Mask Off

Percocets

Molly, Percocets

Percocets

Molly, Percocets

Rep the set

Gotta rep the set

Chase a check

Never chase a bitch

Mask on

Fuck it, mask off

Mask on

Fuck it, mask off

Percocets

Molly, Percocets

Chase a check

Never chase a bitch

– Future

 

You probably don’t follow me on SnapChat. That’s cool. I wouldn’t either. I only have it installed for the #prettyfilter and to receive daily video updates on #theprincenephew, Owie.

Oh and sometimes, Tayler will take candid photos or videos of me. Then, he blasts the candid captures out to his friends, and for whatever reason copies me on the mass Snap. You’re probably thinking, “Aww, how sweet! He takes candids of her. Ugh. They.are.so.presh.” We are. We’re disgustingly in love. But the pictures and videos he takes? Yeah, not so great.

For instance: there was the one time we were watching Vikings (“our” show) together on the couch and I managed to kick an entire glass of red wine out of Tay’s hand. It went all over the grey couch, our brand new rug, the white coffee table – everywhere. Yeah. So, that time, he managed to video me cleaning up the mess while wearing just a t-shirt and thong. Fear not though, Moms, as he ensured that my entire ass wasn’t put on full social media display. Later that evening, all of his friends – including me – received a sweet little montage of me, half-naked, scrubbing the very best wine Kiawah Island has to offer out of our furniture and muttering every curse word known to man. Tayler could be heard snickering in the background the entire time.

Isn’t social media fun.

Anywho, apologies to the eight of you who do follow @chowton on SnapChat, but some of this is going to be a bit of a repeat story.

Shameless plug, I know. Ugh, and the name. I would change the name. But shit! I had to ask Tayler what my SC name even was to begin with…

Beggars can’t be choosey, y’all.

Deal with it.

Moving right along.

Alright, so there was an incident with a lizard hitching a ride on my windshield.

I don’t get out much these days, but when I do, you bet your sweet ass there’s a lizard using my windshield as public transportation.

I was only going 2.6 miles down the road to CVS for prescriptions. And anybody who has ever had a lizard on their windshield knows, 2.6 miles isn’t shit to a reptile that travels via Acura. So, I chose to mitigate the issue using wiper fluid and a flick of the ol’ wiper blades. As my blades came across the glass, I hoped like hell they did a #liftandfling as opposed to a #squashanddrag. But you’d know it, neither the fluid or the wipers did the trick.

At one point, that little bastard turned his head, looked right at me – into my soul – and rolled his eyes. As if I were the annoyance. As if I were the pain in his ass. Finally, perturbed and not much further than where he started, the lizard scuttled off out of my line of sight.

Most would accept this as a victory.

Not me.

My crazy ass couldn’t be satisfied. How could I be? We’ve all seen Parent Trap (pre Lindsay Lohan, girl interrupted). I wasn’t entirely sure that I had avoided a Meredith-Blake-in-the-woods-Evian-bottle scenario. Considering the look he had given me earlier, that asshat was most likely planning to launch himself onto my face once I rolled the window down at CVS.

So, naturally, when I pulled up to said CVS drive-thru, I only half rolled down my window. Tyler, the CVS guy, politely asked how he could help me today. I said, “Hi! Yeah. I’m Chelsea, I’m here to pick up some prescriptions. But uhh, can you do me a quick favor first? Can you check to see if there is a lizard on my car, please?”

Hold up.

Let me set the scene (as if I haven’t done so already):

My car really looked like shit. The love bugs were out with a vengeance a few weeks ago. As it happens, I managed to hit about a billion of those fuckers during the whole three times I drove my car this quarter. I had a spare tire on my front passenger wheel. There was a plastic piece hanging off underneath the car that scraped the pavement for the entire duration of my drive. Also, with this work from home gig I got now, there really isn’t an incentive to looking presentable on the reg. And I’m not one of those “naturally” pretty girls. I can’t just throw my hair up, slap on some Chap-Stick and glow. Nope. I’m more “crackhead chic” than anything else. That “glow” is face grease. Chances are, I haven’t washed my hair in a week and I used gum instead of brushing my teeth.

I’m a real stunner nowadays, folks.

On the real though, holla atcha gurl if you catch me on one of those “People of WalMart” email chains. #almostfamous

So, I totally didn’t blame CVS Guy Tyler when he replied to my request with, “Check your car for… wizards?”

I looked the part, clearly.

Obviously.

Thanks, CVS Guy Tyler.

Thank you for driving that one home, sir.

Also, thank you for sticking your neck out (quite literally) for a peasant such as myself . Thanks for keeping the community – a community of muggles like me – safe. Your willingness to go after any and all sunroof-riding wizards for a random drive-thru lady, is truly noble. You were up to the task and I’m grateful for it.

But seriously.

What the fuck, CVS Guy Tyler.

My sharp tongue – and quick wit – didn’t skip a beat. “No, no, no. Lizards. Check my car for lizards. I’m not here to pick up that kinda medication, geez. [rolls eyes] A lizard just scurried across my car and I want to be sure it doesn’t jump on my face. Duh.”

“Ohhhh! Gotcha!”

He scanned my car, smiled and guaranteed I was lizard-free.

 

Look people, I don’t know how I get myself into these situations.

But I do.

And it’s bizarre.

And frequent.

And real fucking awkward.

 

A couple of weeks ago, a man at the Post Office asked me if I was pregnant. I would have been offended, but the thing is, the guy never had the opportunity to see my abdomen. I was carrying bags of stuff (lots of stuff… like, an entire box of Halloween gifts for #theprincenephew) when I walked in, and the way I was holding the bags, he couldn’t have seen my figure. I laughed and said, “Uhh. No.”

I stood in the lobby to pack my USPS box.

The man lolly-gagged at the door.

One of the items I needed to pack was a stuffed animal. The stuffed animal was zipped-tied to a cardboard display box (as children’s toys often are [insert eye-rolls]) which made it too large for the USPS box. So, like an idiot, I turned and asked the gentleman if he had a pocketknife I could borrow. “Not on me but I might have one in the truck.”

Of course, I politely declined his generous offer to rob, kidnap, hold me as his sex slave, and then eventually murder me.

However, we naturally struck up a conversation:

Post Office Creeper: “So, you from around here?”

MC: “Actually, I grew up in North Carolina.”

POC: “Oh. Why did you move here?”

MC: “Most of my family lives in Moncks Corner. Where are you from?”

POC: “I was born and raised in Charleston.”

– Silence. –

POC: “So, uhh, you gotta telephone number or something I can get? That was actually what I was trying to ask you earlier.”

MC: “Sorry, buddy. I’m married.”

POC: “Oh, okay.”

MC: “Yep. But you have a nice day now!”

 

Yep. How’s about that little plot twist, folks?

That night, when I was telling Tay about my USPS suitor, he said, “You are always getting hit on by the weirdest people!” I had further insight, “Or maybe, the most intelligent. Think about it, babe. If I were knocked up… he’d have a solid 6-7 months to bang it out repercussion-free.”

Tay shivered.

 

Now, I rarely leave the house looking like a drug addict without my better half. But if I do, I wear a hat and a fake wedding ring on my hand. Because, yeah. I see you creepers.

Tayler doesn’t know that last part.

The part about the fake wedding ring.

Guess he does now.

Surprise.

 

 

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