So, I again need to step out of brief hiatus — don’t call it a comeback — to share this story with you.
This morning, I met up with David Conrad at La Prima Espresso in the Strip because he was doing a small favor for me and no, I can’t tell you what it is because then it will ruin the surprise for the young lady he was doing it for.
I woke up knowing I needed to be out of the house with the girl child, AKA Homegrown Terrorist, by 9:45 in order to drop her off at Las Velas before heading over to the Strip to find a place to park.
At exactly 9:45, I was in the bathroom putting the finishing touches on my hair because, hell, I’m going to see David Conrad today; let’s look awesome!
At exactly 9:46, the terrorist walked into the bathroom looking like a clown exploded on her. Apparently I left my makeup bag within reach and she took advantage of that to see how mascara would look as blush (scary), how lip gloss would look on a forehead (sparkly), how eyeshadow would look on a clean white shirt (there isn’t enough Tide in the world), and how loud Mommy would scream if said terrorist wiped filthy hands on the clothes Mommy was wearing to go see David Conrad (AUGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!).
What happened to you!? Did you get into the makeup?! Why are you wiping your hands on me?! What happened to your shirt?! Did you shove the mascara wand up your nose?!
By some Easter miracle, I managed to hit the Strip ten minutes before I was due to arrive at La Prima. Excellent.
Except parking in the Strip means parallel parking. NOT EXCELLENT.
I drove around a few blocks hoping and praying that I could find two spaces next to each other, thus saving myself the pain and embarrassment of the 244-point turn it takes me to shove my SUV into a parallel parking space at an ungodly angle that usually ends up with my front end in the street, my back end up on the curb, and a growing crowd of pedestrians cracking jokes about women-drivers.
Then, ANOTHER EASTER MIRACLE. I found a lot right near Prima and pulled my car in, literally shoved a five dollar bill into some tiny slot meant for coins, and headed for the coffee shop.
David was already there, munching on pizza and drinking a swirly glass of coffee.
We chatted for a bit. Fun small talk. He mentioned he had been in Spain and arrived just that morning from New York and oh, by the way, when we’re done here, can you drop me off at my loft just a few blocks down?
I played it cool and was all, “Sure. No biggie. [finger guns].”
But inside I was all, “Eff.”
SON OF A MOTHERLESS STINKING GOAT OF EVIL SUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Yes, I agree, normally if I had David Conrad inside my vehicle, I would explode with joy before locking the doors and cackling, “MWAH-HAHA! My plan is working perfectly. Don’t fight the drugs, David. MWAH-HAHAHAH!”
But I wasn’t expecting that on this day David Conrad would request to enter my vehicle. He grabbed his coffee to go, said goodbye to the other shop patrons, and started walking with me toward the general direction of my car.
“I’m in a lot over there.”
“Yeah, I, uh, can’t parallel park.”
“It’s a, you know, inner ear thing. [finger guns]. Tell me, when is the last time you were in a car that is normally used to transport young children?”
“Yeah, I’m just warning you, is all.”
So there we were. Me. David Conrad. My vehicle that looked like it had been lived in by a family of rabid trailer trash raccoons.
No place in the back for his bags because I have a big stroller back there, its wheels sticking up in the air like a dead bug.
The back seat was occupied with two booster seats, both covered in stains because, WHY CLEAN THEM WHEN MY CHILDREN ARE JUST GOING TO SPILL CRAP ON THEM AGAIN AND BESIDES, NOT ENOUGH TIDE IN THE WORLD!
Random karate gear, random sports balls, random food/candy wrappers, umbrellas, random bags filled with random crap, and a nice pollen-tinted layer of dust covering the entire dash, which had a Veggie Tales CD inside of it (Where’s God When I’m Scared? Yeah?! WHERE’S GOD WHEN DAVID CONRAD ASKS TO ENTER MY VEHICLE OF SUNDRY DUSTY DOOM?! HUH?!)
Of course, David was a sport. Threw his stuff on top of the booster seats and climbed in the passenger seat. I wound the windows down because the A/C in the VEHICLE OF SUNDRY DUSTY DOOM is broken, but hey, maybe he’ll get so hot he’ll need to take his shirt off. That’d be a win.
He began directing me through the alleys of the Strip toward his loft, at one point sending me through a corridor with such a narrow path due to a garbage container and a parked truck that I was all, “I can’t fit through there,” and he was all, “Just don’t hit anything on your side and I’ll watch my side.”
“Okay, but if we hit, you’re paying for it.” And then in my head I added, because one of us is a famous TV star millionaire who should take his shirt off and one of us is a giant-butted mom-dork [finger guns].
As we arrived at his loft, he directed me to pull behind a parked car near an intersection and then added, “See, no parallel parking! And don’t pull too close and you won’t even have to back up when you leave!”
That guy. He clearly doesn’t understand about the inner-ear thing.
Regardless, I’m sharing this story with you because 1. SQUEEE and 2. I am a dork.
It doesn’t matter who I meet, what I write, who I have coffee with, or any perceived level of local-celebrity status I attain.
It doesn’t matter what I do with my hair, or my makeup or if I’m wearing just the right clothes and feeling particularly good about it, because the universe will always see to it that I’m put in my place and it will always take the time to remind me that I’m just a blogging mom with makeup stains on her pants, driving an unnatural disaster that she can’t parallel park.
And I’m cool with that.