I’ve been noticing a lot of roadkill lately. So, naturally, this got me to thinking about whether any of the squirrels in this area ever die of natural causes or even get old enough to enjoy listening to NPR. It occurs to me that I’ve never once seen a group of gray-haired squirrels sitting around, having coffee and talking shit at McDonald’s at 7 a.m..

Which leads me to my next point. When a man gets to be 105 or maybe 110 years old, they’ll put him all over the news, as if to say, “Look, he’s NOT DEAD yet!”. And I guess that is kind of a big deal. But, really now, I’ll bet that that old man didn’t spend too much time during those 110 years playing in traffic. If he had, I’d tend to be more impressed.

Hmm. I suppose it’s never too late to start playing in traffic to impress girls, but your odds of survival probably aren’t good once you past 90. By the way, if you’re driving along and you see an old man playing in traffic, DO NOT speed up to challenge him. It’s a nice thought, but it could go very wrong.

Anyway, let’s go back to talking about squirrels. I hit one once. By the time I realized there was indeed a squirrel in the road, he was under my car. Thing is, I was worried that I hadn’t quite killed him and I imagined that the poor little critter was just lying in the street bleeding to death. So, I went back to run over him again to make sure he was completely dead and not suffering.

I felt just awful. So, of course, I told my mother about it, in hopes that she’d sympathize.

It didn’t quite go the way I planned.

I told her the whole story, down to the last gory detail, to which she responded by LAUGHING HER ASS OFF.

Apparently, my tragic story tickled her funny bone, and she simply couldn’t make herself stop giggling. When she had gotten control of herself enough to speak, she espoused this to me with tears of glee in her eyes:

“So, the poor squirrel is lying there in the road and shouting up to his wife who’s in a nearby tree with their two babies, ‘Did you see that crazy bitch hit me with her car?! I think I’m ok, though…I was just stunned for a minute there. Don’t worry, honey. I’m gonna be fine. I’ll come back up there as soon as I catch my breath…..OH GOD! NOOOOO! Here she comes AGAIN!!!’”

After sharing that, she threw herself back into fits of laughter so strong that she had to excuse herself to pee.

The moral of the story, dear friends, is this: Don’t tell my mother anything, ’cause she’s a nut.

WARNING: DO NOT READ THIS WHILE EATING.

How could I have recognized a person I had never seen before in my life?

I couldn’t.

Still, though, if I had known who she was, I’d have tried to memorize every last detail about her. As it was, our meeting was short and pointed, and in my ignorance, I was content to speak briefly with the mother of The Legend while my daughter chatted away with the glorious Rachel.

Rachel, a lanky blond girl wearing a high pony tail, greeted Charlotte the way most little girls greet my daughter – she excitedly yelled “Charlotte!” then ran over and gave her a big ol’ bear hug. But, after a few minutes of witnessing their cheerful yet dramatic reunion and making small talk with Rachel’s mom, I suggested the girls exchange phone numbers, because I was impatient to get my groceries home and tucked away.

On hindsight, I regret that I did not show her the proper respect, that I did not make offerings of candy and Barbie dolls to this Queen of Kid-dom.

Rachel. The girl. The myth. The legend.

Surely you know of Rachel?

No? You haven’t heard the stories? How can this be?

Well, no matter. It is certain that someday bards will sing songs of her deeds.

Until that time, my limited vocabulary must suffice to pay a small tribute to her greatness. My hope, dear friends, is that my words will shine in this moment above all others so that I may convey to you a glint, a glimmer of the wonder that is she.

You see, I first heard of Rachel about a month ago. We were having dinner together as a family when her name came up in conversation.

“Rachel ate her own vomit on a dare.”

“Nooooo. She didn’t. Did she? Who’s Rachel? And, why would she do that?”

“She’s just a girl I know. Some boy offered her one Sweet-tart if she’d eat her own vomit. And she ate the whole pile off the floor and then licked the floor.”

“No! For one Sweet-tart?”

“Yeah, she’s crazy. She eats bugs too. She says it’s to toughen herself up.”

“Did the other kid give her the whole pack of Sweet-tarts? ‘Cause he should have.”

“No. He just gave her the one. They both got in trouble. But, mostly, just Rachel got punished.”

Have you ever heard of such an amazing being? Of a person trying to rise above this human coil by licking up vomit and eating bugs? Of a person who was made a martyr by some lame daycare worker who couldn’t understand – might never understand – the beauty of what this young woman was trying to accomplish?

Well, I didn’t always understand myself. I kept asking, “Why?”

But, now I get it. She is becoming in sort of a Silence of the Lambs meets Spongebob Squarepants kind of way.

Wow.

It’s quite mind expanding.

Just wow.

If I ever again see that very special little girl, I will know her for the extraordinary person that she is, and I will view her with the proper amounts of wonder and fear.

Hopefully, my hands won’t quiver too visibly when I hand her a pen and ask for her autograph.

So, is anyone else eating cake-mix, straight from the box?

If you’ve noticed I haven’t been commenting all over the internet like my usual blog-whore self, the reason is a headache that simply will not go away.

Much like my gnats.

By the way, I have decided that having skanky beer with dead gnats in it lying around is unacceptable. Apparently, I have a rather low tolerance for grossness.

Speaking of the RNC, I watched a little bit of the coverage yesterday. Please, dear God, don’t let that man get re-elected. Flood us if you must, but spare us that bullshit.

Which brings me to how incomparably cool my husband is. Michael has conceived of a plan to get me through the upcoming election with a minimal amount of fuss. He says he’s gonna drive me to the polling place to vote, then he’s gonna take me out and get me so toasted that I pass out before the results come in. I’m an idealist, but not always an optimist. Michael knows this, and he’s there for me. With booze. Mind-numbing booze. Adoration is too small a word for what I feel for that man.

Well, it’s been nice chatting with you today. But, the throbbing in my head is signaling that it’s time for me to depart. I have a date with a lavender-scented heat mask. Peace out.