No-nos — pantless in L.A.

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We’ve officially established a list of things I’m not allowed to do in the truck. It grows longer every day. I’m not wild about the list, but it keeps the peace, and peace is of the utmost importance when you have to sit trapped in a tiny box, three feet away from someone for indefinite periods of time.

Months ago I was banned from saying “Takes guts to do that!” every single time a bug hit the windshield. Apparently, that’s only funny to other people once, even though I still giggle every time I say it. Some people have no sense of humor, or have developed one that’s a little more sophisticated than that of a six-year-old. Whatever. I can still think it, and I can still giggle. Because it’s funny.

I’m also never allowed to gasp or say “Uh-oh!” really loud. George has some kind of weird physiological trigger that makes his hair stand up when he hears me say it, and I can’t imagine why it’s so sensitive. I can understand the gasping ban, it really is disconcerting to hear someone have a sharp intake of breath. Gasping is how cavemen let each other know pterodactyls were getting ready to attack, everyone understands it means something really bad.

I’m also not allowed to sing along with any song by the Cranberries — my vocal range is such that the high parts come out a ragged scream and, again, George has a trigger that makes his hair stand up when I scream. He’s very sensitive.

Palm Trees EditThere are a lot of things I can’t do, but the things I can do are pretty cool. We were hauling ass through Los Angeles last night (you either sit still or haul ass around LA, there’s no regular flow), and once we got on the other side I made my announcement.

“Well, I can mark that one off my bucket list.”

“What’s that? You’ve been through L.A. before.”

“Not without pants on.”


“I rode all the way through LA without any pants on.”

“You’re not wearing pants?”

“Well I have underwear on, I’m not a total freak. And I’m hurt that you didn’t notice I was pantless.”

“Babe, I was kind of concentrating on the traffic. And you don’t think it’s a little weird that riding through L.A. without pants was on your bucket list?”

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“Seriously, how many people can say that?”

“Judging from some of the weird shit I’ve seen, a lot.”

“You’re just jealous because you wore pants.”

“Yes. That’s totally the reason I think you’re weird. Because I wear pants all the time.”
“They must be constricting your brain a little. I’ll get you some bigger pants and you won’t think I’m weird anymore.”

“Really? Bigger pants? That’s all it’ll take?”

“I sense sarcasm, but I’ll blame it on your tight pants.”

“My pants aren’t tight. Your brain is loose.”

“What was that?”

“Rabbits eat lettuce.”