Almost True

So, I was minding my own perfectly good business on the way to an afternoon appointment for a major job. It’s the sort of gig that guarantees The GM can continue to pay bills through the following spring . In other words, the meeting was Important. I wasn’t worried though. I was dressed to the nines, feeling confident, and in all regards I was good to go.

What a gorgeous fall day! The fragrant breeze carried bird song and a few lazy clouds across the sky. I was traversing a country highway in my trusty Sante Fe, cranking a little Dre with the top dropped down and the sunshine shining. As the wind raced through my silky golden tresses, I couldn’t help but muse that it was one of those kinds of days when everything is so perfect you feel invincible. Nothing, and I do mean NOTHING could rob me of my confidence, my rock solid self assurance, dare I say of that certain ‘joo no say kwa’ of mine that many attempt to imitate, but few can carry off.

Well, when you throw down a challenge like that, sometimes the Universe feels obliged to respond.

Out of nowhere, something struck me in the face at 65 MPH. Ow! My brain didn’t even have time to fully process the question, “What the fuck!?!?” before my hands jerked the wheel. I crossed into the wrong lane, weaving like Lindsey Lohan on a coke fueled bender. Suddenly the ‘what’ became painfully apparent. You see, a kamikaze bee flew in the window, smacked me in the face, and fell down the front of my shirt into my bra. Outraged by the indignity of going from pollinating flowers (or whatever the fuck it is bees do in the fall) to a sudden imprisonment of cleavage, it began to sting the ever living shit out of my femininity. OWWWW!!!!

Ah, that the story would end there.

As I am some times known to do, I happened to have a road smoke lit. Well, in the confusion of the bee tragedy, I dropped the damn ciggie into my lap. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a pair of summer slacks that must have been made out of one part candle wicking threads and five parts propane fuel accelerant. The cherry sparked off what seemed at the time to be a conflagration in my crotch.

“MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!!!!”

Like a smart ass, some calm part of my brain delivered a line from that old PSA commercial, “Smoking Kills.” Thanks, Mr. Subconscious. Could we maybe save the lecture for later, please?

But the story doesn't end there.

I weave back across the road, narrowly missing the car traveling behind me as I desperately sought the shoulder. Some bitch honks at me. Hey, I’m getting stabbed, being burnt, and frankly, I got no time for a turn signal, lady.

I bail out of the truck, one hand up my shirt, and the other down my pants, wriggling around like I was in some sort of epileptic Dance, Dance Revolution tourney. I relieve myself of the bee, and of the cigarette. Yeah, there’s a hole in my slacks, and my tit hurts, but I emerged victoriously alive. Take that, Gods of Fate! In Yo Face!

It’s then that I realize the chick I almost ran off the road has pulled over to see if I’m okay. Nothing like a good Samaritan, right? I go to wave them off, and it’s then that I realize the concerned citizen is none other than my 2’o clock appointment.

“Um, is everything okay?” she asks.

Ugh.

Moral of the story? Smoking kills and bees are assholes.