Well... I spoke with Turbo.
No, no, no, not about that!
It turns out I'm not pregnant. I just have issues with stress, and...
... okay, bloating. I don't want to get into that right now.
I found out in the ER at St. Joe's. Courtesy of While You're Down There, Doc.
That's the name of the routine Suki and I have developed to compensate for the fact that the temp agency offers really sucky health insurance.
We'll give each other a cut or a bruise, nothing major, or we'll get something lodged somewhere - you don't need to know the details - and we'll rush one another to the emergency room.
While the doctor is stitching or swabbing or--gah--extracting, we'll say, "While you're down there, Doc, could you also look at this?"
I don't recommend the practice if you're not cute and a girl. There are definitely advantages that come with that combo.
Also me and Suki have stopped doing it now that we've found out that emergency room treatments aren't free.
Don't let it be said we didn't go out on a high note: "While you're down there, Doc, could you see if I'm pregnant?"
He did, and I wasn't.
Oh, anyway, back to Turbo.
I hunted that fucker down to make him pay for removing the scratches from the door of my Hyundai. With trying to hire new girls, I've been even more strapped for cash than usual.
We met down in Hollywood, at that same In-N'-Out where we had our little rendezvous.
And NO, we didn't do it again.
Okay, we did mess around some, but that's not important...
He refused to pay to fix my car door. At which point I was ready to zip him up and tell him to go fuck himself, but then he surprised the hell out of me.
He made me an offer for the Hyundai. Twelve hundred bucks. Okay, yeah, that wasn't much, but I was desperate.
Plus the car really was a piece of crap.
So I finished what I was doing--which took way too long and I think may have aggravated my repetitive motion disorder--got Turbo tucked in and squared away, and had him drop me off at the subway station at Hollywood and Highland.
Which was a complete circus. I should have had him take me to the station at Vine.
Have you ever tried to negotiate the sidewalk around Hollywood and Highland? It's like some Third World bazaar! Only instead of people getting in your face and trying to sell you rugs and gourds and crap, it's people in shitty superhero costumes getting in your face and trying to make you hand them money for looking retarded.
I was still in my stuffy work clothes, which made things worse. Pantyhose and suits do not mix well with hot sun and pushy crowds.
I didn't just feel clammy. I felt like a clam.
The first obstacle I had to get past was the guy drumming on the big plastic pails.
I get migraines enough when it's just the clamor of my own thoughts deafening me. I don't need any outside help.
Don't get me wrong, the guy's great at what he does. He just happens to have honed a talent that is head-splittingly annoying.
Then I had to push my way past all the bargain basement superheroes, cheesy movie mascots and celebrity impersonators.
Let's see, there was a Superman, two Batmen, a pathetic Hulk with green bodypaint over a beer belly, four Captain Jack Sparrows, three ugly Marilyn Monroes, a seriously faded Spongebob, a puffy Iron Man--he was new--and a Supergirl who looked like she may have been pushing fifty.
Oh, and an idiot wearing an AC/DC shirt with a Butt-head mask. (Jesus, does anybody even remember Beavis and Butt-head at this point?)
I didn't see him at first. In fact, I almost tripped over him.
As I was pushing my way through this cavalcade of freaks, I felt something brush past my leg. I thought it was a small dog or--knowing Hollywood--a large rat.
Then I tried to take a step and felt something literally grab at my ankle.
I looked down, and there was Butt-head on all fours. Clutching at my leg, pulling at my pantyhose and trying to get a look up my skirt.
I kicked him as hard as I could. Which was apparently pretty hard, because his rubber face scrunched up and blood started to drip from his nose hole.
There was a big scuffle, and some cops were called over.
Long story short, I almost got myself arrested.
Turns out Butt-head wasn't a pervert at all. He was on his knees looking for a dropped contact lens.
I felt awful. I offered to pay the guy's medical bills, but he said we'd be square if I treated him to a cup of coffee.
His name is Roger. And with the big rubber mask off he's actually kind of cute.
Well... if you can get past the swollen, bloody nose.
Love you! See you all soon!
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