Tacky, as in sticky, as in I hate some people

Cat paw prints on a clean car.
Bullet holes.
A golf ball protruding through a rear window.
All of these things are, apparently, frigging hilarious.
Why are people spending thousands of dollars on their cars and then bedecking them with ridiculous adhesives? Wouldn’t the golf ball detract from the overall look of the pricy minivan? The bullet holes take away from the shine of the $70,000 diesel truck? The cat paws dim the glow on that glorious electric blue PT Cruiser?
What’s next? I’ll tell you what’s next. I’m in the process of designing a Wash Me sticker, it’ll be big and scribbly, and it will look like it has been authentically, digitally scrawled into equally authentic-looking grime.
Then, I’m going to get the patent for a bird crap sticker. And this won’t be any bird crap, this will be bald eagle-sized crap, maybe even great blue heron-sized, falling-from-about-3,000-feet crap. Oh, maybe I’ll also get the birds-eating-cherries crap, and you can buy dozens of the little suckers and coat your car with them. Hilarious.
Then, just for kicks, I’m going to get that drove-the-Coquihalla-mid-winter, rock chip for you to put right smack in the middle of the windshield.
I’m literally dying laughing.
Once I’ve perfected these stickers, I might move on up to the vomit sticker, you know, the night out with the buddies, and thank god I rolled down the window sticker.
And after that who knows. I’ve been discussing the idea of an overall road dust sticker. Trouble is, you actually need to wash the vehicle so the adhesive sticks properly.
There’s always the possibility of the parked-under-a-really-sappy-tree sticker, and the hit by the snowplow sticker, but those have to be worked on by a team of scientists. Ideally those add-ons would be texturized so as to give an authentic representation.
But before that, there might be the parked-too-close-to-the-buggy-rack-at-Superstore sticker — imagine this, a nice white streak of paint to strategically place along the front bumper. People will stop to look, they won’t even be able to stand straight it’ll be so funny. They’ll actually ache for four days after laughing at that sticker. What an ab workout.
Finally, as the piece de resistance there will be the ticked-off-some-guy’s-girlfriend-who-got-drunk-and-keyed-obsenities-into-the-hood-of-the-car sticker.
By the time I’m done, people will wonder why they ever bothered with the Garfield tails stuck in the closed car doors. They’ll marvel at the fact actually had the audacity to place the I Break For Bingo bumper stickers on their rears.
It’s all about stickers people, and since there’s no cure for tacky, I’ll likely make a mint.

S-s-scaredy cat

Leaning over the knife block pondering which one to choose, I might have thought I was being ridiculous.
I might have considered the task I had set out for myself was a stupid one.
But that didn’t stop me from pawing at the handles, lifting one up, then another before carefully replacing them all and hefting out the sharpener. Good for impaling eyes, I thought, but iffy. Better off going with the butcher knife—wider handle and less persnickety when it comes to inflicting damage. I’ve seen what it can do to a turkey breast.
The butcher knife went back into the slotted block too, though, when I realized with a sigh that indeed, I could not gut a man. Not even if he was big, hairy and smelled bad.
Like the whimpering woman in the horror flick I would stand before him in my transparent cotton nightie chilled by his hulking shadow, and as I struck out with the knife my hand would tremor, belying my fear, my weakness. And he’d snatch the knife from my slick grip and laugh his awful, sand and gravel filled evil laugh.
And I would die there, humiliated, cold and predictable.
So the knife block remained well stocked as I hunted up another, less obvious weapon in the armory that is my parent’s kitchen.
Second drawer from the top I found it. I’ve used it to form the base for gingerbread men, I’ve used it to hammer bread into crumbs, I’ve used it as a makeshift microphone.
Alas, as I brought it to my nose and inhaled deeply, smelling the beginnings of a pie, I knew I might not be able to stab a man, but I could certainly rolling pin him to death. Back off, bastard, or I’ll flatten you.
And so, as I hefted that splinter-filled braining tool from its comfortable drawer, felt its familiar weight in my hands, I shrugged off the thought that, indeed, I was being ridiculous, that a girl is better off being safe and predictable than armed with only baking tools and an imagination, but that rolling pin found its way down the hall toward the bedroom in my white-knuckled grip.
But what led to this foray into the kitchen armory, you ask?
It was an unremarkable Wednesday, hump day for some, just a Wednesday for this married gal living single while house sitting her vacationing parent’s abode.
A long day at work complete she arrived in the family driveway tired and not a little sick at heart, knowing her beloved hubby was far from this place.
But she has belonged to this home since birth. Like a well-loved blankie, the sight of it is comfort; it is the mushroom soup and grilled cheese sandwich of real estate. Sweat pants, a tattered t-shirt and an hour with Oprah were in store for this working gal. Sounds sad and pathetic to some, idyllic to this plain Jane.
The cat rushed out to greet her as she strode, thoughtless up the walk. Her key went in the lock as usual; zombie like, she strode to the alarm panel to enter her code.
But wait. What’s that noise? The panel is beep, beep, beeping a strange tune. Something is wrong.
She enters her code and the beeping stops, but not before she glances at the panel and it reads: “Alarm triggered. Zone 4.”
Glancing around, the now alert plain Jane sucks in a breath, not knowing where the hell Zone 4 is, but knowing deep, deep, deep in her heart that it should not have been triggered.
She grabs for the phone, dials the alarm guy, is put on hold. All operators are busy. Wait your damn turn potential robbery victim.
Eventually the operator comes on and echoes that indeed Zone 4 has been breached. It happened about an hour ago, and no, she too is clueless about the mysterious location of this violated zone.
So, armed with nothing but a psychotic real life kitty, the fraidy cat winds through the house, checking windows, doors, glancing left, right, left, right again. Under beds she peaks, then behind shower curtains. Everything is locked, safe. Nothing touched, save the back garage door which is unlocked and partially ajar.
A scary place in the broad daylight without the fear of attackers lurking in the shadow of a dusty drill press, fraidy cat quickly slams the door, locks it, runs into the house, locks that door behind her, too.
Cat and phone in trembling hands she stops. She keeps hearing the same refrain: “The call’s coming from inside the house…”
She makes dinner undisturbed, watches a muted television, always listening for the creak of the steps, the heavy breathing, and her nose is tuned in to smell the evil before it bears down on her.
Then bedtime, and here I am, feet cold on the linoleum, eyes fixed on the knife block.
Rolling pin as my bedmate, I lay, carefully scrawl a journal entry — perhaps the last. Date it. Close the book.
And as I turn off the bedside lamp, I grip the alarm panic button to my chest and steady myself for a long, long night ahead.

One red kazoo

I’ve never actually tasted it.
That said, Old English malt liquor, henceforth to be referred to as OE so as not to confuse those familiar with rap music, has made more than one appearance in my life.
According to Wikipedia, the source I tend to pilfer from for all my “accurate” information, malt liquor, “because of its relatively high alcohol content and low price, is popular among those on a tight budget wanting to become drunk quickly.”
And this is why malt liquor has never crossed my delicate palate. I don’t abstain because I am a sophisticate, rather, I am, perhaps, the only person you’ll ever know who can easily begin slurring after a half a six-pack of non-alcoholic beer.
But what if it tastes great, I wonder. What if Wikipedia has it all wrong, and what if the appeal isn’t the alcohol content, but rather, the exquisite bouquet, the alluring aftertaste, the hint of oak.
What if?
And though I don’t typically spend my day considering the potential of OE, I did today.
Why?
Because as I looked out my now famous window to the world, I spotted our usual working girl, getting ready for a long shift. She had showered and looked clean, her hair was braided and her clothes looked new, if not stylish.
As I sat, gazing out to space in her direction, I spotted a massive glass bottle in her hand, nearly drained.
About a half-inch of yellowish liquid rolled around in the bottle’s basement. Almost gone.
But then duty called, and, presumably needing both hands for the job, she looked left and right. Seeing no cup holder, no coaster, no travel mug, the lady of the night (and day) marched across to the bark mulch filled boulevard bordering the building and planted her bottle in the dirt. Wedged in there nice and tight, perhaps hoping it would sprout in the time it took to get the job done, she hopped in the waiting truck and was off.
And, seeing how she had not returned for the yellowish liquid, and curious to see if the OE had sprouted, I marched outside.
Down I looked toward the recyclable garden, and there it sat, proud and mostly empty.
And right beside is a red kazoo.
Perhaps the homeless and the drug addicted and the downtrodden have the right idea. Perhaps we don’t need the fancy drinks, the fancy toys, the gadgets and the gizmos.
Perhaps everything you need for a really good time was right in front of you all along.