South Dakota is So Very (day 46)

This is my car, but I have a blackish purply sport edition. At least, this is what my car looks like today, never mind what tomorrow brings. My fingers were painfully numb by the time I pulled into the G*damn parking lot this afternoon. Por Que? The wind whipping through the freaking willows almost huffed and puffed my car off the road. Not once. Not twice. Try upwards of twenty times, the worst being right when I drove over the first bridge leaving Sioux Falls.

This begs the nagging question, yet again, why the h-e double toothpicks do people live here? Why I ask (insert image of me violently shaking my fists to the sky). Being from Minnesota I thought moving here wouldn't be really all that different. I mean, it's aint no "Minnie Apple" as the great advertisers of the 1970's were trying to dub my hometown (that's Minneapolis, kids), but I was a silly little bunny to think I could adjust.

Sure, I could've taken-up residence in Brookings and saved myself the agravation. The thing is, when I was looking for an apartment (while still living in Manhattan) all I saw were fugly single-level homes for rent. Nuh-uh. Plus, I can handle driving, I thought, it'll give me time to catch up on National Public Radio and books on cd. Rrrright. Back in November of last year me and my beloved (R.I.P.) VW Golf got our collective arses handed to us when an ice storm flung us straight into the ditch. There I was, on the phone chit-chatting away when I felt my tires spinning ferociously (on a freeway, no less) and nothing much happening. 'Is my transmission finally dying' I thought until I swung around doing almost a 180 and ended up in the ditch. I drove it just enough to turn around on the freeway and find a hotel for the night. But first, wearing a too-short dress for the season, with a bladder full of Starbucks, I had to squat right in plain view of the road, headlights wizzing past (wizzing being the operative word here). I suddenly empathized with my dog who on bitterly cold days sometimes passed on the opportunity to use the outdoor facilities, preferring my living room rug instead.

I digress.

All I am asking, dear spirits of good luck, is please just help me get through the next 46 days WITHOUT crashing my car. Pa-leze. I've been a relatively good girl. I brush my dogs teeth every night (ow, typing that out makes me wonder if that isn't kinda creepy), I give to the ASPCA and other orgs that allow me to make tiny donations (give me a break, I have tons of student loan debt already), I don't litter, I fake-laugh at boring jokes when appropriate and I only make sarcastic comments to students when they deserve it, just do me this one favor (or Favre, as I like to say). Afterall, haven't I been through enough? Thank you. Amen.

If You Like Pina Coladas (Day -47 and counting)

Since I began my commute down the colorless plaines I find myself analyzing song lyrics to the most random songs. Today's theme: infidelity with a side of casual sex. Featured song: "Pina Colada" by Rupert Holmes.

First things first, like many of you in my general age group I know you grew up with this song playing tirelessly on the radio. I can also guess that, like me, you probably even sang along to it, knew it almost word for word. But, I doubt that you ever really stopped (or cared to stop) and really listen to the lyrics. Why would you? You have better things to do...right? Obviously, when trapped in my car two hours (total) a day I am a captive audience. The song, "Pina Colada" pretty much left me with my mouth gaping open.

What was it with the seventies? I've read stories and seen movies about "key parties" and "swingers" and I am still left scratching my head. These people with their unruly body and facial hair, their love for anything Karma Sutra and bathrooms stocked with various oils and lotions. I get it. But take a closer listen to the lyrics to the song "Pina Colada" and you will see how truly skeezy the folks in this song were. Here, I'll save you the fun and summarize. This seventies guy is laying in bed reading the paper while his "lady" that he was "tired of" was sleeping when he found a personals ad. After reading the ad, and being intrigued by her desire to have someone who likes to "Make love at midnight in the dunes of the cape," he replied and set-up a meeting the next day at noon at a bar so they could "plan our escape."

Then he gets to the bar, waits with "high hopes" when in walks his own "Lovely Lady." She says "Oh, it's you" and they share a laugh. Then he realizes he didn't know that she shared his love for pina coladas, getting rained-on, the feel of the ocean and casual sex. Then it was all happily-ever-after.

I know it's a fantasy (insert Aldo Nova "Life is just a fantasy, can you live that fantasy life" lyric here) but it's creepy and gross. Am I wrong here? Both were willing to cheat and bust each other cheating with a complete stranger (personal ad, in the seventies, isn't that fodder for porn plots). Then, they blow it off and think it's funny? Really....

Then, cut to scene: rumpled moist sheets twisted around hairy toe-knuckles, orange and brown-patterned bedspread barely covering two splayed lumpy bodies and the aroma of aqua-net and stale cig smoke hanging low in the already spicy air. Not attractive seventies people, not in the slightest.