I Lose a Lot of Shit

Oh, you guys! I’m so high right now! I just found my Alicia Keyes CD and I’m completely excited!

So I just got back from a birthday trip to Las Vegas with my sister. And over the course of the week, I’ve realized that a few of my things have gone missing. Scary things like my checkbook and things that piss me off like my iPod and annoying things like my passkey into my office. And all week long, I’ve had this rock in the pit of my stomach over that stuff, for fear of what might have actually happened to it all.

I remember having my checkbook before we left, so I could go to the bank and cash a check. I mean, everyone needs cash in Vegas, right? And I remember having my iPod at the hotel because my super-cool, awesome younger sister Marty and I went to the hotel gym one morning (as if walking the 40+ miles per day up and down the strip was not enough, I was all like, “Yes, let’s run! And Exercise! Because we will consume lots of alcohol and it will make us feel Virtuous!”) So I know I had it then but I also have a sneaking suspicion that I had it when I got home but I just can’t quite remember. And I know I had my passkey my first day back at work because everyone made fun of me for carrying it around on a lanyard. How all three items disappeared at roughly the same time is a mystery to me.

I’ve looked for them all week with no luck and I was lamenting this fact to my friend, Phranke (again, name is another story for another day), over lunch one day. As an aside, I’ve lectured her for a couple of years now about how she needs an iPod because it will change her life. And a few months ago she bought one and sure enough, it has changed her life. (I was right!) We often talk about new songs we bought and the latest place we’ve discovered it helped us. So at lunch I tell her about my loss and how I’m really kind of worried about it and how I’ve looked in gobs of places to no avail.

We had a tiny little prayer session right before I got in my car, about finding my stuff. And she left and I proceeded to tear my car apart looking for my goodies.

You guys! I found a penny! And some gas pills (I don’t know either . . . .) And a French fry. The funny part about that? I haven’t had French fries from a fast food place in YEARS. And there sat one, under my driver’s seat, looking exactly as it would if I had just bought it. I mean, it was kind of hard and all, but it looked exactly the same as a fresh one. No mold. No fungus. What is this crap we put in our bodies and wonder why we are fat and have health problems?

It was when I shoved my passenger seat forward that I struck gold. Two CDs sat there, all shiny and round. Cat Stevens (again, I don’t know either. It wasn’t even the Greatest Hits album.) and my Alicia Keyes that has been missing for months! Oh the excitement!

See, I got my heart broken about 7 months ago. I can talk about it now, but up until recently, I was one hot mess. I’ve never had the pleasure of someone ripping my heart from my very chest, throwing on the ground, grinding it into the pavement with the toe of a steel-toed boot and taking a shit on it. That was then. This is now and I am an Experienced Woman. Sadly. And in my virgin state of heartbreak, I figured that nothing could be better for me than some Alicia Keyes, all bitchy and in-your-face about what a lying sack of dog shit you are. (No one can rock the love song like Alicia Keyes, but she can also rip you a new one verbally if you hurt her. I like the duality.) Specifically, she has one song where she practically spits the words out and it is thumping and awesome and just so vindictive! And for the last few months I wanted that song, over and over, on repeat at top volume so I could ride down the interstate on my way to work and sing it as loud as I could to every man that dares pass me in my Hyundai Sonata. Because every man is the asshole. Especially in rush hour traffic in Nashville on a Monday morning.

Last month when we had the “blizzard” and the whole city shut down and traffic moved at approximately ½ mile an hour for 2.5 hours, I made my boss (whom you should know is the closest thing to a man in my life at this juncture) drive my car to his hotel (long story, another time). And because he was gracious enough to drive us, I played the part of Nice Passenger who would DJ our way home, for entertainment purposes. I very much wanted to torture him with some Christian funk or some Bill Withers or best of all, Alicia Keyes. And I was certain that her shouty CD was in my glove box and I just couldn’t find it amongst all the other CDs in there. So I emptied my glove box, finding embarrassing things like Soulja Boy, Nelly, something labeled XXX, that in retrospect I should have played on my own and not in front of my boss (Nine Inch Nails, Closer anyone? Or Buckcherry, Crazy Bitch? I’m pretty sure I’m fired.) I think he was slightly relieved because I might have been a little too vocal about my affection for her shouting and spitting and general disdain for men, particularly in that one song. Not anymore, ladies and gentlemen! Now I am again, the proud owner of one Miss Alicia Keyes (isn’t she a Mrs. now?) and her venom.

And Monday, I will pick up my boss at the airport and I will give him a moment to put his bags in the trunk, adjust his seatbelt and settle in. Then I will turn on my stereo, put the song on repeat and sing to him about what a sorry excuse for a human he is, because he has a penis. “Fuck you, Bossman” I will sing. “I hate you, you pus-filled sack of worm guts. You broke my heart and are good for nothing except giving me a paycheck.” Awesome. I’m sure he will be thrilled and more than ready to promote me at the nearest opportunity. Poor guy. He puts up with a lot from me, and really, he is a pretty great boss.

In totally unrelated news, while I was having my RO session with my brand newly-found Alicia Keyes CD, I found my checkbook. In my glovebox. Which had been there the whole time, even during the “blizzard” when I emptied that stupid glove box to find the much-needed Alicia Keyes CD. Turns out it helps if you actually have the light on when you look for stuff in your car. Who knew?

One down, two to go.

CLARIFICATION:  This was written a couple of months ago when I was still a bit raw.  I really don’t hate men.  I kind of dig them, actually.  But I’m nothing if not true to my feelings so this post goes in.  It was truth at the time it was written.

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