What is going on with my Karma?! I'm not cunty dame, or so I'd like to think. So, what the fuck?! The past few days I've been in Karmic hell and my K-Rolodex is yielding no insight. I'm trying to dig deep and figure it out.
Let's begin with the chair Odyssey. Today, I schlepped my ass in 90 degree weather to a chair joint. My car doesn't have air conditioning, it's a vinty number, over 30-years old. Love it. Schlepped it from NY and I'm not giving it up, period. Anywho. I met with the owners of the chairs I wanted. Lovely black and white 7o's high camp chairs. I was thrilled, hoping to walk out of their with my new chairs. Mind you, I had cash in hand ready to complete my transaction.
The owners sat me down with a clipboard in hand. A fucking clipboard. Their house was hotter than it was outside. God forbid they crack a window or use a fan. GOD FORBID. I admit it, I was a bit snippy. But, nice. Keeping my snippiness to a low roar. I pushed sarcasm aside and kept telling myself, Katie, stay open. Maybe it's just a few simple questions.
Meanwhile, I was shvitsing like a dawg and dehydrating as each moment past. Natch, I broke out a bottle of water. Chairboy sat across from me with his legs crossed and said, I kid you not, "I need to ask you some qualifying questions." Shocked, I asked, "You do realize I'm here for the chairs, right?" He said, "Yes, I do. These questions must be answered. I have 10."
10 fucking questions. Oy to the vey. Fine. If it meant I was going to leave with my chairs, the trip would've been justified.
"Should you be granted guardianship of these chairs, how do you plan to care for them?"
My mouth dropped. Guardianship?! These are chairs. They aren't living, breathing beings. I held my tongue and said, "I will treat the chairs with respect."
Nice answer, right? I thought so, too.
He asks, "How will you treat these chairs with respect? What do you define as respect?" I wanted to call my psychiatrist and ask him to fill in for me. This was becoming an emotional transaction and I was sweating like a whore in a Bikram's yoga class. My sister kept touching my arm, as a reminder to keep breathing and not rip him a new rectum or provide him with insight into the acquisition of cock and balls, something he failed to receive in this lifetime.
I said, "I'll tell them every day how grateful I am for providing comfort to my tuchas." Inside I said, "Take your chairs and shove them up your mothah fuckin ass. I have a feeling that if anything spends 10 minutes in your anus, it's sure to come out a diamond and I can use the cash flow."
He said, "You're doing great," and touched my leg while saying it. I wanted to sever his fingers with my vagina dentata, I was that furious.
"Do you have any other questions for me or can we have closure", I asked.
"I have a few more questions I need to ask you." He said, and continued "How will you care for these chairs? Will you wash them daily or weekly? When you relocate, will you take the chairs with you and if so, will you bubble wrap them to ensure they sustain limited damage? If you get rid of them, will you make sure they go to a good home? Will you send me pictures of the chairs on a monthly basis, so I can keep an eye on them?"
I smirked at my sister. She knew the look and stood up, ready to be kicked out of his home.
I said, "I am going to to post signs on the chairs and request that strange men jerk off on them, so they're dripping in foreign (God willing) disease laden cum stains. I'll also make sure that every man I fuck, dines at the Y while I sit on said cum stained chair. If I relocate, I will hold a seance and use the chairs as kindle for the massive fire, we will sit around while conjuring dead spirits. Will that suffice, sweetie?"
He was so appalled, he clutched his clipboard and said, "It's time for you to leave." I said, "Honey, it was time for me to leave the minute you referred to guardianship in relationship to owning your chairs. And YES, I would own the fucking chairs. Own them. Own them. Own them. They would be MINE, all mine, to do whatever the fuck I wanted with them. You can take your chairs and shove them up your God damned ass. Because I don't want your fucking chairs, anyway. I hate you and your God damned chairs!"
We left. He was so furious, he said, "You don't deserve the chairs!" I said, "I have news, toots, neither do you. You need help. Serious help. Get therapy because it's time for you to develop a healthy relationship with inanimate objects."
We slammed the door and ran out of his house.