My GPS Doesn’t Like You

Today I was walking my pooch, Hellhound, and I was asked by a rather dashing looking gentleman whether the poop bags in my hand were for the dog.  No sir, I have them in case you need to drop one on the lawn.
There are days that I wish I could eat my own head just to silence the nonsense.   Sometimes in my own house – I hide.  I do.  I’ve hidden in the basement. I’ve hidden in the walk in closet pretending to be searching for shoes that I actually threw out three years ago.  I hide in the bathroom, which I never knew could raise a red flag but apparently according to my husband….girls don’t poop.  Nor do we fart, burp or scratch ourselves.  I consider a mission from God to educate his ass.  My husband, Mr. Magilla travels a lot. I’ll probably see him for a glorious total of six days this month.   If I’m lucky they won’t coincide with PMS days.  He left Sunday and was supposed to get back at 1:30 this morning.  He switched flights and got home at noon which meant I switched plans with my best friend, Bobbi.  She’s Phillipino.  Phillipina?  Whatever.  Her family is from the damn Phillipines.  I’m Irish.  We don’t have qualifiers.   We drink a lot and tell stories.  But we’re not Ireesh if we’re a girl or Irosh if we’re a boy.  We’re just frigging Irish.  The reason I call her Bobbi (I never use real names) is that we were shopping in Bloomingdales one day in sweats and beat up flip flops and ponytails, looking like anything but the Bloomies demographic as we traipsed around the make up counters.  Why?  No idea.  I think I did buy a lipstick I’ve worn once.  But we both enjoy scaring snooty people.  It’s a bonding activity for us.

I was approached fearfully by a saleswoman asking if  I’d like to try perfume.  I asked her if she’d like me to flambé myself on the spot.  We parted ways quickly.   Bobbi over there informs me that she needs her Bobbi Brown concealer stick because it “covers the red”.  You’re Phillipino/a/ish.  Look at my face.  You want to talk about red?   In actuality we usually greet each other more directly.  By the term Asshole.  It’s sweet.

So I canned wine night with Bobbi because Mr. Magilla flew in early.  Within two hours he was driving me crazy.  When he’s gone, my house is perfect.  It’s neat.  Dishes are done.  When he’s home – it looks like a tornado ripped through my house.  He works from home most days so there’s dishes, clothes, papers.  Occasionally if I’m really lucky, I find fishing gear on the table.  Our dining room doubles as his desk.  This is the root of all evil.  93 percent of our fights center around his habits.  I arrived home all smiles and then looked in the kitchen.  No more smiles.

Within two hours I was hiding in the bathroom.  Ok- I was actually dancing.

Mr.  Magilla means well.  He tried to tell me how to go to my weekend getaway.  I informed him there is a GPS in my vehicle. He sneered.

I know what I encounter on my daily commute.  I hate commuting.  Thankfully my commute is 10 minutes.  I do not possess the patience required for a longer commute.  I couldn’t live in a city or work in one.  So Imma stay my ass in the burbs.

In my daily ten minute commute there are at least three people per trip who annoy me. In other driving there’s more.  If I’m going someplace I’m moderately familiar with I put on my GPS, which I call by a different name every day.  Quite often, my GPS tells me to go a route that I know is incorrect.  So now I’m being irritated by that as well.  So texting drivers, know it all GPS, usually a nagging husband and eventually I turn into this….

And you get a clue! And you get a clue. And you!
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