The Danger of Stopping to Smell the Roses

So this morning (all night in fact) I’m awoken by the car alarm screel of the mockingbirds that have been terrorizing my neighborhood for the last two months.  Really great timing on their part, what with me feeling nauseous 24 hours a day from all the toxic jazz I’m hepped up on and basically only feeling truly comfortable when I’m asleep  (a state that’s becoming increasingly hard to achieve thanks to aforementioned birds).  As far as I’m concerned, Harper Lee can go fuck herself for making me feel guilty about the slingshot that I just bought.

I’m an asshole!

Anyway, I get up and head downtown to the LA courthouse to take care of a ticket from two years ago that I can’t afford to pay and have been assured is being dismissed anyway as long as I make what now appears to be four total trips to the courthouse, each of which takes an average of three to four hours.  Clearly, with my potentially limited time frame, this is exactly what I feel like dealing with right now.

If only I were as smart or (more importantly) as rich as Ryan Gosling, who they called up right before me, but who had a lawyer there in his stead.   It was, after all, 8AM.  Gosling was probably busy resting his amazing celebripecs under a goose down comforter a thousand miles away from the nearest fucking mockingbird.

With that mission successfully incomplete, I decide to go to the Flower District to get some flowers for my house to cheer myself up and hopefully offset the fact that my nose has become so unbearably sensitive from the chemo that random iffy smells like cheap laundry detergent or the overripe red onion in my kitchen make me so queasy that I want to run out of the house and bury my head in either sand or cement or something that doesn’t smell like Gain.

Gain smells to me like the armpit of death, and if any of you use it I beg you to bathe your clothing in baking soda if you plan on even being upwind from me.

So I go into the flower market.  When I arrive, I see some peonies that look pretty and I lean over to smell them.   They smell really lovely.  I continue on, smelling some lilies, and then some roses, and then suddenly get so nauseous I feel like I’m going to barf all over the gladiolas.  I run into the bathroom to be safe, but thankfully the feeling passes.

As I’m walking out of the bathroom, I feel for my phone and it’s not there.  At first I think maybe I dropped it in the bathroom, but then it occurs to me that while I was leaning over smelling flowers, it must have slipped out of my jacket breast pocket where I had it stored into one of the (hundreds) of white buckets they keep the flowers in.  All of which are filled with six inches of water.  I can see it happening even though I didn’t see it happen:  as Chad smiles and sniffs a gorgeous bundle of those mini roses, his iPhone silently and unceremoniously commits suicide by plunging itself into the bucket of blossoms at his feet.

I spend the next half hour picking through all the buckets of flowers that I had sniffed (and some that I hadn’t, since who can really remember every goddamn lilly he stuck his nose in).  As I do so, it occurs to me that this strange hunt just makes me look like a really professional flower buyer who knows his stems so well that he needs to inspect the water they’re being stored in (cuz clearly that’s what’s important, that I don’t look stupid).

A half hour later, no cell phone.  One of the nice accented gentlemen offers to call it, and as he does I walk around eagerly hoping that a rose starts ringing.  No dice.  I give up.  The phone is almost certainly underwater, and if it is it’s worthless anyway.   Plus I gotta get to the hospital in an hour to radiate my brain chance.

As I walk outside I laugh to myself:  “man, how could this day get any worse… watch somebody knocked my motorcycle over with their car.  That would be hilarious.”  But then I see my bike sitting there, good as 39-years-old new, and as I go to strap the flowers on the back I see it…

A parking ticket.

A mockingbirding parking ticket.

Fifty eight bucks!  Hey Peacock, go fuck yourself!

I chase down the parking attendant, and to his utter surprise rather than trying to tear his face off I calmly recount how unspeakably irritating my day has been so far.  He feels really terrible but there’s nothing he can do.  Of course there’s nothing he can do, I knew that.  I just had to tell somebody how hilariously shitboxy this sequence of events has been.  And I wanted him to feel bad.  He felt bad.  Which was nice.

I always thought that smelling roses was one of the best things in life.

Here’s the news: it still is.  I should have just buttoned my pocket.

Off to radiate my brain chance!


UPDATE:  The evening turned out to be as nice as the day was shitty, thanks to some good friends and a good laugh about Brandon (see next post).  

I still feel nauseaus all the time though, especially when I try to spell the word nauseaus.

One thought on “The Danger of Stopping to Smell the Roses

  1. These days are really something else; I’ve had ’em too. I remember one in LA where I broke up with girl, got pulled over, AND got fired the same day. On the upside, I still have that memory which given enough time is more valuable than any of the shitty events that it was comprised of.

    Yours was particularly crappy, and hilarious.

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