What I’m Riding . . . Is It Me . . . ?

Caught by the Jumbo Tron and I couldn't care less.

Shocker:  most times than not, yes.  It is just me.  I realize that more people than not tend not to think along the same (sane) lines as I do.  To those who do, my apologies, but I’m glad we at least understand each other.  There are some who think like me but who are too who-put-the-ape-in-apricot to admit it.  Trying to be politically correct or seem smart or appear liberal.  I’m not talking about that social side we all have (some of us don’t, oh well) when we need to suppress the inner Beavis when someone asks to sample a Swedish Meatball from the yum yum tray at Glitz and Sticks while standing beside Victor Hedman.  I’m talking what you really think and feel when among friends and family, or just by yourself and being filled by who you really are and what you really believe.  You, my friends, are my let it all hang out bunch.  And it is with no fear that I offer you these scenarios and ask, “Is it me?”

Now the old broad doesn’t look it, but my mom is pushing seventy.  We were at Universal Florida last Tuesday, four gals, me, mom, Arty Party and Funny Girl.  Mom is decked out in her finest Jayne Mansfield pink comfort suit, matching jewelry, including a very chunky pink watch with the breadth of a spiked dog collar.  Some woman comes power walking very close to mom and smacks her hard.  My mom yells, “Ouch!”  As the woman turns to apologize, mom yells out “You asshole!”  Not to the woman, but just yelling it out.  If you’re from Philadelphia you understand this concept.  We don’t address people in anger, we just shout out.  Spill some coffee on yourself at Wawa:  “Son of a bitch!”  The waitress brings you scrambled eggs instead of over easy, like you ordered ’em:  “Moron!” after she walks away and you’re in mid-bite, enjoying your eggs anyway.  So this woman turns around and starts walking back toward us, telling Mom she’s the asshole for wearing such a big chunky watch.  Mom responds that if the woman hadn’t been so close to her, the watch wouldn’t have hit her.  Woman yells something back, so I yell, “Just shut up and keep walking.”  We all part ways, no one’s hurt and we head to buy some souvenirs.  Who shows up in the same store?  Yep.  With her brawny husband and six-year-old son.  AP and I keep an eye on this woman, hoping she won’t spot us and start up again.  We’re like secret service guarding the president, showing Mom a new wall of souvenirs in the opposite corner from the woman, “Ooo, look at these Thing 2 pajamas.”  My imagination starts going:  what if this woman sees us, tells her husband, and he comes over and pops my mom?  What will I do?  I could take on the woman, but not her husband.  Then it comes to me:  her kid.  Her kid is precious to her, her kid is as defenseless as my mother.  If they attack my mother, I’ll take out their kid. 

Okay.  I think Steven is incredibly sexy.  But this . . . so not sexy.  Let me break it down:  Steven and his john are at a table in a restaurant.  He asks her if she’s wearing panties; yes she is.  He tells her to take them off and give them to him.  Okay.  Kinda sexy.  She does.  He puts them in his pocket.  Then he tells her to stick her fingers in her va-jayjay and then slide them in his mouth.  Say what what?  She does, and he kisses her while her fingers are in his mouth and he’s slurping on them like it’s the last remnants of ice cream on a Dove Bar stick.  I’m thinking, when was the last time she peed?  What have her fingers touched before they went from vag to mouth?  Couldn’t she say, “Excuse me, I’ll be right back,” go into the bathroom, give a swipe with a Cottonelle intimate cloth and then get the party started?  It’s like these soaps where people wake up in the morning and start making out before brushing their teeth.  Where people at work have an on the desk quickie and then continue with the workday.  Women, help me out here:  soaked, sticky panties, trickling down the leg:  come on.  Not Sexy.  Why doesn’t Steven’s client just get creative with a celery stick and swish it in his Bloody Mary?  Hey, how about they go home and have sex, then Steven stirs some lemonade with his wooden spoon?  Then they can both be in the mix.

I could care less what you think of me.  I could care less if you’re sleeping with my husband.  Of course you could, idiot.  That’s the idea:  that it’s a big concern of yours if someone doesn’t like you or is diddling the spouse.  Are people who say this just lazy?  Or they’ve heard it so many times they just repeat what they think was said, if the shoe fits wear it, six of one half dozen of the other.  Are we really such sheep?  Lesson:  I couldn’t care less.  That means if you sleep with my husband the act is so insignificant to me that the care level couldn’t be any less than it already is.  And I couldn’t care less if it’s just me.


About whatimriding

Born and raised in Philly, I spent several years in Las Vegas, working at the House of Blues and writing about the city. I now reside in Tampa, where I continue to work on novels, scripts and short stories and tearfully await former Lightning forward Vincent Lecavalier's return to the bay area.
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