I was awake until 3 am last night painting a version of a drawing I did while I had insomnia years ago. I am really pleased how it turned out. It was my first serious use of acrylic paint which has many advantages over oils. The largest advantage is the drying period is only an hour or so. I didn't have to wait to add colors or worry about smearing my arm across the canvas. Also, the canvas is now completely dry, no drying period of up to six weeks depending upon the thickness of the paint. The thing I missed the most about oils was the smell. Acrylics have no friendly smell. They, in fact, have pretty much NO smell. But I am pleased with the result. However, I do not want to sell or give away this painting. I want to keep it. Sigh. I need to paint something I don't like and see if anyone else likes it so I can sell it. Silly me.
I think my friend Ruth and I need to find a House Elf to time-share. I should clean cobwebs off the walls and ceiling fans, and sweep floors and all manner of things I have no intention of doing today. This is where a House Elf would come in handy. Also, for folding the heaps of laundry that live pretty much permanently on top of my dryer. Oh well. If you can't deal with a moderately messy house then you don't need to come to my house, I suppose. (Ruth, can you spawn a magical House Elf?)
Pointless store meeting last night. Pointless. The Fearless Leader says "We are going to be busy for the Holiday Season, blah blah blah, mmmmkay.." The Poodle says "Feeds...they are tasty for animals...any questions?" Spurr Girl says "Welders. We have them" Or that's what I got out of the stuff she said. And Jason didn't get to teach heating because the Fearless Leader blathered on for over an hour about the Holiday Season, and how Big Brother is ever more present in our computer system, and how none of us can remember the mission statement and values. I, after working for the Nazis for 4 years couldn't give a fuck about the mission statement or values. I have my own ethics and so far, so good. Fuck you Tennessee Nazis! If you pay me $15 an hour I will learn the fucking mission statement verbatim. Pay me enough to live on and you might be amazed at the results. I guarantee I'm not the only one who would care more.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 21, 2011
There was a noise
Then another noise. Jon went to investigate. There was a small, fat Chihuahua in our backyard. Pretty certain it belonged to our neighbors, Jon knocked on their door but they weren't home. So we kept it. Then, knocked on their door once they came home. It was their dog. And the neighbors were happy.
Thinking things had worked out okay, we sat back down to watch television and eat smoothies. Which, I apparently don't much like. I think I'll just eat my strawberries whole, thank you very much. It's the texture I don't like...and the neighbor knocks on the front door. Their other dog, the male one, is missing as well. We haven't seen him. Jon and the neighbor check the backyard, no sign of him. So now Jon and the neighbors are all out scouring the neighborhood for a slightly larger Chihuahua than the one we found. Not as old, either, which may be why the first one was easy to catch. I hope they find him.
I know, I know, I've bitched a lot about the annoying, yappy neighbor dogs but I really didn't want any harm to come to them, just for them to shut up. Fingers crossed everyone.
Thinking things had worked out okay, we sat back down to watch television and eat smoothies. Which, I apparently don't much like. I think I'll just eat my strawberries whole, thank you very much. It's the texture I don't like...and the neighbor knocks on the front door. Their other dog, the male one, is missing as well. We haven't seen him. Jon and the neighbor check the backyard, no sign of him. So now Jon and the neighbors are all out scouring the neighborhood for a slightly larger Chihuahua than the one we found. Not as old, either, which may be why the first one was easy to catch. I hope they find him.
I know, I know, I've bitched a lot about the annoying, yappy neighbor dogs but I really didn't want any harm to come to them, just for them to shut up. Fingers crossed everyone.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
I am tired of things being my fault.
I really don't believe that it is my fault for washing a wallet on the average of once or twice a month. Really. My husband knows I have this problem, yet still he persists in leaving his wallet in a pair of cast off dirty pants/shorts which he leaves in a pile on the bedroom/living room floor for me to pick up and throw in the washing machine before we both run out of wearable garments. It doesn't occur to me to check pockets simply because before I take off my pants, I take all the crap out of the pockets and put it on a table. This seems like a reasonable argument to me, at least. I am NEVER going to consistently check pockets. It is not in my nature, the same as list-making is not in my nature, or anything particularly anal is in my nature.
Of course, all I usually wash is an ID and a list he uses for job applications. List can be replenished, and the ID is wonderfully made out of plastic. (Except for that one time I washed a cell phone.) But I've been washing his stupid wallet for 3 years so this is definitely not going to change. Today, for some reason, his mom calls and wants to know where her proof of insurance is to her car. Of course she would be the only person on the face of the earth who would hand her proof of insurance over to him when he borrowed her car once so he could go apply for jobs. He has insurance. If he were to be pulled over, the cops would just find out if he had her permission to be driving her car. Simple as that. I keep mine in my glove box. Apparently, her usual storage medium is her wallet? Weird. So guess what? I washed her proof of insurance. It's fine. A little rumpled, but okay, legible and all that and had to listen to the "I'm tired of you washing my wallet" diatribe. To which I used my argument: "I picked up the pile of laundry. It was large. How should I know there are wallets in it?" I knew his phone wasn't in the pants, it had been ringing and he was talking on it. So I figured I was safe.
Otherwise, Vincent has no love of the vacuum cleaner. Jon got to hold him whilst I cleaned his habitat and apparently bunny was shaking and scared. But, upon a zoomy inspection, room appeared no worse for the wear and bunny settled back down to do what bunnies do best, which is look cute, hop, and eat, and occasionally nibble on a card board box.
Emma and Doggles held their morning version of Wrestlemania, and are now both curled up next to me on the couch. So cute. Later versions of Wrestlemania will follow with noisiness and thumping and growling.
I really don't believe that it is my fault for washing a wallet on the average of once or twice a month. Really. My husband knows I have this problem, yet still he persists in leaving his wallet in a pair of cast off dirty pants/shorts which he leaves in a pile on the bedroom/living room floor for me to pick up and throw in the washing machine before we both run out of wearable garments. It doesn't occur to me to check pockets simply because before I take off my pants, I take all the crap out of the pockets and put it on a table. This seems like a reasonable argument to me, at least. I am NEVER going to consistently check pockets. It is not in my nature, the same as list-making is not in my nature, or anything particularly anal is in my nature.
Of course, all I usually wash is an ID and a list he uses for job applications. List can be replenished, and the ID is wonderfully made out of plastic. (Except for that one time I washed a cell phone.) But I've been washing his stupid wallet for 3 years so this is definitely not going to change. Today, for some reason, his mom calls and wants to know where her proof of insurance is to her car. Of course she would be the only person on the face of the earth who would hand her proof of insurance over to him when he borrowed her car once so he could go apply for jobs. He has insurance. If he were to be pulled over, the cops would just find out if he had her permission to be driving her car. Simple as that. I keep mine in my glove box. Apparently, her usual storage medium is her wallet? Weird. So guess what? I washed her proof of insurance. It's fine. A little rumpled, but okay, legible and all that and had to listen to the "I'm tired of you washing my wallet" diatribe. To which I used my argument: "I picked up the pile of laundry. It was large. How should I know there are wallets in it?" I knew his phone wasn't in the pants, it had been ringing and he was talking on it. So I figured I was safe.
Otherwise, Vincent has no love of the vacuum cleaner. Jon got to hold him whilst I cleaned his habitat and apparently bunny was shaking and scared. But, upon a zoomy inspection, room appeared no worse for the wear and bunny settled back down to do what bunnies do best, which is look cute, hop, and eat, and occasionally nibble on a card board box.
Emma and Doggles held their morning version of Wrestlemania, and are now both curled up next to me on the couch. So cute. Later versions of Wrestlemania will follow with noisiness and thumping and growling.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
The Tampon Paradox
Am I the only woman on the planet struck immobile by the number of selections in the tampon aisle? I stand there, amused, yet annoyed, that there are so many choices. Name brand or store brand? Applicator, no applicator, cardboard applicator, plastic applicator? Deodorized or unscented? Regular, Light, Heavy, or a mixture of the previous all in one box?
So then, I have to think about all my past experiences with mistakenly buying tampons I didn't like for one reason or another which is so debilitating at this point, its like watching a virus-laden computer reboot. There was the time I got the deodorant ones and wondered what that gross dime store hooker smell was all day until I realized there were tampons in my pocket and that smell was me. And the time I realized the cotton in the Meijer brand tampons is somehow different than the cotton in the Wal Mart ones and also the cotton in the Wal Greens ones. I am apparently allergic to the Meijer brand "cotton"and this is very annoying and one simply does not want to repeat this mistake or face questions as to why one is returning an opened box of tampons. There was the day I had an epiphany and realized the plastic applicators for some reason come in better packaging that doesn't open while inside one's pockets, and then the annoyance of having plastic applicators being used as dog chew toys as dog grossly rummages through the trash when I leave the house. And I never did quite get the hang of the no applicator ones. Maybe I am not that cool. And, what if I bought that mixed box and needed less light ones and more heavy ones and then had to buy another box at some inconvenient time (its always inconvenient)?
I have come to the realization that there is no perfect tampon, not even if Kotex manufactured pink Hello Kitty tampons would there be perfect tampons, they'd use Eau d' cat pee on them or have dog chew toy applicators, or be made of the wrong "cotton" or fall apart in mt pockets while I'm at work, or give me some annoying itch, or maybe I'd decide I wanted yellow Power Ranger tampons instead of pink Hello Kitty ones and that makes a difference that month.
So then, I have to think about all my past experiences with mistakenly buying tampons I didn't like for one reason or another which is so debilitating at this point, its like watching a virus-laden computer reboot. There was the time I got the deodorant ones and wondered what that gross dime store hooker smell was all day until I realized there were tampons in my pocket and that smell was me. And the time I realized the cotton in the Meijer brand tampons is somehow different than the cotton in the Wal Mart ones and also the cotton in the Wal Greens ones. I am apparently allergic to the Meijer brand "cotton"and this is very annoying and one simply does not want to repeat this mistake or face questions as to why one is returning an opened box of tampons. There was the day I had an epiphany and realized the plastic applicators for some reason come in better packaging that doesn't open while inside one's pockets, and then the annoyance of having plastic applicators being used as dog chew toys as dog grossly rummages through the trash when I leave the house. And I never did quite get the hang of the no applicator ones. Maybe I am not that cool. And, what if I bought that mixed box and needed less light ones and more heavy ones and then had to buy another box at some inconvenient time (its always inconvenient)?
I have come to the realization that there is no perfect tampon, not even if Kotex manufactured pink Hello Kitty tampons would there be perfect tampons, they'd use Eau d' cat pee on them or have dog chew toy applicators, or be made of the wrong "cotton" or fall apart in mt pockets while I'm at work, or give me some annoying itch, or maybe I'd decide I wanted yellow Power Ranger tampons instead of pink Hello Kitty ones and that makes a difference that month.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
THOSE PEOPLE
People Are Crazy.
And its my fault for being too nice to them. A lost-looking old fellow (but too young for dementia) was circling the registers so of course, I opened my mouth and asked if he needed help finding anything (I was motivated less by niceness and more motivated by the fact that circling people make me nervous...they're just like carrion birds getting ready to eat a weak, helpless animal.)
This is the strange conversation that followed.
Crazy Fucker: "No. But will you give me a piggy back ride?"
Me: "Um...No...." Did I hear that right? I am deaf, am I really THAT deaf? "I don't think I'm strong enough for that sort of thing."
Crazy Fucker: "Well, you could push me around in a shopping cart, couldn't you?"
Oh, hell, I had heard that correctly. "Nope. I'm chained to the register, they don't let me wander around much." What is wrong with this guy? I'm made more nervous all the time by his circling and wondering whether I should involve management. He's not threatening, exactly, but he's not being ha-ha-I'm-a-smartass-funny either, and he doesn't make eye contact or appear to really be speaking with me, more like he's talking to the air three feet away from my left shoulder.
I sighed in relief when nothing further was said and he wandered toward the back of the store. I'm even more relieved when I'm told its time for my lunch. Good, maybe the freak will exit the store within the next half an hour. I warned Girl A not to talk to him excessively (not at all would be better advice) but mostly you have no choice. I made a point to warn the manager. Then I tried not to think about him.
He had exited the store by the time I reappeared but not before Spurr Girl, whom I had failed to warn by oversight, had had a run-in with him in which he seemed to put lemon drops beneath his shirt and then stood there and stared her down. He never laughed or joked around, she said. How bizarre.
Perhaps these people should have some sort of visible aura surrounding them, some putrid color like puce, that everyone could see so that we will know, oh, that's a Crazy Fucker without approaching too closely or attempting to converse with them as though they are, in fact, normal human beings and and then being horribly mistaken.
For the uninitiated (meaning those who have never worked with the public); here's a list of "Those People"
1. Crazy Fuckers
2. Rude, glued to cell phone people
3. The people with the HORRIBLE CHILDREN (who have no idea or don't care their children are horrible hurricanes)
4. The people who let their dogs pee on the pallets and don't see the turd their dog just deposited in the middle of the aisle.
5. Robotic people, who are people on their Bluetooths that I sometimes classify as Crazy Fuckers
6. The people who want to throw away a dirty diaper in the trash by your cash register (Really? Really? You put that there and I'll figure out which car is yours then throw it inside.)
7. The people that want to load a Pedal Boat into an S-10 in a pouring rain and refuse to get out, help, or come out from under their umbrella while us poor "slaves" get drenched to the skin. Yes, my shoes were squeaking with wet. An S-10 is not really large enough, morons, get something larger.
8. The Ass Pirate who owns a Super Duty F 350 and was at the store shopping TODAY and didn't want any of the fence posts loaded into his truck, and instead required a delivery....WTF????? And we humor this guy? Why? He's not worth it.
9. The CAT LADY. Yes, kind of exactly like on the Simpsons. I was once scolded that TSC was out of WHISKAS and that there are "Cat people around these parts, not just dog people!" Also, she smells just like cat pee. Ugh.
10. The Self-Important. (Sorry, you are not entitled to anything just because you are having a bad day, or because you have children, or because you own a company, farm, or a hundred indentured servants, you just aren't, so please stop behaving as though the store workers are your own personal shoppers, get off your ass and walk through the store instead of strolling to the register demanding you be brought whatever it is you desire. Get over yourself. Better yet, try that shit at Wal Mart!)
And its my fault for being too nice to them. A lost-looking old fellow (but too young for dementia) was circling the registers so of course, I opened my mouth and asked if he needed help finding anything (I was motivated less by niceness and more motivated by the fact that circling people make me nervous...they're just like carrion birds getting ready to eat a weak, helpless animal.)
This is the strange conversation that followed.
Crazy Fucker: "No. But will you give me a piggy back ride?"
Me: "Um...No...." Did I hear that right? I am deaf, am I really THAT deaf? "I don't think I'm strong enough for that sort of thing."
Crazy Fucker: "Well, you could push me around in a shopping cart, couldn't you?"
Oh, hell, I had heard that correctly. "Nope. I'm chained to the register, they don't let me wander around much." What is wrong with this guy? I'm made more nervous all the time by his circling and wondering whether I should involve management. He's not threatening, exactly, but he's not being ha-ha-I'm-a-smartass-funny either, and he doesn't make eye contact or appear to really be speaking with me, more like he's talking to the air three feet away from my left shoulder.
I sighed in relief when nothing further was said and he wandered toward the back of the store. I'm even more relieved when I'm told its time for my lunch. Good, maybe the freak will exit the store within the next half an hour. I warned Girl A not to talk to him excessively (not at all would be better advice) but mostly you have no choice. I made a point to warn the manager. Then I tried not to think about him.
He had exited the store by the time I reappeared but not before Spurr Girl, whom I had failed to warn by oversight, had had a run-in with him in which he seemed to put lemon drops beneath his shirt and then stood there and stared her down. He never laughed or joked around, she said. How bizarre.
Perhaps these people should have some sort of visible aura surrounding them, some putrid color like puce, that everyone could see so that we will know, oh, that's a Crazy Fucker without approaching too closely or attempting to converse with them as though they are, in fact, normal human beings and and then being horribly mistaken.
For the uninitiated (meaning those who have never worked with the public); here's a list of "Those People"
1. Crazy Fuckers
2. Rude, glued to cell phone people
3. The people with the HORRIBLE CHILDREN (who have no idea or don't care their children are horrible hurricanes)
4. The people who let their dogs pee on the pallets and don't see the turd their dog just deposited in the middle of the aisle.
5. Robotic people, who are people on their Bluetooths that I sometimes classify as Crazy Fuckers
6. The people who want to throw away a dirty diaper in the trash by your cash register (Really? Really? You put that there and I'll figure out which car is yours then throw it inside.)
7. The people that want to load a Pedal Boat into an S-10 in a pouring rain and refuse to get out, help, or come out from under their umbrella while us poor "slaves" get drenched to the skin. Yes, my shoes were squeaking with wet. An S-10 is not really large enough, morons, get something larger.
8. The Ass Pirate who owns a Super Duty F 350 and was at the store shopping TODAY and didn't want any of the fence posts loaded into his truck, and instead required a delivery....WTF????? And we humor this guy? Why? He's not worth it.
9. The CAT LADY. Yes, kind of exactly like on the Simpsons. I was once scolded that TSC was out of WHISKAS and that there are "Cat people around these parts, not just dog people!" Also, she smells just like cat pee. Ugh.
10. The Self-Important. (Sorry, you are not entitled to anything just because you are having a bad day, or because you have children, or because you own a company, farm, or a hundred indentured servants, you just aren't, so please stop behaving as though the store workers are your own personal shoppers, get off your ass and walk through the store instead of strolling to the register demanding you be brought whatever it is you desire. Get over yourself. Better yet, try that shit at Wal Mart!)
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Flea Paranoia
Number One: Treated dogs to prevent fleas last week.
Number Two: Doggles is now itchy.
Jon is itchy due to recent poison ivy rash, its strange this one, either he has residual steroids in his blood or he just didn't get as toxic of a dose. Possible dog involvement. I sprayed lovely chemicals all over all the poison ivy I could find. Bought some expensive treatment suggested by other John. Think it kind of works. Remains to be seen. He also is on more Benadryl.
I resorted to Benadryl for my two hour long sneeze session earlier. Finally, no sneezing.
Bathed both dogs, washed all laundry including dog beds and blankets....dogs are now both itchy. Used flea shampoo. After that one horrible infestation a couple of years ago, I am terrified that I will have another horrible infestation. But, supposedly I was also bathing them in case of poison ivy....arrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Flea-combed both cats, found no flea dirt or fleas. But am still terrified of fleas. Found nothing on Emma. Doggles wouldn't stand for the flea comb at all. He thinks this tiny little flea comb is going to turn into a dog eating monster and chomp on him, leaving nothing but a furry corpse. Cats love the flea comb. Guess it itches them just right.
No idea what to do if Vincent gets fleas. Nightmare scenario. Am scared of fleas. Fleas are creepy. Vacuuming your bed before you sleep at night--extra creepy. Get all those eggs off the bed because you are too sleepy and its too time consuming to wash everything before you go to sleep.....yep, I went through all of that.
I hate when dogs are itchy. Makes me paranoid.
Fleas are also expensive. I have absolutely no money to spend on fleas this time. Nada. Budget is full. If this flea treatment doesn't work, there is no way I can buy Frontline at $50 a box for two cats and two dogs. Why does that stuff have to be so expensive? Isn't there a generic yet?
Number Two: Doggles is now itchy.
Jon is itchy due to recent poison ivy rash, its strange this one, either he has residual steroids in his blood or he just didn't get as toxic of a dose. Possible dog involvement. I sprayed lovely chemicals all over all the poison ivy I could find. Bought some expensive treatment suggested by other John. Think it kind of works. Remains to be seen. He also is on more Benadryl.
I resorted to Benadryl for my two hour long sneeze session earlier. Finally, no sneezing.
Bathed both dogs, washed all laundry including dog beds and blankets....dogs are now both itchy. Used flea shampoo. After that one horrible infestation a couple of years ago, I am terrified that I will have another horrible infestation. But, supposedly I was also bathing them in case of poison ivy....arrrrgggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Flea-combed both cats, found no flea dirt or fleas. But am still terrified of fleas. Found nothing on Emma. Doggles wouldn't stand for the flea comb at all. He thinks this tiny little flea comb is going to turn into a dog eating monster and chomp on him, leaving nothing but a furry corpse. Cats love the flea comb. Guess it itches them just right.
No idea what to do if Vincent gets fleas. Nightmare scenario. Am scared of fleas. Fleas are creepy. Vacuuming your bed before you sleep at night--extra creepy. Get all those eggs off the bed because you are too sleepy and its too time consuming to wash everything before you go to sleep.....yep, I went through all of that.
I hate when dogs are itchy. Makes me paranoid.
Fleas are also expensive. I have absolutely no money to spend on fleas this time. Nada. Budget is full. If this flea treatment doesn't work, there is no way I can buy Frontline at $50 a box for two cats and two dogs. Why does that stuff have to be so expensive? Isn't there a generic yet?
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Can I borrow a penis just for a few minutes?
Sometimes the oil change guys apparently like to mess with my head. At first, I found their input helpful...as in they are telling me things I may not otherwise remember...such as: you should rotate your tires every other oil change or so and that my timing chain will need replacing at 120,000 miles. I can't remember numbers to save my life. That's a fact.
Soon, however, I found their input rather annoying. "You need new tires before winter." Yes, I know. Can I afford new tires? Sadly, no. I never bought new tires until I had the money meaning with my income tax return, but that didn't stop the guys from tsk-ing at me every time I needed an oil change. I really thought about asking if THEY would care to donate $400 so I could ride around on nice, fresh tires.
Lately its been: "Your car is low on brake fluid, you need to have those brakes checked." Guess what? I heeded their advice and called a guy out to check my brake system. Nothing. No clue. Everything is fine. I have a mystery disorder in which the car enjoys chugging brake fluid on occasion. No leaks. Nothing. Rotors...fine, pads, fine. Everything fine. Stops on a dime. I gave the man 10 bucks for his trouble, which was more than he asked for, and away he went. I keep checking the brake fluid. Full. Every time.
Until....
I need another oil change. Then of course, he nags me about having the brakes checked. Yes, I DID have the brakes checked. Nothing was the matter. "Well, did the guy take the wheel off?" Yes, of course he did. He was out there for half an hour checking my car. I saw him. "Have him run a micrometer over those rotors...they need replacing..." Uh...huh....if you can't measure the roughness with your own skin then its not worth the money. Even I know this. A MICROMETER? REALLY? Also, if its not making me chew through brake pads then nothing is wrong.
Then he says "Your car is leaning to the right. You should have your shocks checked." I do. Ed just left. Pushed and shoved on all four shocks. Shakes his head in bewilderment and says he can't find anything wrong. Also the car is not visibly listing. I've seen cars with bad suspensions going down the road. Those poor, injured cars list to the left, they list to the right, they sag in the back, they sag in the front. This is not to say that fresh shocks wouldn't perk up the yellow beast, just that I am going to need to apply that money toward a new timing chain soon and I don't have a wonderful cash generating machine in my vicinity. If they were broken or dangerous, I would gladly get them; hence the point of having Ed investigate. The backs are 38 bucks a piece, the fronts, however are 80 bucks apiece.
From now on I am going to stay home during the oil change and send someone who owns a penis; unless someone can loan me a penis for the short duration of an oil change. Go figure, the one with the vagina was the one who figured out her car needed a serpentine belt and the one with the penis ran in freaking out that the car was making "THAT NOISE!" Imagine, the vagina just went and turned off the air conditioner and the fan and THAT NOISE stopped, and she deduced it was a simple belt. Hence Ed replaced the belt so the defroster and air conditioner are once again safe to use and without THAT NOISE.
I always knew sexism was out there, but I really didn't think it was still at this level of idiocy. My dad raised me to know that being a girl or a boy isn't the issue, its how you use your brain. More men of his generation should have been so enlightened.
Women still only make 80 cents of every dollar a man makes yet make up 47% of the workforce. Ridiculous.
Soon, however, I found their input rather annoying. "You need new tires before winter." Yes, I know. Can I afford new tires? Sadly, no. I never bought new tires until I had the money meaning with my income tax return, but that didn't stop the guys from tsk-ing at me every time I needed an oil change. I really thought about asking if THEY would care to donate $400 so I could ride around on nice, fresh tires.
Lately its been: "Your car is low on brake fluid, you need to have those brakes checked." Guess what? I heeded their advice and called a guy out to check my brake system. Nothing. No clue. Everything is fine. I have a mystery disorder in which the car enjoys chugging brake fluid on occasion. No leaks. Nothing. Rotors...fine, pads, fine. Everything fine. Stops on a dime. I gave the man 10 bucks for his trouble, which was more than he asked for, and away he went. I keep checking the brake fluid. Full. Every time.
Until....
I need another oil change. Then of course, he nags me about having the brakes checked. Yes, I DID have the brakes checked. Nothing was the matter. "Well, did the guy take the wheel off?" Yes, of course he did. He was out there for half an hour checking my car. I saw him. "Have him run a micrometer over those rotors...they need replacing..." Uh...huh....if you can't measure the roughness with your own skin then its not worth the money. Even I know this. A MICROMETER? REALLY? Also, if its not making me chew through brake pads then nothing is wrong.
Then he says "Your car is leaning to the right. You should have your shocks checked." I do. Ed just left. Pushed and shoved on all four shocks. Shakes his head in bewilderment and says he can't find anything wrong. Also the car is not visibly listing. I've seen cars with bad suspensions going down the road. Those poor, injured cars list to the left, they list to the right, they sag in the back, they sag in the front. This is not to say that fresh shocks wouldn't perk up the yellow beast, just that I am going to need to apply that money toward a new timing chain soon and I don't have a wonderful cash generating machine in my vicinity. If they were broken or dangerous, I would gladly get them; hence the point of having Ed investigate. The backs are 38 bucks a piece, the fronts, however are 80 bucks apiece.
From now on I am going to stay home during the oil change and send someone who owns a penis; unless someone can loan me a penis for the short duration of an oil change. Go figure, the one with the vagina was the one who figured out her car needed a serpentine belt and the one with the penis ran in freaking out that the car was making "THAT NOISE!" Imagine, the vagina just went and turned off the air conditioner and the fan and THAT NOISE stopped, and she deduced it was a simple belt. Hence Ed replaced the belt so the defroster and air conditioner are once again safe to use and without THAT NOISE.
I always knew sexism was out there, but I really didn't think it was still at this level of idiocy. My dad raised me to know that being a girl or a boy isn't the issue, its how you use your brain. More men of his generation should have been so enlightened.
Women still only make 80 cents of every dollar a man makes yet make up 47% of the workforce. Ridiculous.
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