The awesomest insult ever

I was the oldest, and therefore the coolest, when we were growing up. I pretty much ignored my sisters through high school. I was the first to get a driver's license and apartment and live in the big city.

But I was also the first-born and had the strictest rules, so I couldn't drive farther than to Wilmington or Myrtle Beach, but my sisters were allowed to drive halfway across the state to see me. When I moved to Raleigh after college, my house became party central for Frink girls from Shallotte. And I was supposed to watch them.

Of course I didn't watch them. I bought them beer and let them do whatever they wanted. Because I was the coolest.

Both of them descended on my apartment one night in 1993, and we went to see Chris Connelly from the Revolting Cocks and Ministry doing an acoustic set with Frankie Nardello from My Life With the Thrill Kill Cult at the Fallout Shelter.

Because it was acoustic, we all sat on the floor listening, and I was in awe of the hot, Scottish rivet that is Chris freaking Connelly. After they played to the very small house, CC made his rounds talking to people. So when he got to Jill and me, I was nearly breathless.

But then Jill, with her dreadlocks, piped up and said, "So, are your dreads real or from beeswax?"

"Beeswax," Chris FREAKING Connelly replied.

Jill told him that was cheesy. And I ran away, embarrassed.

Amy was holding her own with the boys chatting her up in the corner. Jill and I let her do her thing as we went to play pool, keeping an eye on her (she was 18) and occasionally yelling, "Amy, get away from the frat boy."

Jill and I were very into our pool game. We noticed one particular out-of-place-looking, long-haired, muscle-shirt-wearing guy checking us out and bitched among ourselves: "Ewww! He is so going to talk to us!" "Oh my god, here he comes!"

The guy approached us and asked, "Have either of you ever played this before?"

Jill and I completely abandoned character and went right back to our redneck roots. After we stopped laughing, we gave homeboy props and went back to our game, finishing a good half-hour later.

And to this day, "Have either of you ever played this before" is part of our vernacular.

Just when you think you really know someone

I was telling a co-worker that I won't hate on NASCAR because my Daddy watches the race every Sunday.

"Who's his favorite driver?"

And you know, I drew a complete blank. I have absolutely no idea who my Daddy's favorite driver is. I know his favorite color, his favorite beverage, his favorite fishing spot and his favorite Beatles movie. How can I not know who his favorite driver is?

I don't even know who his arch-nemesis driver is, because he refuses to put stickers on his truck window. Without a visual of Calvin peeing on a number, I have no frame of reference.

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There's also the time I actually drove a stock car; it's way harder than it looks. :)

Thinking about Della Reese, because I was touched by an angel

Now that I'm back in the world of full-time employment with benefits after eight years as a contractor, I've been catching up on those things I used to take for granted: Doctor visits.

Today, I went to a general practitioner for the first time in five years since my beloved GP, Dr. Feelgood ("Cramps? Here's a scrip for muscle relaxers"), closed her practice.

Seems I've developed old-man-level high cholesterol.

PA: So you need to stop smoking, drinking and eating fatty food and start exercising.

Me: No s@$t. Now give me my prescription.

(I did not actually say that. And she would not give me a magic bullet.)

I left in a bad mood, imagining how tomorrow I will completely change my life, and how freaking boring that life would be without delicious takeout food.

A little old lady was waiting for the elevator. She was four-foot nothing and her fancy pocketbook was nearly as big as her. When the elevator arrived, I, being the sophisticated urbanite who's worked in high-rises, noticed that it had an up arrow, meaning it was going to visit the fourth and top floor before going back down. I stood back as she got on, and she put her hand on the side of the door to stop it from shutting and called to me, "Going down, honey?"

I wanted to say, "It's not going down, ma'am," but I, in an unsnarky moment, went and joined her in the elevator.

As the elevator travelled to the fourth floor, I realized how freaking hot it was in there, further fueling my internal foulness.

"Gracious," my fellow rider said, "they must not have turned on the air conditioner in here."

I freaking hate talking about the heat. "Hot enough for ya?" could be the question that drives me over the edge. The police report accompanying my eventual assault charge will contain witness accounts of me screaming "No! It is not hot enough for me! I am only happy when the asphalt melts my tires!"

"Yes ma'am," my breeding led me to respond. "It's too hot in here."

""Wouldn't it be something if we got trapped in here? Just us two white-haired ladies." *

It was perfect timing. Right after she said it, the elevator opened to the lobby. She stepped out and said, "You have a great day, honey."

"You have a better one, ma'am!" I called after her as she walked out, toward the hot parking lot, wishing I could go wherever she was going and be best friends forever.

*My hair is currently bleached platinum. I pray it goes snow white someday and I can rock it like her or my great-aunt Louise, our family’s original rebel. :)

Now it all seems funny, kinda like a dream

My best friend and I were underage but had been going out in Myrtle Beach regularly since we were old enough to drive. We knew where to go and what to say easily by the time we were 20.

We had figured out that if we went to expensive restaurants and showed that we knew what to order, we would get served. It didn't hurt that she worked in an expensive restaurant and all the Myrtle Beach 20-something wait staff knew each other at least by face from hanging out at the same local bars.

So we were at a fancy-pants restaurant one night, and my friend told the waiter that we were celebrating my 21st birthday and ordered a bottle of wine.

It was a mafia-style steakhouse, dimly lit with high-back, red, leather booths, so even though they could hear us, we couldn't see the group in the adjacent booth. All we heard was a mixture of drunken West Coast and English accents yelling, "Yeah! 21! Happy Birthday, baby." And snickers.

And we bitched loud enough for them to hear about how much we hated tourists.

Our waiter brought a bottle of Moet White Star we hadn't ordered and said, "Happy birthday from LA Guns."

"Who?" I asked too loudly.

"The gentlemen in the next booth," he responded.

Having been raised by my Sainted Southern mother, I was compelled to stand up and look over the booth and say "Thank you."

Thankfully, they were closing out. As they walked past us, my friend and I raised our glasses and said, "Thanks again!"

When they were out of our sight, we started laughing and making Poison and cover band jokes.

A few weeks later, I was sitting at the bar of the restaurant where she worked. It was nearly midnight and I was waiting for everyone to close out so we could go out. The bartender set the television to "Headbanger's Ball."

And there they were.

So LA Guns, if you're still living and reading this, I want to thank you again for the champagne. I really like "The Ballad of Jayne."