During summer months, largely due to my “personal expansiveness”, I extremely overheat, and it’s not a pretty sight. I go to great lengths to attempt to stay cool. An eon ago, during the Ford administration, I drove my first Queertanic that had air conditioning. Shortly after that, I moved into a trailer house with a swamp cooler on the roof. Oh, sweet relief from my misery. And in the words of Scarlett O’Hara, I swore, “As God is my witness, I’ll never be in ‘heat’ again!”
Swamp coolers, it turns out, need a lot of maintenance. Now mind you, it’s not a pretty sight to watch me climbing up a ladder to the roof, and wouldn’t you know, there would invariably be a herd of the trailer park munchkins hanging out at the base of the ladder, to look up my bloomers. And customarily, once on the roof, the wind would pick up and catch my clothing like a kite and whirl twirl, we’ve got “The Flying Nun”. The children in the trailer park then ran home to their mothers yelling about the sudden eclipse of the sun.
After many years of dealing with a series of swamp cooler equipped abodes, we moved to Salt Lake City and into Chateau Pap Smear which gratefully has central air. Praise be to Saint Willis Carrier for inventing the damned thing.
So last month, the dog days of summer came and bit me in my substantial “Bodus Rotundus”. Queertanic overheated. The impudence! Apparently there was a substantial leak in the cooling system. So on the way home, to alleviate heat from the engine, I risked melting my mascara and turned off the AC, opened the windows and turned the heater on high. Now, drag queens don’t sweat, we glisten. Let me say, “A river ran through it.”
So on Monday, thinking it was just a loose hose clamp, I drove Queertanic to an auto repair shop nine blocks from our house. I waited 90 minutes in the “waiting area” on a hard chair, all the while, being growled at by a sniveling schnauzer of another patron. Then came the bad news, Queertanic needed a new radiator, and I would have to leave the car overnight.
It was now two o’clock in the afternoon. The summer sun was blazing at 100 degrees. I phoned Mr. Pap Smear to pick me up. But he didn’t answer his phone. I tried every five minutes. After an hour, I attempted to download the Lyft app on my phone, but for some reason, because I had been a Lyft driver before, it would only download the driver version to my phone. I tried downloading it three times before I gave up. So, I guessed I had to walk.
Now those of you who know me understand that I have difficulty walking a long distance, or standing for more than 10 minutes. In fact, when I go to Wendover on The Big Gay Fun Bus, I use a walker (just like they use at Shady Pines) to get around the casinos. Of course, I decorate it with a fabulous boa. Well, wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t have my walker in the car that day, so I was left “sans walker!”
I made it one block and found a rock to sit on. I phoned home. No answer. So I trekked another block and to sit on a bus bench, but a scary homeless person arguing with an invisible person occupied it, so not to be rude, I moved on and found a stump to rest. I phoned home. No answer.
The sweat began to pour down my busty chest, creating a veritable waterfall between my breasticles. I journeyed another block and found a car to rest my “Bottomus Maximus”. I phoned home. No answer! Mascara had melted into my eyes. I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and nearly dropped my purse before I found some shade from a tree and sat on the curb to rest. I phoned home. NO ANSWER! Another block, and finally I found an empty bench, but it sat in the blazing sunlight. At that point, I didn’t care. I phoned home. NO GOD DAMNED ANSWER!
Finally, after an hour of the torture, I was one block away from home, when my phone rang. It was Mr. Pap Smear. He timidly asked, “Shall I come get you?”
“Don’t bother, I’m almost home,” I said heated, as I staggered to the back door, and to my chagrin was locked. Of course, I left my keys with the car. So I rang the doorbell. When Mr. Pap Smear opened the door and beheld the red-faced melting queen, oozing all over the patio, he knew he was in dire trouble!
The following week, I drove past the intersection by the repair shop and there on the corner were seven electric scooters to transport people, just waiting for riders. Timing is everything!
This story leaves us with several important questions:
1. If I had fallen off the roof onto the trailer park children, would someone write a fable about me similar to Jack and the Beanstalk?
2. Did the planetarium ever record my “solar eclipse”?
3. Would I had earned extra “princess points” if I crushed the most obnoxious kid?
4. Can those new electric scooters hold a “Quantum Maximus” queen?
5. How long before I should let Mr. Pap Smear out of the doghouse?
These and other eternal questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.
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