Guest Post: What The Internet Is For

My friend Bri of Sarcasmically is amazing. She is completely able to rock you like a hurricane at a moment’s notice.  In fact, if she were to carry a business card, I’m pretty sure it all it would say would be “ROCKER OF HURRICANES, DEVOURER OF BACON.” If that won’t convince you, this guest post is all the confirmation you’ll need.

One day, I theoretically sat down at the computer and DM’d her on Twitter.

“Lordy, my hands are tired, what with the typing and photo editing and tweeting,” I probably said. “Blogging is hard.”

“Oh dear,” she may have replied, “I may have two kids and a job at a nonprofit and my duties as art director for IndieInk, all while I’m studying to achieve my nursing degree, but I’m weeping just thinking about your poor, fatigued little hands! I’ll fill in for you.”

Then I could have replied, “Ow! My ‘enter’ finger hurts.”

Today Bri is going to give a perfect example of  the true purpose of the internet. You know, after cat videos and porn.

*********************

I’m sure you came here expecting Carrie Anne and all her wonderful pictures, but I’m sorry, Carrie Anne apparently wants a vacation from HER OWN BLOG (slacker) and left me responsible for “quality content”, whatever that means.

So look, I don’t have pictures of grass or cute toddlers or hip vintage objects.  I know, UNBREAK YOUR HEART, AMIRITE?  But what I do have is a story, and since we’re kind of on the subject of vacations and all, I’d like to humiliate myself with a story about my most memorable summer vacation.  That’s what the internet is for, folks—Embarrassing yourself in public.

It was the summer of 1989 and I was about to turn six years old.  For my birthday/a summer vacation, my mom packed me, my younger brothers (twins), and my uncle (only ten years older than me) into her beat-ass Mazda 626 and drove us from Phoenix to San Diego to spend a week at the beach and SeaWorld.  It was a great time, even though this happened right before our eyes and yes I remember everything and yes we all got whale blood­-water on us and not that I’m happy that Kandu died but come on, that was a great story to take back to wide-eyed first-grade classmates, you know?  Totally knocked my cool factor +90 points.  BUT I DIGRESS.

So we are piled back into our tiny 17-horsepower chariot, making the drive back to Phoenix when the chariot breaks down on the highway in The Middle of Fucking Nowhere.  And it’s hot as hell outside and this is before cell phones were invented so we just get out and start walking east, thinking we have to find a phone to call the family and let them know to come get us.

SCORCHING DESERT TREK MONTAGE MOMENT :: CUT TO PARCHED MOUTHS, SWEATING BROWS, DUST-COVERED SKIN, RATTLESNAKE CLIP, OMINOUS SOUND BYTE, SACRIFICING ONE OF MY BROTHERS TO COYOTES, MIRAGE SHIMMER, VULTURE ON CACTUS.

… Eventually we reached this little shack of a gas station, and an ancient peg-legged shop owner in coveralls WITH A TARANTULA ON HIS SHOULDER (I am not making this shit up guys I swear) to greet us and I’m like, “Mom, we are going to die here today.” because even at six I knew that this is straight out of a goddamn horror movie and I can’t run that fast, Mom, so it was nice knowing you all and thanks for the dead whale birthday party.

ALAS!  The old guy– Herman, as it turns out– was really, really nice, which I can only assume was because my mom was a stone cold fox.  Herman kept seven pet tarantulas at his gas station and was thrilled to let my brothers, who were four at the time, hold them while we waited for our father to make the three-hour trek from Phoenix to The Middle of Fucking Nowhere to rescue us.  But ummm, excuse me, tarantulas?  GROSS.  Look.  LOOK AT IT.

So, yeah, I’m basically internally freaking out the whole time my brothers casually befriend goddamn insects that can probably kill horses, so when one of the twins goes, “…Uhhhh, you guys?  I can’t find my tawanchala,” I WANTED TO DIE.  I was a very dramatic little child.

The hunt for the missing tarantula was in full effect, and in addition to Herman and us five searching for it, a family of six (one of whom was a dreeeeeamy second-grader) that had stopped to stock up on Slim Jims was also assisting.

And then, you guys, I FELT IT ON MY LEG, under my dress, very high up near my girl parts.  GET READY FOR A BUNCH OF CAPS LOCK, FOLKS.

ME:  “AAAAAAAAAAH MOM MOM MOM IT IS ON ME IT’S CRAWLING UP INTO MY BUTT AAAH TARANTULA BUTT EGGS HELP ME I WILL DIE EXCLAMATION POINT.”

Mom:  “Okay, calm down, hold still, let’s just—“

ME:  “EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”  Running in circles.  Jumping up and down.  Trying to GET IT OFF BUT I CAN STILL FEEL IT, IT IS THERE EATING MY BRAINS THROUGH MY THIGH.

Mom:  “Brianna.  Jesus God in Heaven, hold still.  BRIANNA ELYSE.”  She is chasing me around.  Everyone else is just staring, waiting for me to die of tarantula poisoning, thinking more Slim Jims for us!, probably.

ME:  Jumping.  Shaking.  Legs akimbo.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THE SHRIEKING.

EVERYONE ELSE:  STARING.  STILL JUST STARING, THOSE UNHELPFUL FUCKS.

Finally, my mom catches me, sobbing and breathless, and preps herself to grab the tarantula from under my dress.  She counts with me.  One… two… three…

And then she yanks my dress over my head, in front of God and the vast desert and all the strangers and that second-grade McDreamy and the vulture on the cactus– and there it is, ON MY LEG:

A string, dangling from my “Tuesday” panties. A…

STRING.

We never did find that tarantula.