I’m No Spokesperson

{I think it’s time to post this again.}

{And P.S. There’s some funny happening over at SurferWife’s this weekend you might want to check.}


My husband is a tile and stone contractor whose work is so famously awesome he’s had amazing jobs for 20 years strictly by word of mouth. I mean, he’s good. We’re talkin’ San Diego Home of the Year stuff. Classy, reputable shizz. However, with the recent economic slump, he’s found it necessary to do a little advertising. So…we’ve sent out newsletters, had new business cards printed and placed signage on our family vehicles. Really nice, posh signage in a bright, fabulous color you can’t miss. Also, everything is spelled correctly in a readable, striking font. Like I said. Real grade A stuff.


I’d take a picture of it, but I’m no longer allowed near the car.


See it’s important to represent the business in respectable, somewhat elegant, non-lame ways, and so when I drive our SUV with the “KW Tile and Stone” prominently displayed, I am aware that I must be on my best behavior. Not speeding for instance. Or flipping people the fuck bird. Or eating a bean burrito while dialing my pimp.


Important, non-offensive things like that.


Also, I must be eye-catching and MILFey, so people will be enticed to look at the driver of the auto, then let their eyes sensually drift down to see the signage. Like a sexy, but ultimately frustrating, bait and switch.


And sadly, I have failed at all of these things.


Most recently, I was in the midst of cooking some turkey ridiculousness that called for chipotle peppers. Well, I only had serrano chilis, which is a whole different ball of searing hot wax. So I called my friend a few streets over and asked if she had some chipotle peppers I could borrow. Sure enough she did and told me to come right over to pick them up. And here’s the rub: Although it was 5PM on a Sunday, I was not washed, dressed, coiffed, or brushed. I looked like Keith Richards 50 years from now. In addition, I had just worked out and had Toots’ orange polka dot headband securely fastened to my crazy straw hair with butterfly clips. No makeup was a given.


I guess I kinda thought I wouldn’t look like complete hell, because I don’t know? My eyes are sightless marbles?


And so I went. Got right in that car with the classy signage and drove the few streets to my friend’s house. But here’s the thing about my neighborhood: People are out ALL THE TIME. And everyone knows everyone. And if you drive a car with bright yellow signage? They especially know you.


Word. As I drove into my friend’s driveway, her next-door neighbors and their entire extended family sat on lawn chairs in the front yard, staring shamelessly at my Courtney-Love-on-a-drug-binge face. Of course, knowing I had to get out of the car in my droopy butt sweats and braless sweat tee, I shouted maniacally for my friend’s son to come out of the house NOW! OH MY GOD, STAT! and bring me the chipotle peppers so I didn’t have to disembark the car. Thankfully, he complied and as I drove away with my peppers, I did a bizarre suburban-Crips fist pump and shouted to the neighbors:


KW Tile and Stone! Way to represent!”


If by “represent,” I mean resemble a coke whore moron.


Which is why I’m not allowed to drive the SUV again.


4 Responses to “I’m No Spokesperson”

  1. Indigo says:

    Bwahahaha! I’m sorry, that is absolutely priceless. (Hugs)Indigo

  2. Absolutely priceless. Makes walking the dogs in my pajamas with no makeup positively on track for business woman of the year!
    Thanks for that, I feel much better!

  3. heidi says:

    I had to drop off mail at a friend’s and could not bring myself to knock on her door I looked that bad. I mean, really horrific. I dropped the mail on the ground wrapped in a bag of course and then sent her an email when I arrived home safely to say, hey, you’ve got mail on your doorstep.

  4. Mo says:

    I suppose it could have been worse, you could have been caught dialing your pimp.

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