Hi, my name is Mia. This is my friend Helene. We've been serious idiots for about....oh...the last 24 hours. We both have a Bachelor's Degree and both of us have Master's credits to our names. We met as co-workers and are usually so reliable and organized that people entrust us to work with brain-injury patients in assisting them in returning to work, school, or their homes after a traumatic injury. All of that being said, we both essentially were sharing a brain yesterday...a very, very tiny brain. Lucky for Helene, her piece of the brain was larger than mine.
In our defense, I would like to say first that both Helene and I were sleep deprived. We had both been up very early; me for the Philly Spring Clean-up at the Mayfair Memorial Playground and Helene was a bridesmaid in the wedding of our mutual friend. We also had been consuming a moderate amount of alcohol at said wedding. Not enough that we couldn't drive but enough that we were having a good time and being, well...idiots.
Exhibit A (Idiot incident #1) This picture.
I don't think any further explanation is needed.
I will say this though; I think photo booths are AWESOME and should be required pretty much everywhere. Think about all the wars that could be settled with just a little booze, some ridiculous props, and 5 minutes in a photo booth! Bam. World peace. You're welcome.
Exhibit B (Idiot Incident #2): WTF did I just SEND??! Disregard!! Abort!! DELETE!! and Who the hell is this guy?
Did you ever text somebody a personal message meant for your significant other but then you accidentally sent it to someone else that it shouldn't have been sent to? Oh you haven't? Well lucky ducky you. Me? Not so lucky. Funny thing about mixing alcohol, dim lighting, and auto-search in your contacts list...it makes you assume that that contacts with similar names and almost the exact same numbers are in fact, the same. And you're wrong. So. Friggin. Wrong. Praise Jeebus I wasn't drunk enough to be sending pictures otherwise I would probably be settling in for a bright future of self-imposed isolation bordering on agoraphobia and a raging pill addiction to black out the embarrassment.
Meanwhile, Helene gets a text from a random guy who proceeds to tell her he met her at some bar and sang Michael Jackson to her. She doesn't remember this so she does the smart thing; she pretends to remember and carries on a conversation with him for the rest of the night.
Exhibit C (Infinite Idiot Incidents); Cars + Girls = Dumb Cliche
I responsibly and soberly drove Helene back to her car at the bride's house after the wedding because that's how I roll(cucumber cool). The whole time in the car Helene is texting a different guy on her personal phone (not the one she can't remember but probably the one she actually WANTED to text because she had the larger share of the brain at that point *sigh and eye-roll*.) The car that I was using gets my hubby to and from work. Nothing fancy and it's an older car and we are in the midst of replacing it because the transmission is slowly going. After leaving Helene at her car and driving away, my car dramatically dies going up a hill in the middle of a dark stretch of Easton Road. Juuuuuust great. I called the hubby to tell him his "stupid effing car" died and that I would be calling AAA. Meanwhile I keep hearing this buzzing sound. *bzzzzzzzzzzz* *bzzzzzzzzzz* *bzzzzzzzzzz* I'm scrambling around the car looking for the source when I stumble upon Helene's cell phone. I answer it and she proceeds to tell me that she's calling from her work cell to tell me that she left her phone in my car (duh). I proceed to tell her I'm about to become a feature story on Crime TV as a victim of some form of highway/trucker serial killer. She gallantly offers to come back to get me so we can be victimized together. While waiting, I'm able to get the car started and have enough juice in the car to coast into a brightly lit parking lot with a Warrington police officer in it and the very kindly Chick-Fil-a staff who offered to push my car into a parking spot and get us soft drinks. There are still really good people in this world.
As we are waiting for the tow-truck driver and our inevitable demise at the hands of a ruthless killer, Helene decides to stealthily change out of her bridesmaid dress back into regular clothes and retouch her make-up (in her car, with the doors open, lights on, radio playing--some of you know what's coming!) so she can look better than me in any crime scene photos. I mostly love her but sometimes I hate her.
So the tow truck driver shows up pretty quickly, gets my stupid car on the flatbed, gets the address of the mechanic and proceeds to pull out of the parking lot with instructions for me and Helene to follow him to the mechanic (or lead us to a heavily wooded area where he can dismember us--Lifetime Movie of the Week!). Helene turns the key to HER car which is now COMPLETELY DEAD. She yells at me that I am a car killer. I throw the door open, tear out of the car in a party dress and heels, and proceed to scream at the top of my lungs while chasing the tow truck driver, who is hauling ass out of the parking lot away from us. Thankfully he heard us, came back, laughed at our stupidity (OMG...what do you mean the battery's dead? *hair flip*) and jumped the car. At that point, I was pretty much ready to cry but Helene and I both wound up laughing so hard we almost puked. Why? One word. I.D.I.O.T.S.
We finally get to the mechanic's place and while taking my car off the flatbed the tow truck driver says "I see you have a wedding ring but is your friend single?" I told him she was a militant lesbian so she probably wasn't interested. He said "Shame." I nod in sympathetic agreement. Yup, creeper. A real damn shame. Sad face.
So after a good night's sleep, my super handy hubby decided that he would go over to the mechanics this morning to see if he could get the car started and drive it to his parents, who live just around the corner. He figured we shouldn't leave it at the mechanics if we weren't going to wind up putting any money into it because we were probably going to get rid of it anyway. Of course, I went with him.
He turns the key. It starts up but then sputters and dies.
Tries it again. Same thing.
He then gets out of the car, comes over to me waiting in the minivan and says "Babe, did you notice the gas gauge is on E? The transmission didn't go, the car is out of gas."
F*&u%^%$*#$@c$##@K!!!!!
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