Kayden Kross Blog
Bad Day Blues
People sometimes complain that I never have a bad day. I think that it sucks that this is wished on me. There are others who think I’m having bad days when they read what I post on twitter, but really, that’s just what happens when the sarcasm is lost in translation.
So let me share with you, finally, a bad day.
It started with a mechanic who has been trying to date me. Our schedules collide us regularly, this morning included. I wasn’t disinterested, but I wasn’t interested, so we were walking that line where we had exchanged numbers but I wasn’t acting on it. I don’t date. That’s at least half the problem right there. I also ignore my phone, which only serves to ignite the condition. But the remaining half of the problem became clear today when I walked back to my car and noticed a blue rose on the windshield.
Then I walked around to the trunk to grab my laptop and noticed another token of his affection. The thin brake light strip that runs above the handle had been removed. For a moment I freaked out, thinking someone had broken into my trunk (the lock was exposed and my laptop is my most precious possession these days), but on closer inspection, nothing had been messed with. There wasn’t a scratch on the car. The light had been removed with the utmost care. With pure love, really. Then I remembered the last time this happened, with a mechanic, and an easily-fixed missing part of my 17-year-old ride.
The ride was 17. Not me.
But I was probably 19. And I loved that truck. And that part went missing at the perfect time, and next thing you know that mechanic had me in his shop making a hero of him. He just happened to have the thing in stock, for the beat up old truck of a make and model his shop didn’t specialize in. It looked used, like the one I was missing, actually. I may have been so overcome with his masculinity that I blew him.
The current mechanic has been telling me how great he is at working on Mercedes for weeks. If you ever need help with your car, he’d said as he handed me his number, I’m just a phone call away.
He’s been texting to make sure I got that rose all day.
I finally responded that if the rose had been the only surprise on my car this may have gone differently.
After that he stopped texting, not even to pretend to not know what I was talking about.
The breaking-my-car-because-you-can’t-fix-my-real-problems gig just doesn’t work on me (anymore).
So I charged into Starbucks, pissed and violated, imagining my trunk as only a husk of its former self, worried about rainwater running into the defacement. I was too upset to masturbate so I ordered coffee, and a cookie, and plugged the computer in. The nice Starbucks lady offered to heat the cookie and it warmed my heart.
Then she put it up on the bar for me and a hoodlum tried to steal my cookie.
I decided I needed to get out of that part of town. My horse is a couple of hours from here (Sacramento (still)), and I had an appointment to meet with a trainer that had been recommended near the ranch he’s at. I picked up my sister and a friend and we drove, with me bitching for a good fifteen minutes about my car, and the close call with my cookie.
It started raining, which was not unusual, but made the other drivers slow down. I got stuck between a pack of semis and then sped up when I caught a window. 80… 90… 100 miles per hour.
There is nothing out that way. Interstate 5 North of Sacramento is two lanes each direction on perfectly landscapeless land running in a perfectly rigid line. The roads are named things like A, B, C, D… then it starts with DD. I feel this is highly suggestive. The roads perpendicular to them are 1, 2, 3, 4… and so on. They lifted my mood by retelling stories of past road trips. My sister and I talked about how she’s bad luck, and how I only get tickets when she’s in the backseat, and how it’s been five years since I let her in the back seat because the last time I got two tickets two days in a row, and it’s been smooth sailing ever since I rid myself of her passengery.
This conversation happened, of course, as I sped past a sitting cop at 100 mph.
And it had, of course, never occurred to us to maybe not jinx ourselves by talking about it, or at least to switch her to the front seat.
So the moral of that story is I got a speeding ticket. He didn’t even ask first if I knew why I got pulled over. We all knew why I got pulled over. And I didn’t try to talk him out of it or show cleavage because he dropped the clocked speed to 80 to ease up on me and I didn’t want to push my luck right into a reckless driving charge.
Then we continued on, speeding to make up for lost time, agreeing that my sister would never again occupy the backseat, while she continued to occupy the backseat, and I continued to speed.
We met with the new trainer, drove over and saw my horse, fed him apples. Then it was dark. If you’re unfamiliar with roads named after letters and numbers on a perfectly flat grid in the middle of nowhere, they are lacking common decencies, like street lights, and people ride strange things, like tractors, and cows.
I almost hit a cat.
Two houses later I almost hit a kitten, and a possum, at the same time.
Without the time pressure it was enough to slow me to a speed more in range of the posted limit. There is a diner on the way back that I hit every time, because any restaurant with homemade peach cobbler and huckleberry shakes is worth visiting to excess.
Chelsea had a difficult order, which made me feel bad when I placed a slightly less difficult order, but difficult nonetheless. In the spirit of reconciliation I smiled up at the waitress, whose face was twisted, one corner of her mouth grimaced in pain and the other pointing down in anger. She did not smile back.
I said, it’s ok if you want to spit in our food. I would too.
She sorta smiled, but probably more because she’d already planned on it, or was even thinking it at that exact moment, and everyone gets a kick out of irony.
The food came.
Mine had a pubic hair on it. It’s possible that it wasn’t actually a pubic hair, but more likely, the tightly coiled brunette lock of a short-haired cook, but either way these things are suspicious when found in food. It wasn’t even convincingly mixed in. It was centralized, glorifyingly abreast the highest point of elevation on the chicken. It was backlit. Art department couldn’t have placed it better.
I consulted my sister on the matter, who is also a waitress, and we discussed the best course of action. I didn’t want to be the douche who sent it back, or the one who had it taken off the bill, but I didn’t want to be the douche who ate a plucked pube with a hair-light either. I looked for accompanying spit. It was hard to tell.
I was reminded that I couldn’t actually complain about any spit found on the plate, having done everything short of ordering the spit in the first place.
In the end I decided to let the waitress decide the best course of action, and I just tipped excessively. We made a pact not to ask for anything else for the rest of the meal, and my sister ate with her hands when she realized she had no fork.
So now I’m sitting at a different diner, worrying about water collecting in my trunk, rusting the lock, and sorta having the second half of a dinner to make up for what I was scared to eat earlier. I’m also mulling over the texts about the rose, and mulling over how it has made me a bitch, for not acknowledging said rose.
The thing is, if I acknowledge the rose, it’s gonna be in a police report, where I’m maybe gonna at the same time see what can be done about that ticket and the cookie thieves. I’m still willing to shoulder the blame for the tainted food.