how not to make friends on the freeway: the story of a birthday present gone bad

If you scroll down a few posts, you'll see a picture of me lounging in a truck bed full of shredded paper. Ah, the naive joy I felt that warm summer day, basking in the glow of a humorous birthday surprise.

When I drove down to San Diego several weeks ago to go rock climbing, I bagged up all the paper so it wouldn't go flying all over the freeway. The 4 massive trash bags remained in my room in the space on my floor where I normally sleep. I decided I'd put all of it back in the bed after 1. purchasing a net to hold it down and 2. taking Mazdatron for a long overdue washing...so I was very pleased when I got to leave work early on Tuesday and managed to accomplish thing 1 AND thing 2. Joyfully triumphant, I returned all the paper to the bed, secured the bungee net over it, and began turning over ideas in my mind for what Fun Adventures could be had with Mazdatron: the Deluxe Superclean Pimped-out Hamster-cage Edition.

Yesterday, Our Great United Day of Freedom, took me all over the city. From early morning celebrations at Manhattan Beach to late-evening Marina Del Rey firework excursions, the day was filled with driving. Midday, I drove downtown to Sammy Sam Farrell's sister's new apartment for a birthday barbeque. After much merriment and consumption of some really really great food, I took off, hopped on the freeway, and headed west. En route, a massive chunk of the paper got free of the net and started flying all over the road. I was 4 exits away from my house; I tried to slow down a bit to prevent the situation from getting worse. Imagine my delight, then, when a police car pulled behind me suddenly, lights flashing. I got off the freeway, laughing. I've never been pulled over before. I hear some people cry in these situations. I had a hard time not laughing out loud when the cop came up to the window.

Long story short, I had to put all the paper inside my (freshly-vacuumed) truck under the watchful eye of the (very nice) policeman who told me how he drives an electric car and is a huge environmentalist. I explained my bemusement to him; I am a Recycling Queen who fishes recyclables out of my friends' trash cans, just in the name of keeping mother earth tidy and healthy. I received my first ticket (fortunately, not a littering violation...something to do with not having a proper cover on my truck). For this, I assume I'll have to pay a fine (I'm waiting for the actual ticket to come in the mail), and I will definitely have to do online traffic school.

It's all fun and games until your shredded paper blows into the Windshield of the Law. Dang it.

this WC is good for all your dumping needs.

Today I'm recycling a 6-week old myspace blog...tomorrow, something new. Promise.
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As I was driving to work today (er, 15 February), thinking about my clogged toilet at home and a very untimely plunger deficit, my mind got carried away with the topic. Systems of waste management are integral to so many aspects of life – but we tend not to notice them until something goes awry and demands our attention. Think about it – waste management in cities, in houses (thank you indoor plumbing), in cars (exhaust systems), in our bodies (our kidneys and intestines, our skin and its sweat, our lungs and good ol' CO2). Things just would not work without effective disposal mechanisms.

This made me wonder, though, how should things be working emotionally? I definitely have my share – as I expect we all do – of useless thoughts and bad feelings, stuff that's undeniably toxic if held in too long. Finding a way to get rid of the emotional poop is imperative, basically.

Some people are private, confining their mental refuse to journal pages and the like. Others are far less discriminating and excrete their emotional trash on unsuspecting strangers, taking their issues out on food service workers or telemarketers. Not very classy. Many folks, however, have a friend or two or seven with whom they feel comfortable and safe making the dump. I expect that part of the comfort comes in knowing that the friends will be able to discern the crap from the (hopefully) more frequent other-stuff that gets shared.

I wonder, though, maybe friendships are a lot more about handling our friends' poop than I'd realized...and particularly, being available to them when something does go awry (the occasional emotional diarrhea or hemorrhaging, perhaps; acting as the laxative to their mental constipation, and, as much as possible, trying not to be the clogged toilet or impeded plumbing in their time of need).

This also made me see my schizophrenic need to talk/ reluctance to talk/ apologies for talking in a different light. While I feel well-suited and able to handle others' messy business, I sometimes get embarrassed that I need friends to help me with my own.

So, uh, thanks, guys, for being such wonderful emotional toilets for me.

I, a certifiable WC, am here for you too.