Rebel Rescuer

The Matrix bought a new camera for me, His Best Girl, and I plan on using it to capture life in the Asylum for you, my dear readers.  I can honestly say that I suck like a Hoover when it comes to photography and will be relying on various editing software to make them look decent.  Of course, I suck at editing software so the results could be rather sucky.

On a less-sucky note, it IS Friday and that means none other than the Friday After Work Club Meeting at our local Mexican food joint (which by the way, used to be a crematorium…no wonder the plates are so damn hot).  They have a loverly patio on which one can still smoke and freely bitch about whatever is on one’s mind.  Nicko the Sicko will debut her new ride tonight and no doubt the Matrix will tell us stories from his Job (note capitalization) that only he really gets because the rest of us are too ree-ree to understand.  But the queso is something good enough to drown in, and makes me giddy with anticipation.  I know, its wrong to be giddified over melted cheesy dip stuff.  Cut me some slack, I like cheese.

Surprisingly we don’t have a jam-packed weekend ahead (but you know me, I can certainly fix THAT).  One of our foster dogs is going home (sweet!), dinner with the pinup girl (porn star’s friend), and the usual ablutions to the humble abode.  Now that I’m mourning the end of the Season One DVD’s of “Big Love”, there is no reason to even turn on the tv (sniff).  In fact, if I play my cards right, I may be able to get that cut and color that I so desperately need (read:  I be uggy these days).  Also should go to the grocery store and at least pretend that I’m like the other wives in my neighborhood.

OK, I could NEVER pretend to be like the wives in my neighborhood.  Number one, I’m not tan enough, my boobs are wicked real, I don’t own a tennis court, and certainly am not screwing my tennis coach (don’t have one to screw).

I’m quite certain the Wives of the Hood see me at the grocery store and wonder if I’m someone’s maid or nanny.  Especially after a long week, I’m not ashamed to admit that I look like roadkill and feel like ass.  But being the ever-alert eavesdropper, I stil manage to catch bits and pieces of their conversations. 

“Blah blah Jason’s captain of the baseball team”.

“Jessie’s been invited to sing at the White House”.

“Ashlee’s riding lessons are going well”.  (Note double ee’s.  Y’s aren’t good enough anymore.)

But I also “basket-drop”…my own term for scanning another’s grocery cart to see what they consume when they’re not playing tennis.  It’s always the same culprits.  Lots of produce, steak, diet soda, diet bread, diet frozen dinners, teeny packages of diet cookies….and bottled water.

And then I glance at my own cart.

Fish sticks, chicken fingers, Little Debbies, tortilla chips, Coke with lime, fruity Pebbles, 1% (not skim!) milk, spray cheese, instant mashed potatoes, Spaghetti O’s…and for good measure, some strawberries that I will eat with a dusting of sugar (or forget about until they rot).

Sadly, they look in my cart, see my limp hair, the bags under my eyes, and shake their heads in mock sympathy.  But what they can’t see when they look at me (or my cart) is that I’m very proud of myself and very happy.  No, I don’t have a poolboy (or a pool, actually), but I save little doggie lives daily, and THAT makes for the limp hair and eye baggage.   

So please, Wives of the Hood…when you see me at the grocery store, there’s no reason to do the “up and down look” and feel sorry for me in my jeans and tshirt.  While you’re tanning at the salon, I’ll be home…saving lives, cracking jokes, and not worrying about whether the Matrix is jackrabbiting the coffee cart girl. 

After all, real men like real boobs.  And real women like queso.