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.