TMI. For Sure.

So, RightHand says I shouldn't tell you all about the time I ALMOST CRAPPED MY PANTS on I-285, but gather 'round, children, because this is the story of how I ALMOST CRAPPED MY PANTS on I-285.

So, remember when I was sick a few weeks back? Possible ulcer, virus, and irritable bowel syndrome (yes, still sounds like a bucket of fun!)? No? How sweet of you.

Anyway, during said life-threatening/fleeting illness, I decided that yes, my hair was much too frumpy and no, I would not tolerate it one more day. So, I made an appointment with Magical Mario (or, in person, just Mario). Mario and I go wayyyy back...literally to 8th grade. He is the best hairdresser in the world because he LISTENS to me, people, in a way no other man has. I say, "Fancy is fine for uh, anyone but me. Make it simple. I have no time for hair stylin'." I mean, c'mon, I can't be stylin' in EVERY single way, now can I? ;) So Mario appropriately makes it something that I can simply wash and blow dry every morning to get the same look, without fail. And I love him for it. As I loved him the first time we met, he ran his fingers through my hair and said, "We can definitely work with this!" in his Spanish accent. He really is Ricky Martin with scissors. Only not gay, oddly enough.

But I digress. So, Magical Mario only works on Wednesdays and Thursdays now- ugh! How does that work with anyone's schedule?! And he is now 1 hr. 30 mins. from me. But I will not be deterred!! I made my 5:30 appointment on Thursday and hit the road after my 3:30 class.

I'm a native Atlantan. I should've known better.

You've all probably heard that Atlanta rivals L.A. year after year for the oh-so-coveted honor of Worst Traffic. And honestly, I always hope we win so that there is some sort of validation for the hell that we frequently experience. Thus, when I say that I-285 looked like this:

I am not kidding.

A semi had caught on fire. You know what else caught on fire? My freakin' intestines. I had to GO, people. GO. IMMEDIATELY. As my sister and I like to say when there is no public toilet to be found in the whole of Europe, "If there were a toilet under me right now it wouldn't be fast enough." True dat.

So, I call RightHand for emotional support. I may not have conveyed that. Instead, I may have been shouting, "I'm going to sh*t myself!!!!!" repeatedly, tears welling in my eyes.
And you all know that RightHand and I are soooo in love, kissey kissey, so what did he do? Comfort me? Oh no. LAUGHED HYSTERICALLY. The man could barely breathe.

All I wanted was reassurance that, if necessary, I could buy new jeans and everything would be fine and he would still love me. Instead, I got angry and frustrated, quickly said "Love you!" and hung up.

I then proceeded to reclaim my rightful spot as the mayor of Crazyville, and honked my way over SEVEN lanes. Thank God people understand road rage emergencies, as they yielded to my aggression, though such action is not an atypical event on Atlanta highways.

I then sped down the SHOULDER of the highway, to the closest exit, breaking all sorts of traffic laws (Red lights?! I don't think so!!) until I flew into the parking lot of the ever trusty Waffle House. God Bless you, WaHo.









I'm fine now. :)