Don’t Practice Santeria

I switched cars with Jed for a few days because mine needed an oil change, tire rotation, yada — all the shit I refuse to do because I consider these ‘guy’ jobs. Don’t talk to me about the sexism in that; I do not care. A few days and a better car later, we needed to switch back. The Kaiser insisted upon eating at Ryan’s, so we met there for a family meal.

I do not recommend you try this. Evaaaar.

I had a lovely buffet dinner that featured stale tortilla chips, cheese sauce, mac ‘n cheese, and mashed potatoes. Oh, oh. And pie. It was depressing, both the cuisine and the clientele. DEPRESSING.

I don't even know what to say.

We make it out unscathed, minus the insistent stomach rumbling and nausea. We say goodbye. I get in my car. I light a cigarette and turn to ensure my work notebook is still in the backseat. Annnnd I see this:

It's just not ok.

The crud on my backseat likewise is not ok, but I have a kid and he’s often… gross. Issue at hand: Someone put this in my car, my sacred space, next to my kid’s  car seat. Being the reasonable woman I am, I naturally text Jed and inquire, “What the fuck is this voodoo monstrosity in my car? What are you dooooing?”

To make an uninteresting story even more uninteresting, turns out some lady at the car dealership gave it to Jed because he’s an “Indian” and therefore must also be Hindu. In any case, my living room boasts stunning neutral decor, highlighted by a shabby-chic Hindu centerpiece.



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5 responses to “Don’t Practice Santeria

  1. Dan

    This is kinda why I needed a cameraphone that day in Kinkos………

  2. JED

    What? You don’t like elephants and naked women?

  3. Toot

    Oh. Fuck no.

    (also I think I just woke up my neighbors laughing so hard)

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