The Luck

Recently, we received a letter from Toyota talking possible rust on the frame of our Tacoma. In true Gail and Workaholic fashion, we didn’t really read it, and sort of just tossed it aside. My dad meanwhile, also gets said letter, and also does the same. (gee…where do I get it??) He does though, take his truck to his trusty mechanic to get a once over. Trusty mechanic says, “Umm…you have a hole rusted through the frame of your truck. Really shouldn’t leave town, much less pull a fishing boat to Canada with your 2 grandsons as precious cargo.” Oh, the luck. You see, my dad’s truck is in pristine condition, with the exception of 2 holes in the frame. (I guess that is bad) The tires are good, the engine is great, the transmission is fabulous, and hasn’t gone through a single clutch. Our truck, on the other hand, could use a little replacing.

We acquired the truck from my brother-in-law, it was his first vehicle when he turned 16, a sparkly, shiny, brand spanking new purple Toyota Tacoma. He washed it on a bi-weekly basis, barely allowed shoes in it, much less my husband, much less ever let him drive it. So you can imagine his reluctance to let us acquire it. You see, Workaholic is a little hard on things. His mother once told me that he never actually grew out of a pair of shoes as a toddler, he destroyed them first. He would take apart radios and give up trying to put them back together. I am fairly convinced the reason why he knew how to fix all the holes in the drywall and doors that his over exuberant roommates in college created during Monday Night Raw was because he would do these things himself as a child and he had to fix them before mom found out. He knew how to spackle by the time he was 4.

Anyway, our truck is just vulgar. Being a passenger in it could make an astronaut get carsick with the rough ride. The cupholder is permanently stuck out over the radio, (instead of being able to push it back in the dashboard) because of the effect of sticky Pepsi that spilled one too many times. I tried vacuuming it once, but the dirt that lives in the carpet refused to move. There is also a fine layer of dust or dirt that coats every surface. When you pat the seat, a cloud comes up. (Oooo, pretty). The dashboard, I discovered last night, is also spotted with Red Bull, and there is Pepsi splashed across the windshield, which BTW, is cracked. The CD player and tape deck stopped working years ago, also the victim of too much Pepsi consumption. You can have either hot heat or cold A/C, nothing in-between. And the brakes squeal. But the damn thing starts every time, can pull a boat, and can plow through a couple of feet of snow, no problem. And apparently, there is no rusted holes in our frame warranting Toyota to give us 150% of Kelly Blue Book Suggested Retail Value of excellent (HAHAHAHA!!!) condition. Had we been forced to sell it back to Toyota, it would have sucked buying a new truck, along with the subsequent car payment, but how nice would it be to ride in a vehicle that you don’t have to shower every time you get out of it?

In the meantime, my poor dad has to buy a new truck and give back his perfectly good (with the exception of 2 giant holes in the frame) 11 year old pick ‘em up, and hopes to get it in time for Canada. All manual, 4 cylinder transmission, 2 wheel drive of glorious new Tacoma. At least it’ll pull a boat without cracking in half.

So a friend of mine through work just had his first baby. Well, I guess his wife just had her first baby, but potato patato. They got an ultrasound done at around 18 weeks and were delighted to find out that they were having a baby girl. (mental note, if I want to find out what I am having…wait two more weeks to the 20 week ultrasound) Even though they both thought they saw something on the screen, the doctor was sure, and that thing? Just the umbilical cord. Two weeks ago, she had another ultrasound done…and guess what? Not just the umbilical cord. Yeah…it’s a boy. Yay!!

Can you imagine? The poor guy, (of course I feel sorry for him, even though it was his wife who had to go through the pain of delivery), had to re-do the nursery and figure out what the heck to do with all the pink crap they got. They are very popular people, and had not one, not two, but three baby showers. Mucho pink. Because everyone knew they were having a girl. He has a very rational view on it…they’ll have more kids; surely one of them will be of the female variety. And if not?? The poor youngest child will just have to be gay.

Subway angst

Last night, I had the longest Subway experience ever. Workaholic and I were hungry, but I didn’t want the grease of Redamaks, and he did, so I am quite sure that he will never let me forget this. We decide to stop at the Subway in Benton Harbor, about a block or two from Lake Michigan. It was probably close to 9 at night, but there really is just no excuse.

When we pulled up, there were already 3 boys walking in ahead of us, and 2 in there, already eating. The 3 boys got 4 sandwiches. Which took 25 minutes to make. In the 25 minutes I had to wait, I spent my time observing said boys. They were teenagers, and rich. (when the first one got his sandwich after 5 minutes and left, it was in a nice black Cadillac CTS) They were each wearing an item of plaid. One was a shirt, the other shorts, the third was wearing plaid shoes, and the fourth, I have to give him credit, it took me a while to figure it out, but his wallet was plaid. Must not have wanted to conform too much. They were not rowdy, or impolite, but I decided that I didn’t like them, and neither did Workaholic. We were justified. (which, BTW, is because while Slow Boy, my name for the guy behind the counter, was in the middle of making my sandwich, plaid shoe boy decided that he wanted a cup for a Coke. Slow Boy panicked for a moment before telling plaid shoe boy that he’d have to wait, and pay, for the cup which was subsequently stolen from behind the counter. Hey, kid! You had your chance!! Be thirsty!) I almost went off on him, but I was too focused on watching Slow Boy putting lettuce on my sandwich.

Slow Boy was the only one working, (as evidenced by the complete lack of sandwich making supplies and the trash can that was sitting out in the middle of the restaurant) and I think (hope) he was new. It took him a minute and a half to put on the plastic gloves. He then spoke very softly asking me what I assumed was, what kind of sandwich could he get me? No, that wasn’t it, because when I did tell him my order, he just stared at me, and then said, “Oh, you want wheat bread?” Yes, with turkey (which had to be repeated twice, because apparently, his short term memory was so short, he forgot what I wanted between the time he turned around and got the bread, and set it on the table) and American cheese. “And what kind of cheese would you like?” Seriously??? I just said American cheese twice, like, 45 seconds ago!! (because it took him that long to put the turkey on the bread. Which was longer than 6 inches, and is that OK??) I only get two things on my sandwich, and so that took about 2 minutes. Of course, there was the 10 second pause when I asked for black pepper, and he reached for the black olives, hesitated, and looked panicky at me, (no, I did not help him, he needs to figure out on him own that black olives are not peppers), and finally started looking for the jar of pepper. Shake, pause, shake, pause. “Is that enough?” Yes, because when I asked for lots of black pepper, I meant 2 half hearted shakes. Keep shaking darling! And don’t get me started on the process of paying. He only knew how to make change because the computer told him what to give me.

Thirty-five minutes and lite mayo later, (since they were out of regular mayo), we got out of there. At least Workaholic and I had a nice 15 minute long discussion on the car ride home about how I am such a good sandwich artist and why we didn’t like the teenage boys.

Idiot of the Year

Today, I am a hero. Well, sort of. Workaholic and my FIL were putzing around with the lifts in the lake. They wanted to switch the side that the crank was on, so we don’t have to go in the water to fill up the gas tanks when the boats are on the lifts. My job? If my husband or his father started to electrocute themselves with the drill they were using while perched precariously above the water, then I pull the plug on the drill. There was actually a moment when FIL was standing about 2 inches over the water on a piece of wood, while drilling whatever it was that he felt it necessary to drill a hole in. I also pulled the plug when they were dangling the drill over the water while passing it back and forth, just in case they dropped it while my husband was holding the cord. Thankfully, my hero instincts never had to be put to the test. Can you imagine?? FIL slips into the water, and I start shrieking and screaming, all the while holding the cord in my hand, but not pulling it. Sorry for letting you electrocute yourself for 10 seconds while I had a freak-out.
I am thinking of submitting all of us for Idiots of the Year 2008.

Duh

Let’s discuss how dumb I am.
My brother-in-law set up wireless internet at the cottage in Michigan. I try to connect, the green bars are lit up, but I can’t access the internet. Why, oh why?? It says that it is “authenticating.” So I call Comcast, I text back and forth with my brother-in-law, one of which went like this…

“Where is the router located?”
“Yea”

Oookaaay.
Real answer? I had the wrong password.

Match Made in Heaven

I got to go see the lady doctor this morning. And can I just tell you, there is nothing better than having a man looking in between your legs while you discuss the virtues of Golden Retrievers vs. Bernese Mountain Dogs. I love my doctor!!

Soooo NOT the Dog Whisperer

Last night I decided to play Dog Whisperer. For those of you who don’t know who Cesar Millan is, he’s this Mexican guy who sneaked into the US like, 20 years ago, and started grooming dogs. (don’t worry, he’s all legal now) His favorites were the crazy insane ones that no one else could deal with. He has turned this who thing into a career, helping people like Will Smith deal with his Rottweilers. The guy has his own show on National Geographic channel, and it does appear like he works magic. Really, it’s all common sense.

So I was playing with The Fonz in the back yard, which consists of me hitting a racquetball as far as I can with an old wooden baseball bat, and then he runs and gets it and brings it back to within 10 feet of me. Repeat. Again and again. Our neighbors have a little white Maltese sh*t dog, that they bought from Alsip, one of the pet stores in town. So of course, it’s a puppy mill dog and has no brains and is insane. They let him out, and he proceeds to stand on the edge of his deck and bark at me. This is not unusual, and honestly, it gets old. For a moment, I threaten him, but decide that I am too lazy to walk over there only to have him run away from me, and he keeps barking. But then, I realize that if I don’t go after him, he has won. He thinks that barking at me keeps me away from him. I don’t know why he feels the need to do this, because he knows me, I met him when he was fresh out of the pet store! But who knows what goes on in the mind of an unstable dog. So I decide to get him.

I walk over, and he runs away a little, still barking. I follow. He runs, barks more. I finally get him cornered against his sliding glass door and the little psycho went nuts on me. Snapping and biting and generally trying to kill my hand. He even landed a couple of skin puncturing bites, which bled a total of about 1 ½ drops. But I finally got him up and on my lap, and the neighbors at this point decide to see why their precious little dog was screaming outside. They weren’t mad at me, just wondering what the heck was going on. (I could tell these people that dogs can fly, and they would probably believe me...they have that much faith in my ridiculous amount of dog knowledge, for having no career or use for it) Anyway, I told her, “I win.”

So hopefully he will no longer poop on my deck, or in my living room, and the ultimate goal is that he will not bark at me anymore. If he does, I suppose more blood will be oozed, but next time I won’t guarantee that it’s mine. (insert evil laugh here)