Burning A Hole In My Pocket

Let's start by telling you, I'm divorced. Well, one of me is. Three years out. Buh bye baby. Momma misses you. Not. 

So, I uprooted my life. I moved to where it isn't always warm. The nights are cold, the grass is soggy from the ice melting, I only own flip flops, which can become a problem. 

So here's the issue. I hocked his wedding ring. I lost mine a long time ago surfing. I have no money. No prospects of money. Sometimes I babysit (if I haven't partied the night before). I did apply for a "real" job. Once. It's a good thing I didn't get that job. It's corporate. Rules don't apply to me. I think it's stupid to listen to anyone but God. And by God I mean the Sun. 

So the ring produced a little windfall for yours truly. Where do I spend it first? Not on bills. Not on rent. I live with my ninety five year old grandmother. She's got that one covered. She's not paying out of her pension. She paid for our little dollhouse with blood, sweat and tears a long time ago. The only thing she uses currency for is Virginia Slims. Word up.

So, back to what to do with my new found fortune? First I buy a case of beer, a pack of smokes (I think it might have been two for one) and over tip the bartender for each drink.

I wake up the next morning perplexed by my flashing phone from 5am from someone from the Left coast and an array of my prettiest panties splashed all over Gramma's floor.  The door is wide open, the dog is next to me, this can't be good. I check the phone. Many sent messages in the form of pictures. Pictures of panties. Sent out to an old boyfriend who I conncected with through faceboook.  Oops. He did like them. Three different txts told me so...

I still have money left over. My Mom told me the only thing to cure this kind of hangover is Mickey D's. It worked. I got a second wind and called my bff demanding her to take me to the local "toy" store. You know, video/magazine shop. The kind where there are no windows and the door is covered with white paper. That kind.

She agrees, first we drive the kids around, do a few errands then it's my turn. I'm antsy. I have been divorced for three years and I'm not easy like Sunday morning. 

We walk in the an array of shady, greasy, disheveled characters. Lot's to look at. My friend was rushing me. She wanted to wait in the car. I said, "No! and No means No." I needed some time, there's a lot of choices. I mean, you don't just pick any old shlump to be your boyfriend. You gotta make sure he's perfect, if not perfect, at least in working order. 

So I chose. We are waiting in line. The guy in front of us tried ten different credit cards which were DECLINED before he found one that would work to buy his torso in a box a.k.a. a pocket puss. I try and get out of line to look at dirty dreidels. My friend kicked me twice, she said she was only to trip me. I almost came made contact with the man with the box of torso's. I shudder at the thought. She pointed with delight at the locked glass case to our right and said, "Look, they sell glass bongs here." "They're not bongs..."  "Oh."

It's my turn. I call the guy behind the counter "sweetie" he asked me if I need batteries. "You betcha, toss 'em in. I am made of money." For now.