I’m what you would call directionally impaired – if you were being PC and everything. If not…well, I can barely find my ass with both hands, so you can imagine my frustration at driving to an unknown destination to get my cat vaccinated.

On the morning of, I called my best friend, who I assumed would be able to give me specific, idiot-proof directions. She’s been there before with her cats, but she told me she could get there, but she couldn’t tell me how to do it. So I called my other cat-owning friend, still calm, and asked her. She referred me to her husband’s mother, who knows everything as far as I can tell. The woman is a genius. And yes, she had directions, which were good.

But could I follow them? 4 mi S, she said. No more than that. Iron sign, she said. With the name of the vet on it. Left side of the road, she said. Second house, she said. And I wrote it all down, diligently, thinking even *I* couldn’t possibly get lost. FIVE MINUTE DRIVE, she said.

Forty minutes later, after two wrong turns and another pit-stop for modified directions, I drove too far AGAIN, and then, in the throes of self-disgust and exasperation, I FOUND the vet clinic, and hustled Luna inside for the cursory five minute appointment.

Tomorrow, I leave for Helena – where I’ve only been once in my life, as a teenager, and let’s just say I was too self-absorbed to notice the surrounding landmarks, okay? I have to find the Montana Law Enforcement Academy, where I’m to go for a week for dispatch training. And you’re thinking everyone drives in new cities all the time, and what kind of unbelievable wuss am I, but seriously, I don’t even own a car. I bike/hike/borrow my butt to my intended locations, and I am not the best driver. In fact, when I told my sister I was going tomorrow, she casually asked who I was going with – and when I said no one, there was a long, breathless pause before: “Oh my god. You’re going alone? I wish you would have told me, I would have taken you!” At this point, I’m going to forfeit all dignity and admit that she is in fact my younger sister.

Anyway, I’m nervous – understandably – about getting lost, because even though normal people can stop and ask for directions, clearly I need to be led by the hand with verbal confirmation of our nearness every bleeding second of the way.

I agreed to work part-time as a bartender for my friend’s mom, because they’re short of help and I’m short of cash. I thought to myself it would be the perfect temporary arrangement – how hard could it be to serve drinks, chat up the drunks, and count cash?

On my second night by myself, everything was going swimmingly. I was chatting and counting and serving, and getting decent tips. And then, at eleven o’clock, hell broke loose. A bachelor party stormed the bar, and were they EVER rowdy and drunk. But I thought to myself, no problem – I can handle this. One drink at a time, one customer at a time. Take it easy, I said to myself – don’t freak out.

Fast forward one hour, to the point where I was positively trembling with angry impatience, speaking through clenched teeth, and fixing inquiring customers with stares that probably made me look like Medusa on acid. What went wrong, you ask? For starters, everyone wanted drinks at once – and when they didn’t get them, they tried to come behind the bar and help themselves. And when I nicely requested they get their butts back around to the other side, they didn’t listen – and then acted like kicked puppies. And they yelled, and they threw the phone in the garbage (leaving me to dig through it an hour later, in absolute disgust) because by then the cash register had broken, and I had to call the owner at home and plead with her to come muddle it out. Meanwhile, the bachelor party was refusing to pay for their drinks, or mistakenly assuming credit cards were acceptable (admittedly an honest mistake), and then staring at me stupidly when I suggested they find an alternate method of payment.

Luckily, my fuck-off demeanor was driving people away by the time the owner arrived. I started cleaning up, since it was nearly closing, and listened as she struggled to make sense of the register, and then announced it’s death. Miraculously, I didn’t get fired. The downside to that being I have to go back and do it all again tomorrow night.

Oh, and I’m not technically on the books yet, because she hasn’t called the accountant. HELLO, tax evasion.

I love my sister H very much, and that is the only reason I would EVER agree to travel one hundred miles away, crammed into a car with five other women, to be insulted by a matronly seamstress who was clearly suffering through menopause or something similar.

H is getting married in December, and she has selected five bridesmaids to be in her ceremony, including me. I’m happy to be in the wedding, and if I ever get gooey-eyed enough to take my own march down the aisle, I fully intend to make her do it with me. So…we went to a neighboring city on Saturday to get fitted.

It started out pleasantly enough; we piled into a car together, crossing our fingers against any stray highway patrolmen who might want to question the reason six full-grown women were packed in like sardines with questionable seatbelt usage, and took off. We shared aimless conversation. You know, the type of things women talk about when they get together: boobs, movie stars, the latest scandal in the public library…And, evidently, the fact that I am a lesbian. My other sister, T, brought it up chirpily from the backseat. She said that she and our grandmother and her boyfriend had discussed my sexuality at length, and apparently they agreed that I bat for the other team. WHAT? WHAT? Aside from the obviously hideous timing, WHAT? My grandmother thinks I’m a lesbian? And she felt the need to powwow with my sister and her sleazy boyfriend, who has a grudge because I laughed in his face when he hit on me after he first moved here? GREAT. Sometimes, I want to change my name and relocate to Virginia or somewhere, where I’ll never have to hear my family’s so-called conclusions about my lifestyle.

When we got to Great Falls, we went straight to Marshell’s Bridal, because H had an appointment. Or we all did, or something to that effect. Still, it was Saturday, and they were busy, so we had plenty of time to browse through the racks and admire (or occasionally struggle to keep the contents of our breakfast moving the right way through our digestive systems) the variety of dresses the store had to offer. A lot of time. More time than H or anyone wanted to spend, I guess. Then we went upstairs to decide between the two options H had chosen for us. I was thinking we wouldn’t be able to agree, but as it turns out, the first dress option would only work for six foot three super models with perfect breasts and no waists, so we all whipped out our credit cards to pay for the second, which is considerably more bearable – it’s actually quite beautiful.

I grieved, paying $150 for a dress I will wear exactly one time, but life has it’s little hardships.

Anyway, we were there to get measured, and eventually, this short, broad little woman with a forced sales clerk smile motored over, trailing bright yellow measuring tape. She went about using it on us, one by one, making small talk and making fairly quick work of the embarrassing stuff. Except…when it was my turn, she did her routine…and when she got to my hips, she announced – loudly and to the entire store – ‘wow, you have big hips.’

I do NOT have big hips! I’m not just saying that to be defensive, either. I’m an upside down triangle shape, and while admittedly it isn’t the most flattering body type, and I will never live out my fantasy of hiring a personal trainer and looking precisely like Jessica Beil, my shoulders and ribcage are big, and I have virtually NO hips or ass, and I have scrawny chicken legs. So clearly this woman was blind, which doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence about the dress fitting, does it? And then she also shouted my size to the entire store, which…not that they couldn’t tell I’m a cheeseburger and fries kind of girl, but HONESTLY. The next girl, M, got called over when she was done so the dragon lady could whisper her measurements – and any necessary commentary – into her ear. M was lucky, she was.

All in all, a harrowing experience, from the knowledge that my family thinks   25 + single = gay   to the delightful assessment of my hips by Mad Madam Mim. And the best part, the part where I walk down the aisle, trying to keep in time with the swell of the organ music while also trying – and likely failing – not to trip on my dress…well, that’s yet to come.