Thursday, May 4, 2017

My ex: Bobblehead Stacy.

She was in her Nissan Murano.  Had the tunes going.  Old Society Hill Road.  On the way to Darlington.

Then boom.  She hit a dog.  A big damn dog.

Concerned, she stopped and clamored out of the vehicle.  Seeing the hurt animal, she started crying.  Tears still streaming, she tried to pull the wounded animal to the shoulder of the road, and the stupid dog bit her.

Long story short, she got an inflated estimate from a body shop to fix the damage on the Murano, because, again, it was a damn big damn dog.  She got a death threat on Facebook.  (animal lives are so dreadfully important to those people.)  Geico cut her a check minus the deductable, and she still walked away with a few hundred.  With the only problem being, the body shop wouldn't do the paintwork.  By this time, she had spent all her money at Ollie's and Dollar Tree, buying previously viewed DVD's and so forth.

So she got a title loan lien against the title for the Murano to take the thing to Maaco(and buy more previously-viewed DVD's and camoflauge baseball caps and such).  Then she had to decide about an Easter Break hairdo or taking the kid to get a tooth fixed.

I know.


But we're talking a game of inches here.  It takes gas to go to the dental surgery in Florence, and that gas costs money, and then there is Arby's for the trip, and it adds up to a fair sum of money, which she could instead spend on a new hairdo.  Meanwhile, her mother spent a few days eating Pampa-brand canned peaches and Fancy Feast so she could afford to get her own hair done.

And still, income tax time was a whole year away again.

Tax time is white trash Christmas.

And she doesn't carry a regular woman's purse either, which is good because she rarely has money, but instead she has some kind of crazy canvas beach bag with a drawstring.  Dead cards, her driver's license, cell phone and at least one extra pack of Camels.  The sex?  She was hell on the good guys.  I always went away happy.  Ready enough to leave, but happy just the same.

Sometimes you just want to fall on your knees, lift your hands skyward and shout:  WHAT IS WE GONNA DO?

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