the rear-view mirror, I hope that she isn’t mad at me for what I am about to do. At noon, I am going to hand over the keys for a cashier’s check. I am going to sell my baby.

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“We didn’t trade her in; we’re going to try to sell her ourselves.”

This is from the linked post of July 8, 2004. That was eight months ago — to the day. I never would have thought it would take this long for us to sell my car. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, as the expression goes. At least Steven and I learned something about ourselves from the whole car-selling experience: WE WILL NEVER SELL A CAR ON OUR OWN EVER AGAIN.

After all, it did take us eight long months to finally find a buyer. All the moving and job-hunting that has gone on over the past fall and winter didn’t help any, either. An advert on cars.com only brought in uninterested callers and one smartass car salesman from Mississippi. We never could get the ball rolling until I posted some car ads around the University last month. Proof again that the best advertising is of the free sort.

I’m proud of this advert; I am told it amused many people.

By the end of the week we had two guys lined up to test drive the car. The car had other ideas — she refused to start that morning. After much cursing and gesturing, all we could do was apologize to the first interested party and say, “I’m so sorry, but the car won’t start this morning.” It was a very humbling moment, but surprisingly we were able to fix the car with five good dollars spent at AutoZone — this was the climatic finish to a whole ‘nother battery story — and made it to the next appointment.

Soon we had three offers for the car. One was a low-ball pitch after a grand exaggeration of petty faults, one was from the very forgiving first party for whom the car wouldn’t start the first go-around, and one that just drove off with my car today. He promised he would take good care of my baby.

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Bye, Raspberry Beret. I close my eyes and see us parking outside of my dorm window. I check my watch: it’s exactly two hours and twenty-two seconds from Alabaster to Auburn. We didn’t know it was illegal to park there.

I see us driving to Fort Payne that first time; the morning DJs are debating during their review of Ice Age. I quite liked that movie. We’re driving through the cut in the mountain.

I see us driving from Scottsboro with a very tiny Renton in the passenger seat. I tell him that he’ll like my apartment and that I love him. He mews. You fly across Sand Mountain towards home.

I see us driving in circles at the Thompson High School parking lot; it’s pouring rain and I don’t have my contacts in. We’re on a test drive. I’m thinking I like you. The song is playing on the radio.

Recently we have embarked on a new leisure activity with our friends in the form of a fondue pot. Yes, we have gone old-school 70s style minus the disco and atrocious avocado-colored decor. We gather once every week or two and settle in for a long, social meal. There is much laughter to be had. Especially when one farts.

Which brings me to . . .

Have you ever seen Shawn of the Dead? If you haven’t, you must do so, it is excellent. In the movie one of the characters was prone to deadly, silent farts, which he would acknowledge to his buddy, Shawn, with variants of, “I’m sorry, Shawn. No, I’m really sorry,” until Shawn perceived, or smelled, what was going on and gave in to laughter, despite himself. It’s a running joke that we’ve taken up to using amongst ourselves.

Back to the fondue: just such a fondue was going on at our place yesterday evening. During the main course, I leaned over to snag some chicken when I decided to release a bit o’ air, forgetting Mr. Carlin’s famous advice of releasing a “test fart” first.

“Fzzztttt–bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-bluh-woosh . . .”

Everyone was talking so loud I almost pulled it off. Almost. Perceptive Steven, though, knew what I did, gave me a funny look, and backed away a bit.

“Ohhh, so that’s what that was!” Lisa exclaimed.

Now I’m in a silent fit of laughter with tears leaking out of my eyes.

“What do we say, Carrie?” someone — I think Ken — said.

I couldn’t get the words out but I summed up all my effort to mouth, “I’m sorry, Shawn!”

And thus is a typical night of fondue, friends, and farting.