Highway dreams

There is a lonely sweater that hangs on the chain-link fence that separates the highway from the service road. It is fire engine red and mustard yellow, and all sorts of other colours that should never be found together on the same article of clothing. It has been hanging on that fence for well over a month now, waving at me each day as I pass it by on my way to work. 
Sometimes I think about pulling over, onto the gravel shoulder of the road, and taking the sweater down from it's wiry resting place. I think of all the things I could do with that sweater, although there is really only one thing that appeals to me: I'd give it to a friend, letting them know exactly where I'd found it and exactly how long it had been there. 
Highway sweater, I'd call it. "Happy Birthday," I would say, "I got you a highway sweater." 


Motorboating without an engine

It was the third time he'd reached into my shirt and grabbed my breast with his cold, slobbery hand. I jumped a little, glared, and was met with a large toothless smile.
"It's official," I sighed. "Your son takes after you."
"Hey! I have never touched your breasts," he declared.
"Well, at the very least, to date you both share the same sense of humour."
It was barely a week ago that the child in question had spent a mere minute scrutinizing my face before eagerly proceeding to motorboat my cleavage, offering up a suave half-smile once he'd finished.
"Clearly I need to start wearing shirts that have better coverage," I sighed.


And then he wandered off to ask another adult what flunitrazepam is

When I deciphered the words blaring over the speakers, I rolled my eyes, braced my left hand against the oversized, white truck I'd been diligently scrubbing and took a minute to wipe away some bubbles that had found their way on to my nose. 
I can tell that I'm getting old because songs about booty holes (and the subsequent showing of them) no longer thrill me the way they once might have. Instead, I find them mildly disturbing and shake my head at the lyricist's questionable use of poetic devices. 
The sun was relentless and I was beyond tired. I'd slept for a total of five hours in the two prior days and wanted desperately to curl up in my bed and simply die.
Just then, from over the roof of the monstrous truck (I can only assume its owner was trying to compensate for something), water proceeded to rain down on me.
"Sorry," someone yelled, although the laughter in their voice clearly indicated that their apology was not entirely heartfelt. 
"You do not have to apologize every time you do that," I sighed. "We are having a car wash and being sprayed with a hose is an expected danger when participating in this kind of event." I'd heard several apologies already for accidental spray-age and had subsequently spent most of the day trying to avoid saying the words "you", "got", "me", and "wet" within the same sentence (especially in that order). Anything perceived as remotely sexual was predictably followed up with a, "that's what she said" from one of the boys. "Not to you, she didn't," I had told them on more than one occasion. 
Earlier that morning, one of the boys had informed me that he felt he had at least a 50% chance of engaging in sexual relations with me at some point in time in the future. "I can assure you," I said firmly, "that, at best, you have a .00001% chance, and the number is only that high because I am not entirely sure that you don't have access to flunitrazepam."


FYI: Every other post from here on out will somehow involve babies

"Your baby just gave me the finger," I said flatly.
"No, he didn't. My baby does not know how to give someone the finger," she'd said. "He doesn't even know that his hands are attached to his body yet."
"Lies. Just look at him right now! His middle finger is clearly extended towards me!" I'd exclaimed. 
She took a moment to look over towards her son before rolling her eyes at me. 
"Babies do not know how to give people the finger," she'd sighed. 
"I just think it's unfair that your baby is free to be as uncouth as he desires and yet I have to put twenty-five cents into a jar every time I let the f-bomb slip in his presence. That is practically my favourite word and you've taken it away from me. If I had a baby, I would totally let you swear in front of it. Actually, I would charge you twenty-five cents every time you didn't swear in front of my baby," I told her. 
I then took a minute to glare at the baby. He was leaning back casually in his car seat with one hand resting casually behind his head and the other extended straight out towards me, flipping the bird.