Boob Jobs and Bad Hair Days

I leave my van outside on the driveway every day. It’s not that I don’t have room in the garage, or that the garage is too messy (although that status changes daily) for me to pull in. It’s that I don’t have a remote garage door opener. I bought one from Sears and programmed it, but learned that the sensors are misaligned or something. Look at me being all technical. I really have no freaking clue what’s wrong with it. I don’t even know if it has sensors! I just make stuff up so I seem smart. I suppose admitting that I make stuff up to sound smart isn’t all that smart though. Hmmm.

Anyway, none of that really has anything to do with this blog post anyway.  All you need to know is that I park my van outside and in the morning, it’s covered in condensation. As I drop my littles off at school, I have the wipers going, trying to clear the windshield, and I have the windows open so I can see out (and so I can cool off because I’m undoubtedly overheated from running around and drinking large amounts of coffee). After I drop the littles off at their school, I roll up my windows and head to my school.

Only today, my window got stuck. I couldn’t get it to go up. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care. I drive with my windows open most of the time. I love, love, love feeling the breeze through my hair. However, when my hair is wet and I’m on my way to work, I generally keep the windows shut to avoid the Roseanne Roseannadanna factor. 

I could feel my hair whipping around and, deathly afraid of walking into school with Donald Trump hair, kept pounding the button to raise my window. But it didn’t budge. I stopped at a red light and frantically tried to smooth my hair down when the DJ on the radio announced that they were giving away boob jobs for Christmas.  Wha…??? Here I am at a stop light listening with fascination to these people talk about wanting boob jobs for Christmas like it was no different than wanting an iPod or a sweater when I glance over at the car next to me. The passengers were looking at me in horror and I wasn’t sure if it was because of my coiffure or the fact that the phrase boob job was loudly bursting from my radio every few seconds.

I wanted to close the window and continue to listen with morbid curiosity, but since the window still wouldn’t move, I opted to change the station lest look like a freak to other motorists. For the rest of my commute, I listened to Bing dream of a white Christmas while the warm Florida air, uh, styled my hair.

When I arrived at work and walked into the office, the secretary smirked.  “I didn’t know Flock of Seagulls was making a comeback.”

I stopped, turned, and looked at her, eyebrow raised. “Just for that, I’m not getting you a boob job for Christmas.”

I love that secretary.