Picture it. Podunk, Tennessee. I am at Sonic at 2:00 in the afternoon. There are at least 25 available spaces. I pull in, pick the closest one, and before I can push the button, I hear through the speaker, “Ma’am, you are parked in a handicapped space.” I don’t know quite how to react. I look around, making sure that a wheelchair parade or the Shady Acres Nursing Home van isn’t pulling in, and then I lean in to the speaker. I am confused on whether or not I should press the button to talk back.  “Do I really need to move?” The teenage girl on the other side of the speaker box tells me yes. Is this a joke? Furthermore, why does Sonic even HAVE handicapped spaces? Are you telling me that an 88 year old veteran with a bullet wound, fractured hip and an oxygen tank is seriously going to pull up to Sonic and decide to get out of his van and eat lunch at the tables? Hell no. He is going to pull up to Sonic, order his chicken strip basket and chocolate milkshake, and eat peacefully in his vehicle like any other Sonic customer. Handicapped parking at Sonic-oxymoron.

Picture it. Podunk, Tennessee. In my neighborhood, there is an adorable white boy, early 20’s, still living at home with mom and dad. He’s tall with dark hair and drives my favorite of all trucks, the late 90’s model Chevrolet Z71. He’s known to wear camouflage and pull into his driveway with a dead deer. He’s also known to rev up his pipes while I am outside watering my flowers in the summer, which is an incredible self esteem boost for a 30 year old stay at home mother. And yet, when adorable white boy, decked out in camo, gets in his pick up truck with big tires and turns the ignition, hard core, foul mouthed gangster rap blares. I can vividly hear lyrics about living in the projects and busting caps. My dear boy, you live in a $250,000 house and the only thing you’ve ever shot is venison. You are an oxymoron.

Picture it. Podunk, Tennessee. A thirty year old woman, who majored in English and should know better, uses the following phrases often- good grief, almost exactly, almost never, almost always, least favorite, pretty ugly, half naked, and Dodge Ram. I am an oxymoron.

And my favorite oxymoron? This entire blog. I whine about whiners and gripe about gripers, and I “almost always” write about people that are not worthy to be on my list of people to write about. Plus, I just finished a sentence with a preposition. That just makes me a moron.