The road to Chateau Pap Smear is fraught with danger and excitement.
As many of you may know, Mr. Pap Smear and I recently moved from Kaysville to Salt Lake City. A lot of people believe that the City of Salt is the perfect place for me to reside, as they expect me to turn into a pillar of salt at any moment. The close proximity to the Salt Flats would make it convenient for them to just haul the salt statue of my more than ample “Butticus Abundus” out to Bare Ass Beach and let the wind add me as a contribution to the Bonneville Salt Flats. Rumor has it that news of this potential new salt source precipitated a skyrocketing of salt futures. That’s all well and good, however my personal preference would be that my salty likeness be carted to Antelope Island, left standing to be a salt lick for the buffalo.
As you all know, moving is unequivocally the most horrendous activity that can ever befall anyone. I had lived in the apartment in Kaysville for six years. Long enough to be able to fill the place, wall to wall, floor to ceiling with stuff. The search for a new house was torturous. The hardest requirement to fill was ample room in the new house to store all that is Petunia, i.e., wigs, gowns and bling.
Finding the perfect house is like trying to find the “The Most Perfect Ass” at the Palm Springs White Party. Tons of very lovely ones to choose from, but after you’ve ogled/fondled several hundred, they all seem to look, feel and smell alike, and the scary ones are truly nightmarish. God bless my long-suffering realtor, Ryan Fischer, who patiently suffered through my indecisiveness, showing me countless suitable houses.
Once we closed on the house, we had three weeks before we had to be out of our apartment. It seemed like oodles of time to clean, paint, carpet the new place and move all our stuff. Much to my dismay, the logistics of moving everything would rival the D-Day Invasion of Normandy. In preparation, I decided that each day as I drove into Salt Lake for work, I would fill the capacious cargo hold of Queertanic with wardrobe items, thereby lessening the load on moving day.
On one trip, Queertanic was indeed full from bumper to bumper, and all it contained was my hair, seventeen wigs in all. On a subsequent trip, again filled to the brim, with only sequined and beaded gowns. I was surprised to learn how heavy sequins can be. Once I climbed into the driver’s seat the combined tonnage of my “Circumferentially Gifted Aisle Blocker Physique” and the dresses, strained Queertanic’s suspension system to very near breaking point.
Yet another trip consisted only of Breasticles and the myriad of interchangeable nipples. Each trip, I fervently prayed I wouldn’t have a wreck. The thought of explaining the contents to the police and/or tow truck driver was just too daunting.
I’m forever grateful to the dozens of hunky guys who came and helped on moving day. They were all very efficient and conveniently blind to my unpreparedness. It only took me one week to find my toothbrush and TV remotes. To my dismay however, the sheer quantity of my wardrobe totally swamped the entire basement of the new house. This was totally unacceptable.
Dennis McCracken heroically volunteered to save me from myself and helped me sort through my commodious wardrobe. He made me show him each and every item in the wardrobe and to justify it’s existence. I ended up giving away about two hundred and fifty outfits before things would fit into the new house. I can’t even imagine that Judgment Day at the Gates of Heaven would be as traumatic. But after much weeping, wailing, gnashing of teeth and a new Lee Press-On-Nails manicure, here we are in Chateau Pap Smear.
Is it a bad sign that the next door neighbor moved away only three weeks after I got here?
As always, these events leave us with several burning eternal questions:
1. How many licks from a buffalo are required to achieve and orgasm?
2. What kind of lube does one use in preparation for buffalo licks?
3. Do seagulls shit on salt statues?
4. Does a Cadillac full of wigs give a new definition to the term, “Big Hair”?
5. Should the collective noun for wigs become, “A Queertanic of Wigs”?
6. Do you think “Honestly Officer, I couldn’t see the other car, because I was blinded by the reflection of the sequins” would be a plausible defense in traffic court?
7. Should a fully loaded Queertanic be required to be inspected at the UDOT Weigh Stations?
8. If they weighed Queertanic, could they be able to extrapolate my weight? Oh the horror!
These and other important questions to be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.