Of Carwashes And Fairy Godmothers

Washed BB for only the second time in five years earlier this week. Dad used to say at his reluctance of car washes that it was only the dirt that was holding things together so I’ve gone with that. Gospel. He also just didn’t want to spend the money. Gospel twice. Said to one of the kids, of two, headphones squashing wild hair outside the exit with rags in hand, “All good on the wipe down dude, I’m just gonna go” and he smiled head bouncing little bounces to not out loud tunes, until I handed him a five spot. Cans off mid bounce … “Thanks”. It doesn’t sound like much I know, but I think it was commensurate with a six dollar car wash and it gave him and his pal a break of unnecessary rags with a still tip in hand.

“Holy crap, that’s what folks in my rearview look like?”

I only went through and splurged on the six bucks, yes splurged, with ya Dad (the fiver simply being what you do having surely been there done that) because I actually had a cash dollar in my wallet for the tip, not just “credit or debit?” and because I really no longer knew what cars in my rearview looked like. Really.

Plus, I wanted to get back to the house with a clean back window to apply the Pirates decal that had arrived in the mail at the station earlier in the day. Maybe they’ll get their shit/greed together so I can finally have a pitchers and catchers mental Spring soon but, until then, at least I’ll be prepared. Are there things that are more important? Of course. Are there things that are more important? No. Back windows and Pirate decals are huge. Gotta compete with annoying stick figure families somehow (though stick figure cats and dogs are pretty cute).

I had gotten an email notification while at work from that big place that sometimes goes into space to prove that size and the dollars that made it possible are uselessly meaningful in rich bald minds that a package had arrived. I was excited. My important back window had been lacking for so long of a new Pirates decal and I was feeling Christmas, or Valentines as it is around that time of year and you know I heart my Buccos.

When I went downstairs and checked the mailbox though, there wasn’t just a package from the bigger space dick, there was also a card along with all the magazines to not be read in the station’s empty waiting area. A red one. Christmas/Valentines indeed, even though no one sends cards anymore, to my mother’s diminishing sighs, but there was a one with my name on it, in the prettiest of hand written pen you ever will see. Some I’ve heard tell call it cursive but that’s close enough to make you think curses. Who uses language like that?!! So rude. Let’s ban it!!

I layed it down next to my keyboard to remind me to take it home like that one elementary school Valentine you held on to hoping it might be the one. Jenny? Really? Could it?

I like surprises and the anticipation of them, though I guess that partially defeats the purpose, but still I waited until I got home to my furry girls to open it.

It was ice cream! A gift card to the DQ! I love ice cream, like, who doesn’t love ice cream (unless you’re a weirdo living in your weirdo not liking ice cream weirdo kinda world) and it was enough ice cream to be TWO ice creams!


I have this group of friends, I call them my Mikey Six. Friends who call you back or actually don’t call you back but always have really good reasons for not doing so, so it’s alright, that I run stuff by without getting summarily dismissed and one of them has a Mom, Momma Piper, who cursives really well in her cursives or curses really well in her seeming cursing of cursives, or whatever, so confusing, who has designated herself my fairy godmother.

I’ve never had a fairy godmother. Ok, there was that one time at WVU where l wasn’t aware that the brownies weren’t your run of the mill brownies and that girl was soooo pretty … and purple … and had wings … and tried to eat my face and … no, not a fairy godmother at all. She was mean.

I have now though an actual fairy godmother. A one who’s not flying face eating mean purple and who sends me ice cream, in cards that no one sends anymore, red ones, like Christmas Valentines, like the Jenny that didn’t happen (apparently the card I held off to open until I got home wasn’t from her, it was just from Billy at the desk next to mine ’cause he thought it was funny – not funny Billy, not funny at all) but I’ll take it.

Hearts and Santa’s and spoons for a sundae, or two, to that.

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