tuesday, bloody, tuesday

As you might imagine, waking up an hour before your alarm is set to go off after less than five hours sleep is a pretty damn fine way to start your day. The only downside of the experience is struggling to fall back to sleep NOW! so you can resume the kick ass dream you were having where you and Zac Efron were the only two people presumed alive on a space colony, and if you think I'm kidding when I say this dream was, indeed, kick ass, then you are so, so, so terribly wrong.

Dig if you will the picture of my dream - Me, rocking the standard post-apocalyptic uniform of well-fitted olive green cargo pants, boots with a million and six buckles, a sheen of sweat to indicate a sexy cocktail of fear, focus and fantasticness (now a word), and a precisely sullied white tank Tshirt to show off my guns (both forearm and firearm). Think Ellen Ripley from the Alien movies (but with better hair) or Sarah Connor from Terminator 2 (but, again, with better hair)(but don't think of Michael Biehn, who costarred with both my dream alter-egos in both Aliens and Terminator). In a non-parenthetical word, I was a bad ass in my dream. Then there's Zac. He may be wearing a leather jacket of some sort. He may not have a shirt on underneath that jacket. I'm not sure, dude, because remember, we're trying to save the world from unseen evil forces. All I do know is he's got those nice little abdominal cuts that I don't know the name of but I like to call them "Hell, yes!", and he may be going on about how we need to save the world and I'm all, "I know, Zac, I'm checking our ammunition supplies!" and he's all, "No. What I mean is we need to repopulate the world. You and me. Now." Then maybe I mumble something about how I'm (finger quotes) "...old enough to be your mom if I got drunk at the Sig Ep party," (finger quotes) but he gently places his index finger across my lips to hush me, which is further indicated when he says, "Shhh. Do you feel that? That's my ammunition supplies..." Then maybe he kisses me. Whatever. Because I woke up then. More than an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off after less than five hours of sleep.

Ahem...

Anyway...

(p.s. Zac Efron is totally legal)

Where was I? Oh, yes. Tuesday was shaping up to be a good day! My dream, coupled with hearing Love and Rockets singing about how my strut makes them crazy (interesting sidebar - Zac may have said the same thing to me in my dream. Coincidence? I think not) playing on the sound system at the bookstore (which, if you have been into a B&N of late, you know is a vast - and quite shocking - switch from our normal overhead music) had me grinning from ear to ear even after the onslaught of kids and parents completely bee swarmed the children's department and, I'm not kidding you, DESTROYED IT!!!

Nothing could dampen the magic of Tuesday, my friends. Not when I had a mythical 30 percent coupon for Kohl's (trust me, those babies are like unicorns. We want to believe they exist, but until we actually see one in person, they're just a fairy tale we pass down from generation to generation) in my purse and a plan to buy some super sexy shoes (10 wide, baby. You know what they say about a chick with big feet...). Not getting excited when the radio DJ teased me by saying he was going to play Cheap Trick's I Want You To Want Me, and then busting out with the ALBUM version of it (which? what? I didn't even know there WAS an album version of this song!) instead of the Live at Budokan version and OMG, the album version sucks ass! I feel like I should be doing a can-can dance in an old time Western bar listening to that. Blech. Blech. Blech. I'd love you to love me and listen to both versions and then just try and defy me. Didn't I, didn't I, didn't I see you crying after hearing that album cut? Yes. Yes, I did.

Back to my perfect day....

Finally, around 2:30 p.m., it struck me that I was hella starving, and while my mind was telling me to head on home and continuing my fantastic day by fixing a delicious peanut butter sandwich (for you, Dave Ramsey. I do it for you...), I somehow found my mini rolling up to the drive-through at my local McDonald's. As I often do when I visit this particular McDonald's, I felt a little dread creeping into my system. You would, too, if you recall the 'Dreaded Furburger Incident of Ought Eight,' but the sun was shining, good moods were to be had, and I went with the flow.

My cheeseburger Happy Meal securely in hand, I rushed home, whistling a happy tune that wasn't the album cut of I Want You To Want Me, and skipped inside to have my late lunch. In a move I now find inexplicable, I decided against my usual routine of putting my (cough) delicious (double cough) meal on a real plate (because I'm a fancy pants)(with big feet), and instead plopped my paper-wrapped treat down at the kitchen table and I proceeded to begin reading Pride and Prejudice and Zombies (and yes, you want to read it)(want to borrow my copy?) while dining. At the start of a new chapter, I put half my sandwich down for a moment, flipped my page, looked down at my lunch, and I screamed the scream of one who would be facing a zombie attack. Why, you ask? Well, dig if you will THIS picture:

See those dark red splotches on the right side of the wrapper? Yeah. THE ONES THAT LOOK LIKE DRIED BLOOD????? That shit (oh, it was NOT shit, btw) was splattered all over my damn cheeseburger wrapper!!! It doesn't take a CSI team to overlook the obvious pool of ketchup to the left and deduce, "Yep, what we have here appears to be the spilled hemoglobin of either a human or an animal. What we're going to have to do is take some samples back to the lab and determine the donor-slash-victim, but it does certainly appear that we're dealing with blood," and it wouldn't be hard to provide them with their samples, because ladies and gentleman, that shit (again, NOT actually shit, but blood)(though I also tried to talk myself into believing it was ink, but no, it is not ink)(also? not salsa) WAS, LET ME REPEAT, SPLATTERED AND DRIED ALL OVER MY CHEESEBURGER WRAPPER!!!! I could flake that stuff off, reconstitute it with a little water, and recreate a horrific crime scene, and if my camera was better, I would break it down for you like Dexter and map out the spatter pattern for you

In an instant, my fantastic day was massacred, and honestly, hours later, I'm still nauseous. Who deserves a break today, McDonald's? Oh, you and I do. You and I are totally breaking up as a result of this. I will miss your Southwest grilled chicken salads, but at this rate, lord knows what kind of hell could be looming for me among the lettuce leaves? I think it's just best we call it a day, McDonald's. You can keep all your Happy Meal toys, just give me back the $2.75 I spent on my ruined lunch. Don't make Zac and I come gunning from you, McDonald's, because seriously, I think there's been enough bloodshed already.

p.s. - I just realized I've written back-to-back posts about fast food hamburgers, as if I've some sort of bizarre love affair with them or creepy obsession. I assure you that isn't the case. I'm obsessed about you. I don't know what color your eyes are, baby, but your hair is long and brown. Kind of like hamburger patties. Did I say I was dreaming about Zac Efron? I lied. I was dreaming about you. Is it late? I'm so tired...