Here is the real reason you do not want a motorcycle

My fella has this party in the summer that is like Groundhog Day. The same people from his festival group come every year, drink and eat the same food, play the same water volleyball in the same pool that's too small for anybody else to get in or get clobbered. One of the festival mavens is a sister of a guy I dated forever; she was bitchy to me when we dated and he blamed her and his other bitchy female relatives when I handed him his hat. So, no, she is not nice to me and I rarely have anyone to talk to at the party; they have all known each other for twenty years and it's one long inside joke. Last year I was just too sick to go, maybe the year before it too. So he has me come late in the evening and drive his drunk ass home so he doesn't get a DWI.
Tonight I went to get him and he was more lit up than usual; I can't remember if I've ever seen him stumbly drunk before, but he sure was tonight. I caught him with an odd expression and possibly leaning over the kitchen sink and quizzed him if he needed to throw up. No, no, no.
He just didn't look right to me so once in the car I rolled his window down and warned him that if he decided to blow, make sure to lean way out. Then I headed out of the subdivision and got on a bridge over the river, a dark two-lane bridge. He rolled the window back up and I put it back down and fussed. He insisted he was fine and rolled it nearly to the top.  As we came off the bridge, I heard a motorcylist on a rice rocket rev up super fast and swerve around me to pass on the right, all hunched over. The cycle sounded extra loud because the window was now all the way down, and my fella was throwing up into it. But he didn't have his head quite far enough out, and I started getting drops on my arm from him spewing. Shouting for him to put his head all the way out,  I pulled over to the side of the road, still in the pitch dark, and let him finish calling Ralph. I saw some vomit in the corner of the window and cleaned it off with a towel I had in the car. Then when I turned the light on, I saw it; he had leaned out far enough once and the windstream had made a huge vomit plume the shape of the Nike check all down the back window of the car....and undoubtedly to the rear where the motorcyclist following us across the bridge had gotten his share. His roar and swerve around us was a desperate move to stop being pelted with chunks of boiled shrimp soaked in beer and gastric juice.
My fella's failure to maintain or at least listen to my hard-gained knowledge regarding drunken vomiting in automotive vehicles is going to give him a long day detailing my car tomorrow in the heat. 

Emerson

The weight is still creeping up. About a pound or two a month, and I'm beyond frustrated. My feet hurt so much it's like the bones are screaming, and my back is a damn mess. To top it off, it's unbelievably hot here; we've had temps over 100 almost every day since the beginning of June, and that's hot even for this place. So my Biggest Bra in the Store from Victoria's Secret is failing; my boobs are getting skin problems from being squished in there. Off I went to Target, as I knew that VS sizes are smaller than other manufacturers. Damn if the D cup 38s I bought were not too small. Holy crap. So I took them back and got DD's. Now that is more like it. They are only a tiny bit too small and make my shirts look a lot better.
Back when a girl could make a decent living working for herself in the oil patch, I used to share an office with a charmingly foulmouthed handsome man from Mississippi who admired my then-modest bosom, back when it was a restrained 34 C. He would openly eye my chest, and say, " Sheee it, baby. Knock knock."
Me:"What now, Jim."
Jim: "C'mon baby, knock knock."
Me:"Sigh. Ok. Who is there."
Jim:"Emerson."
Me:"Emerson who?"
Jim:"Emerson fine big titties thar, babeh."
That actually cracked me up the first time he did it. We were friends and he didn't do that stuff in front of anyone else. After that, if he liked my blouse (read: the way my boobs looked that day), he would ask if the brand was Emerson.

Groundhog Month

My efforts at health-building activity backfired pretty spectacularly, and I've been just hamster-on-a-wheel for a whole month. The soul-killing job had a bright spot with the sudden and dramatic reassignment of the Worthless one, and I went two days pretty happy with my new upgraded assignment. Then a shitload of people quit from burnout, and I am now back to doing two jobs. The HBIC canceled all vacations right when I had been planning to have enough scraped together to go and see the daughter before the snow set in, and that is pretty depressing. And my foot, leg, and shoulder pain have been downright excessive. So no news there.
Last night was fun, though: a service company bent (BROKE) the rules about this sort of thing and took a bunch of us out to a paint-and-drink party store. So there was music, Purple Haze Abita Beer (raspberry beer, you should have some at all times), and lots and lots of cackling amidst the hack painting of a fleur-de-lis. If I could get my phone camera to work I would put the picture up, it turned out okay.
The tunes that the store blasted in-between brushing tips were oddly eclectic, and included that MTV classic, "Mickey" that the not-cute girl did the cheer routine to. The youngsters next to me started singing along with it and I put my brush down and did the cheer arms and head. They roared with approval and somehow that got to my age; they were all ten or fifteen years my junior and disputed that fact. "I thought you were our age!" Ummm, gray hair, girls. And a vicious middle-aged spread. Not to speak of the creaky motion when I get up to refresh my beer, steadying myself and moving like a tree sloth.
I was thinking about that today while doing the haying out back (tractor broke two weeks ago and fella finished fixing it while I was at Cackle and Dab). I used to hate the lines between Voldemom's eyes and when I caught myself doing that in my twenties, I just made myself stop frowning. I have one line over an eyebrow from keeping it lifted all the time, and some jowliness. My cheeks got so puffy with the steroids back when that they don't have lines now, and my eyes are too big to sag.  Now inside, I'm like the Picture of Dorian Gray, and the outside is still decent-ish to others.
Maybe I should scowl or wince when it hurts? Does putting it out there keep from storing it up?
The idea holds little charm, actually. I think I will put my energy into tracking down a source for a Japanese neuropathy drug called Neurotropin, it sounds excellent.