My Name is Mud
It seemed like such an empty threat.
But Mom used it alllllll the time.
“You better put those dirty dishes in the dishwasher…or your name is Mud!”
“You better not skip brushing your teeth….or your name is Mud!”
Ok, AND? I kept wondering. What’s the big deal? I mean, my name starts with ‘M’ anyway….really you’re just economizing on one letter….I don’t see a problem!
Well, fast forward a decade and a half and I got to find out just what it was like for my name to indeed be ‘mud.’ Can’t say I’d recommend it.
It started with a trip to the ATM on my way out clubbing with a few friends. ‘How’ (I can hear you asking) ‘can a trip to the ATM possibly involve ones name becoming Mud?’
Well, give me a minute. In the cosmic crapshoot that is my destiny, all *kinds* of crazy shit happens. There doesn’t need to be a reason. There just needs to be a way. I’m getting to that.
First, random backup factage! Yay! I knew you’d be pleased.
I don’t have, say, much fashion ‘sense’ per se. I definitely have my own ‘style’, in that I often wear things others wouldn’t let their embalmers see them in and whatnot. It’s just my way. I kinda dig that I have many items in my wardrobe that most people react to by saying: “Well, *I* wouldn’t wear it…but *you* can get away with it…I guess!”
As if my clothing has some stealthy, ulterior motive that needs to be ‘gotten away with’. I like the thought that I am wearing edgy, possibly unstable fabrics! Go, me!
Basically, if I like something, I wear it. I don’t care what’s in, what the stick-people mags are showing, what trends are popular (says who? that’s what I say!), etc. And yes, I am well aware that I am most likely pre-emptively embarassing my unborn daughter, but she will be raised to be cool like that. (and yet, even with my attitude about clothing, I have *yet* to find any flattering maternity wear, so that should tell you something….but I digress!)
So I had these pants. They were the coolest. And yes, you will most likely cringe reading this, but buck up because it’s kind of key to the story. Sort of.
I got them at a store called Sagebrush *cough* years ago. They had mustard and maroon and navy and black squares on them. (think about it! My choices for tops to wear with em were endless….endless I say!) And the best part…they had black suspenders. Oh, I hope I can somehow dig out the one pic I have of me wearing them….you’ll see just how cool they are! And despite the fact that most of my friends referred to them as my ‘hunting pants’ or ‘clown pants’, they soon became my favorite.
So there I was, home from college on break, all pimped out in my bitchin pants and ready for a night of dancing with two of my girlfriends. I really was going just to dance. Not to meet guys. The proof? I wore those pants. Nuff said. I needed to make just one little stop in my black suede shoes…..to the ATM. (shhh…I’m setting the scene here)
So I drove to the trusty ATM in my dad’s borrowed car and of course, being Michigan, (where I grew up) with no warning it started POURING like someone had turned on a faucet. No problem….I left the car running and dashed out to the ATM. Pushing buttons, there’s my cash, good to go, run back to the car….which I (whupsie daisy) had locked out of habit as I was exiting.
So I stood there in the bank parking lot, getting pissed on with rain, watching the handy windshield wipers doing their very best to keep the warm, heated, radio-blasting car dry…while I helplessly tried to somehow pry the window down.
And of course, this bank was located all on its own, next to nothing at all but a vacant lot with ‘coming soon!’ signs posted in the well-turned dirt that helped me exactly not at all.
But wait! Just past the vacant lot-cum-construction zone, there it was: a beacon in my despair….a Ram’s Horn! (think Denny’s). All I had to do was hightail it over there, in the pouring rain, in my suede shoes (good thing I’m not materialistic or this may have given me pause), over a towering pile of dirt, across the parking lot, into the Ram’s Horn et voila! A payphone for me to make a collect call on since of course my purse is sitting on the front seat of the car that is still running with the headlights on! Cool.
Except that we all know what happens to dirt when it becomes wet. It becomes something else entirely.
Can you smell where this is going?
I would imagine so, so I can skip to the good part…..as I was gingerly stepping into a pile of thick mud in an attempt to scale it, (and this MAY surprise you, dear readers….) I slipped. Badly. In fact one could say I did a faceplant in the cold, cold mud and one wouldn’t be remiss.
‘So much for the hair’ I thought and soldiered on.
OK, actually, I think I may have cried a little or gasped or something because dang….it was COLD and it was still pouring and now I was a swamp creature and I wasn’t even halfway across this damn pile of poop. A little further….a little further….I was the Little Engine That Could In Da Hood, yo….and finally I slip-slid to the other side of the Pile of Doom. You ever hear a big heap of mud laugh? Well, *I* did.
So I stood there in the Ram’s Horn parking lot thinking ‘Hmm…perhaps a bit of freshening up?’ I mean I was CAKED with mud…from head to toe on my front side. I couldn’t just…walk IN there like that. I’d have to buy them new carpeting! So I used the resources at hand (an ice-cold puddle) and tried to oh, I dunno, get the mud off my face and shoes at least. With minimal success. Fortunately it was still raining, so a nice slime-trail followed my progress across the parking lot. Who cared? I wasn’t winning any stealth contests that night.
I think the highlight came when I actually graced the ol’ Ram’s Horn with my presence. I made quite the entrance, as you can well imagine. The gasps were audible and plentiful, but the face of the host was priceless. He really did look dubious as to whether I was, in fact, a human being under all that mud.
After a moment to collect himself, I rather quietly (so-as not to scare him) asked….
“Um, do you have maybe some paper towels or something I could wipe up with before I try to make it to the restroom?”
I was answered by a blank stare. I tried again.
“Paper towel?” and I made a wiping gesture.
Thankfully, synapses started to fire at that point, and he said ‘Oh, oh, oh SURE!’ and ran off to do my bidding.
Sucker.
He came back with a roll of paper towel and proceeded to watch, fascinated, as I attempted to get the worst of it off. I don’t think he could have been more spellbound if I had been doing a striptease.
So I thanked the boy, got the worst of the mud off, and waddled over to the payphone. Did the whole “Um….Dad? funny story….” call and then decided to try my luck in the ladies room. I prayed they had an air hand-dryer so at least I could dry off a bit. Brrrr!
And as I was walking through the Ram’s Horn, followed by many many pairs of wide eyes, I distinctly heard the following from one old lady as I walked by:
“Oh! That poor dear!” and then in a lower voice, leaning forward to her friend across the booth, “I hope those pants aren’t dry clean only!”
Oh, that made my night. I wanted to thank her….whoever she was…for almost making that ordeal worthwhile right there.
I mean….for a total stranger to care about my pants like that…..just…WOW, ya know? I’m telling you, those pants were badass!
Anyhoo, the rest of the story is sort of humdrum….I cleaned up as best I could and waited for my lecture in the form of my father. He had one more little surprise in store for me.
He picked me up alright, and even remembered to bring a few towels for me to sit on. But then we go over to the bank….and the car was nowhere to be seen. I seriously almost crapped my lovely pants at that point. Over the giant lump in my throat all I could croak out was “Um…..”
After a hefty sigh my father then informed me that he had driven over to the bank FIRST….to turn the car off and park it.
At least he had his priorities straight. And I knew where I rated on that list of two. Go, me!
Anyway I never did end up going dancing that night.
And the pants, although *not* dry-clean only, were never the same.
I guess the moral of the story, boys and girls, is…when you’re alone in the dark, particularly in the pouring rain, think twice before you push that little button to lock the car.
*I* didn’t, and now my name is Mud.
Thanks for reading