Did your mom ever warn you about being careful who you hang out with? Did we ever listen to our moms? Well, mama's warnings were in many cases spot on, truth be told. . . and now I'm reaping the consequences of not heeding that advice.
Case in point: Last year I started hanging out with a new friend who wanted me to train her to get in shape. . . so I did. . . and THAT'S when all the mayhem fun started. . .
After this gal pal of mine got into shape--she decided to enter us into a bunch of races and dragged my fanny everywhere--walking and running all over the place. . . .
I guess I should have expected that at some point, I would end up creating a monster. But this was no ordinary fitness fan (fiend). No--not by a long shot! We not only had to race on the weekends--we had to do it in drag costume.
And of course she wouldn't limit us to flat raceways. . . there were bridges, trails, hills, cliffs, waterfalls and all kinds of natural and unnatural stuff to wade through. . .
No matter where the next road, trail, arduous pathway takes us--I can only blame myself. . . I should have trained her how to cook instead. . .
For the love of PETE! As if I didn't already have enough to be freaked out about--now I have to worry about those pesky twice yearly 'dental cleanings'.
I got up at the crack of 'too early to be thinking clearly, let alone get out of bed and let loose on the world' this morning so I could get my dental visit over with.
I have about as much love for going to the dentist as I do a tax audit. But since I do like teeth that still stick to my gums and that minty-fresh overly white smile that says 'you just paid a fortune to have your teeth whitened' look--I made my semi-annual trek down to the dentist's office to have a 'cleaning.'
I actually thought this might be my lucky day as my dentist had hired a new, very young hygienist who looked all of about 14. So I figured she would be through with me quickly and painlessly since she looked like she could barely lift a rinse cup. Besides she looked so sweet and innocent and talked in a baby soft voice.
Boy was I in for a surprise!
She asked if I had ever had a cleaning with the new water/pick drill method. I didn't think so--but then, everything in a dental office either has water, picks, or drills to go with it.
That's when the madness began. Holy Mother of Agua!. . . this was the most tortuous fun I can ever remember having to date.
Dental Terrorist: Put on these goggles for protection. Oh, and this might be a little noisy.
Me: Uh, OK.
Then the sound a room full of hyped up school teachers running their fingers down a massive chalk board assaulted my ears--followed by the sound of a harrier jet engine revving up.
Me: Holy crap, what is that noise?
Dental Terrorist: That's just the water drill warming up. Here we go. . . you will most likely get a bit wet. But think of it as a facial mist at a spa or something.
That's when she shot cold water into my mouth at the speed of light with a pressure that ripped my upper palate right off. The 'pick' would drill into my gums and the water jet would rinse everything off and erupt out of my mouth and all over my face and hair and goggles (if she wasn't too quick with that 'suction-thingy'--which she sometimes wasn't)
Now, I am not an expert on water-boarding--nor am I claiming that I have actually been to Gitmo--BUT, I'm thinking that had I been interrogated during any point of this of 'water-drilling' event, I would have given up my deepest, darkest secrets and even made up stuff--just to get this woman from the nether regions of Hell to JUST PLEASE STOP!
After being given a towel and several tissues to wipe up and dry off, the lady terrorist had the chutzpa to ask me how I liked it.
Me: Hopefully that was a one time deal.
Dental terrorist: We will be using this a lot--since it really does a deep down cleaning for gums and teeth.
Me: Seriously, next time if I promise to be really good and floss hourly, can you just go back to using the scrapers and picks that make my gums bleed?
Dental terrorist: Oh, you are a funny one, aren't you? The dentist will be in to follow up with you shortly. You may want to reapply your make-up.
She hands me a mirror so that I can take a gander at my face which shows my mascara and make-up dripping down my chin. While I'm trying to salvage my self-respect and tissue-dry my ruined face--in walks Dr. Perfect, my handsome dentist.
Dentist: What? No shouting or whining today? I thought you had the 'water-drill' cleaning.
Me: I couldn't say a thing--I was drowning.
Dentist: Well, here's a little goody bag for you then--since you were such a good girl your first time.
Me: What do the other patients do? (maybe I could get some tips)
Dentist: Never mind. Is there anything you need to ask me?
Me: Do you have a hair dryer?
Dentist: You are a funny one, aren't you? We'll see you in a few months.
(the heck you will!)
I'm not sure what they are teaching in 'dental hygiene' school these days--but I'm thinking that maybe some of the wrong 'methods' have found their way into the tomes of dental care.
All I know is, that I now have to buy a wetsuit and mask for before my next appointment.
A good friend sent me this YouTube video and it cracked me up! I will never admit it openly or anything--but I think I might be starting to get old. (shhhhhh! you didn't hear that from me)
And apparently so is this men's drill team. They've still got what it takes. . . just a whole lot more of it!
I'm aghast and agog at their precision and execution. This is a minute and half of performance that I'm sure you won't soon forget if you decide to take a peak.
Now I think I'm going to find a chair and sit a spell. . .
I've heard tell that all bloggers go to Heaven. . . no, that wasn't it. . . I think it was blogging is not for the weak and simple-minded.
Wait a minute--if that were true, the blogosphere would be a huge giant void.
Perhaps it was blogging makes you go blind. Yeah, that sounds about right. I'm sure there are various and sundry reason why folks 'blog'. . . For me--it keeps me from doing a lot of laundry and ironing. Not to mention, it also saves me from having to call a shrink every now and again. . . (of course Zoloft will do the same thing)
But I digress. . .
Apparently I have some folks now who are taking my 'blogging temperature' by how frequently I blog and if I am 'regular'. . . When I fail to blog as often as 'normal', then I must be backed up. (which is not a good thing) And I really don't want to find out what a blogging enema would do.
If I blog too much, then I am said to be binging and purging and that can lead to becoming a blogging bolemic. (again not a good thing)
It's a very fine line that one must tread to find just the RIGHT amount of blogging space to take up at any one time. I'm sure I've made some serious blogging faux pas.
And not to be distracted--but my heck! Isn't BLOGGING a funny word? I mean, who came up with that one? (actually I think it was shortened back in '99 or something from 'weblog'. Instead of folks saying 'I'm writing a web log' it was much easier to say 'blog'.
Just like instead of saying, 'Could you be so kind as to please pass the creole gumbo casserole.' most family members will say, 'Uh, give stuff!'
OK! Back to the topic!
I want to reassure all my little blogger fans out there that I am totally fine (as far as the incredible world of blogging goes) and have a plunger in hand and will do the virtual 'swishy' as needed to keep the blog posts flowing freely.
But what I don't put out in quantity--I make up for in quality. (yeah, that's the ticket!) Which is why my postings may tend to ramble, not make any sense, and tend to appear randomly and for no apparent reason.
So don't be alarmed when and if you see me post something. . . or NOT posting something.. Just sit back, relax and enjoy the fact that you are only reading about my ridiculous life. . . be thankful you are not actually living inside my poor, addled brain.
Wait! Maybe you ARE living in there--and that's why I have to do all this blogging in the first place. . .
I suppose my life just wouldn't be complete if I couldn't spend some part of my existence with a repairman of some sort. Car mechanics, electricians, plumbers, computer geeks, sewage specialists, tree surgeons, roofers, grounders, rounders, looters and renegades of every kind. .
You name it--I've done some time with them. (and what quality time that has been) And right smack dab in the middle of winter, with college son coming home for a week for some 'quality time' with the family--of course the furnace goes out.
So naturally dear hubby is ever ready and helpful with a list of furnace repairmen of every shape and sort and wants to set me up on a play date with one of them right away. As I'm looking through the list between several layers of clothing and blankets and trying to unthaw my eyelids so they will open properly--I made a mental note to just deal with the first guy that will actually respond and come to the house.
This is how I got to meet Fred, the furnace repairman. Somehow I managed to move my frozen fingers enough to be able to punch in the phone number and Fred, who has a voice loud enough to set off a 3-alarm fire bell, responded that he could come over that VERY day. Right NOW in fact. Just needed to slip his pants and tool belt on and he'd be over before I could say arctic ice cap.
At this point--I was just thrilled we might get some HEAT! Fred's voice and presence could warm up a vast amount of the frozen Alaskan tundra--and since we had been without a heater for 2 days and looked like ticks ready to pop with all the clothing and down jackets we were wearing--I was ready to put up with ANYTHING to get the heat back on again.
I mean, it's kinda weird when friends run into you at the store and see you putting on snow pants and goggles and mittens and scarves and boots and thermals and wool caps and ask if you are going skiing for the day or something--and you have to explain that no, you are merely getting ready to go back into your house.
Fred comes over and he is everything that a stereotypical furnace repair guy should be. . . and more. He weighed nearly 300 pounds and of course his pants didn't fit right. He began by yelling and cussing at the furnace to try and get it to work (which is nothing new since dear hubby usually goes through the same ritual on a nightly basis) I left him to his pounding and shouting and pretty soon the furnace was up and running.
He called me to come in and witness the miracle. He then asks me what my husband usually did to get our gas furnace to turn on. . . so of course I show him. Fred, grabs my arm and stops me in my tracks with a look that would have withered a wild grizzly about to feast on a troop of boy scouts.
Fred: EGADS, woman! You can't start the furnace that way. You don't stand there, turning the gas on with a scripto lighter. What are you insane? Do you want to end up in the hospital like my last 3 clients who dialed me up with their nubby burnt off fingers?
Me: That's what my husband does. He's been doing it for years that way.
Fred: Has he ever been in the hospital?
Me: Well, now that you mention it. . .
Fred: We're gonna have to re-educate him. But first, let me show you how it's supposed to work. Does the motor make a loud noise when it's on?
Me: No. (of course I don't tell him that I'm used to the grinding, clanking, retching sound that it makes when it's running so I no longer notice it)
Fred goes back to work and then calls me in again.
Fred: What would be a loud noise to you, m'am?
Me: (I give a blood curdling shout that knocks my youngest son out of bed upstairs and kills 2 of the neighborhood cats) ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGH! Now, that would be a loud noise to me.
Fred: (picking up his false teeth off the floor) I'll give ya that. But your furnace is not supposed to sound like this. This sound is too loud for a furnace. He goes back to work.
Pretty soon he calls me back in again.
Fred: Do you hear that?
Me: Hear what?
Fred: EXACTLY! That's what your furnace is supposed to sound like.
Me: Wow! Is it working?
Fred: No, but it will be.
He asks me who does the regular maintenance on the furnace--and I have to admit that it's the man of my dreams who does all the fix-it and maintenance projects around the house. (well, not really--it's my husband--but you get the point)
Fred: (who obviously is not impressed with my husband's furnace skills) When was the last time your husband cleaned out the burners and oiled the motor bearings?
Me: Do you want a specific date or will the nearest decade do?
Fred: That's what I thought. Here. . . watch this.
He then brings in this contraption that makes a shop vac look like a moped on a moto cross track.
Fred: This is an industrial blower. Don't try this at home.
Me: But we ARE in my home!
Fred: Hold on to something and watch.
Me: Do I have to?
Fred fires up the 'blower/vac' and we are immediately enveloped in a sea of gray dust and debri.
Fred: That was inside your furnace--not good. It needs to be cleaned out every year.
Me: (coughing and covering my nose and face with one of my innumerable blankets) Yeah, but maybe we should tent the room first.
Fred: And the motor bearings need to oiled once a year. That's what that God-Awful noise was coming outta the motor--the bearings were drier than my Aunt Agnes's chicken roast. It should purr like a kitten being let in the back door of a tuna factory.
Me: (listening to the nice little hum of the working motor) You do have a point there.
But OH MY GOSH! The house was now starting to warm up--and the heater was WORKING! I was crying like a girl who never got asked to the prom.
Fred: Well, my work is complete. Please tell your husband to call ME if he needs this worked on again. Because apparently he doesn't know anything about furnaces and you guys could end up on the front page of the news.
Me: (kind of excited) Really?
Fred: Well, yeah. For having your house go up in a ball of flames.
I was so doggone happy, I didn't even care. I was just ready to pay this dude and take all these darn layers of clothing off. I was getting a bit overheated.
Fred: Now before I go, I'm gonna write my phone number on the door of your furnace so you can remember to call me when you have a problem.
Me: OK
Fred: (writing and talking) And you don't need to take the door off to call.
Me: I wasn't planning on it.
Fred: Well, a lot of my customers don't have mobile phones like you do--and they just unscrew the door and take it with them to the phone.
Me: They can't remember a 7 digit number?
Fred: Nope. For some people that's hard.
Me: Well, they can't write it down on a piece of paper then?
Fred: Ya know, I think I will have to share that information with them. That's a good idea. It will save me the trouble of having to put all those doors back on when I get there.
That's when I realize that it's not only repairmen who are dolts. . .
Fred was a genius in most respects. . . and oh! The joys of having central heating back on in the house.
So that night, after dear hubby got home and realized that he no longer had to build a camp fire in the living room--I began his furnace re-education project. Not sure if he's gonna graduate or not--but for now we have HEAT!
Absolutely EVERYONE who is ANYONE is all a-buzz with talk of this book entitled:
THE NECKLACE ByCheryl Jarvis
And on my recent get-away to the lovely Oregon Coast with friends old and new, I learned of this little gem of a tale and the journey of 13 women who invested in a $37,000, 15 carat diamond necklace (which of course they got on sale for $16,000 so it was a STEAL) and how it transformed them.
Now I'm all for sales. . . and getting together with fabulous women. . . not to mention owning luxury items that I really can't afford or don't really need. So OF COURSE, I was intrigued by the story--and the idea of sharing with others and bonding--and TELLING all about it in a public setting.
That gave me a crazy idea. Here I was with 2 friends that I knew and 3 more that I had just met and we had shops galore at our finger tips--a beautiful sunny day at the beach--and all the time in the world. . . (well at least that afternoon) soooooo. . . why not do a smaller, more economical version of our own?
There were 6 of us all together--which meant we could wear 'the necklace' for TWO months out of the year, instead of just one. . .AND we didn't have to invest in something so expensive. I mean, after all we could be really cheap practical and go in for just a buck a piece and get something for six dollars! And truth be told--we didn't have to go for classy or even pretty. We could really make a statement by finding the most hideous thing on the planet and clasping it around our neck and see where life took us.
So when I presented my BRILLIANT idea to the gals--it really didn't take much convincing. They were all IN and ready to experiment.
The only rule I laid out for our little half-baked group was:
If it was a 'no, not on God's green earth' for one of us--it was an 'absolutely not' for all of us. We either had to totally love it or completely hate it--but we all had to agree it was worth the purchase price. . . whatever that turned out to be.
We were fairly giddy with excitement as we began our shopping spree to find that ONE NECKLACE that would make a statement and that we could actually live with wearing for a month without needing a trip to the psychiatrist.
After checking so many shops (and being kicked out of a couple) we finally found a shop with some promise:
The name of the shop was 'Rare Discovery' and we knew we were in for a real treat when we entered the door. HOLY MOLY! We found the perfect necklace too!
We dubbed it 'amoeba guy'. . . because. . . well. . . just look at that amoeba of a pendant hanging off it!
This little beaut only cost $129.00 so we each had to cough up $21.50 which was extremely affordable and nothing we would have to guiltily hide from our husbands later. . . We diplomatically figured out who would have to wear 'amoeba guy' first--and since 'Karen' was in the bathroom at the time--naturally we picked her to do the honors when she returned.
Upon leaving the store my new friend, (who I will call 'Karen') was approached by this really old lady.
Karen: (to the rest of us) I wonder what kind of experiences I will have wearing this thing?
Really old lady: (coming up to Karen and looking with disgust at the necklace) My God, what are you wearing?
Me: Look! You are already being worshiped!
Karen: (all smiles) You know, you're right. And I haven't gotten 3 feet from the store!
Rest of the gals: AMAZING!
Really old lady: You people are sick.
Now this is 'Karen'.
She will be wearing this little gem through the month of October--then my friend 'Heidi' will tackle the beast in November--and then it will fall upon the neck of yours truly during the month of December. . . the rest of the gals will be fighting over it next year. . .
And oh YES INDEEDY! I will be updating you of the amazing journey of this little guy--month by scintillating month-- (that is if any of these gals ever speak to me again)
It just goes to show you what six amazingly desperate, certifiably insane, devil-may-care, and willing to settle for the mediocre, women can do on a weekend binge. . .
If a picture is worth a thousand words--then I don't think I need to expound much. . . suffice it to say with all the crapola going on in our country. . . the failing economy, the political fighting, the corruption and greed in both government and business, the uncertainty over health care and energy resources. . . .
Well. . . Karma is about to be unleashed and probably go on a feeding frenzy.
I'm not going to say I told you so--because, well, that would be gloating. . . and Karma has a way of finding the gloaters as well. . .
Just remember, a while back when I posted this gem on'Global Warming'? Many scientists and researchers in the field have now told the tale that due to sunspots and other SUN-RELATED phenomenon--we are going to be going through a period of 'global cooling' for the next few decades.
So while America scrambles to pass bills so it can cash in on the taxes and revenues to be gleaned from implementing rules and regulations (like cap and trade) and punishing the peasants and businesses to death with penalties and collapsing the free market by creating a few dozen green jobs while thousands of jobs are lost and now have to go OUTSIDE the U.S. in order to be able to survive. . . (Which by the way, is QUITE ironic, since most countries do not have the strict laws in place to keep the environment as clean as possible as we do---so since we are dumping thousands of jobs that we can no longer do HERE in this country. . . we'll just get some OTHER country to provide the labor and yucky environmental hazards and call it good!)
Those few of us that have some actual brain cells that WORK might just want to go grab a jacket or two for the winter--and have a bone and some kibble to throw at Karma when he comes round to collect his pound of flesh. . .
That's my new catchphrase. . . formed last week when I went 'help shopping' with a gal pal and her adult daughter to get a few items of decor for her home.
Do you have any idea what 'help shopping' is like? It's when you are dragged along by a dear friend to every home decoration store on the planet and made to look down each and every isle and try to find THAT SIMPLY PERFECT THING that will go marvelously in that little nook off the family room next to the doodle cart by the fireplace mantle and just ahead of the stairwell. . .
After we found not one, but TWO perfect things! (One to go in the other place, just off the newel post near the harpsichord draperies by the porte-cochere) That's when my dear friend noticed that I had not purchased anything and was giving me that 'come on, be a sport and spend a ridiculous amount of money on something really stupid that you simply do not even want' look. So I grabbed a velveteen garden gnome from the bargain bin and we headed to the check out isle.
Now I must interject before I continue with this scintillating tale that one of the things my gal pal just HAD to have was not only scratched up--it had a piece that was completely broken off--but she wasn't worried a bit, as she had her dear daughter and I to negotiate a reduced price for this one of a kind item. Our mission was to get a 'damaged price reduction' if you will.
So her daughter and I were waiting with anticipation to see how well we could negotiate the price down for this ruined distressed piece of crap art.
As the young salesman tried to ring up the ' perfect thing' her daughter piped right up:
Gal pal's daughter: Hey, wait just a minute. Do you see how scratched up this is? And this piece is completely broken off. Don't we get a discount or something?
Young salesman: Ummm. . . I can give you a 10% discount.
Gal pal's daughter: Are you kidding? Did you see the sharp metal sticking out of the back? Why I could cut myself just carrying it out of the store. . . come on--is that the best you can do?
Young salesman: Uhhh. . . yeah it is. But I can throw in a box of band aids with your 10% discount.
Gal pal's daughter: Really? Is there someone here who can do better?
Young salesman: Miss, a 10% discount is all we are allowed by law to give on slightly damaged items.
Gal pal's daughter: But what about really damaged items, like this piece of junk I'm trying to buy? I mean, just LOOK at it!
Young salesman: Well. . . I'm really sorry, but I can't go any lower.
Gal pal's daughter (beginning to raise her voice): Is there a manager or supervisor I can talk to?
Young salesman (looking very uncertain now): Uhhh. . . yeah. Do you want me to get her?
Gal pal's daughter: Yes, please do.
I was really starting to be impressed with gal pal's daughter. . . when the supervisor came into view.
Supervisor: What's the problem?
Gal pal's daughter: What's the problem? Just look at this ridiculous wreck of home art. A piece is broken off, the entire thing is scratched, and half the back is missing. You are not going to be able to sell it, now that my blood has gotten on it for carting it up here. . .
Me (deciding to interject a bit of ' kiss-up' here, just in case) We'd love to be able to take this off your hands. We've got a soldering gun in the back of the car that we can slap this metal piece right back on with--and we'll use #5 sand paper to smooth out the scratches--and we'll go to the fabric store right across the street to replace the backing. What's your best price you are willing to let this go for?
Supervisor: Well, let me take it to another register and look it over and see what I can do.
Gal pal's daughter makes sure to hoist it over to her so she has to grab the sharpest corner with the exposed glass shards and we are giving each other knowing looks as the supervisor struggles to get it to the next cash register.
While we are waiting for the verdict to come in, some hussy behind us who looks just like Peg from 'Married With Children' starts placing her 50+ items on the counter which need to be individually wrapped SEVERAL times in paper to prevent breakage.
After waiting nearly a half hour for the big-haired tart in skin tight vinyl capri pants and stiletto heels to get her items rung up and packaged--AND for the supervisor to make her final calculations and get back to us with the item--I was thinking we should just forget the whole thing. But finally the supervisor appears all smiles.
Supervisor: I think I can give you 30%. How does that sound?
Gal pal's daughter (rather skeptical): Really? 30%? What do we have to pay?
Supervisor: No, I am GIVING you 30% of what the price was for this item and you just take it out of the store and never come back, OK?
Gal pal (who is all smiles and has managed to put on work gloves and protective goggles): Deal!
She gingerly takes it out of the store. . . and her daughter and I congratulate ourselves on our wonderful negotiating skills.
As we watch the Peg look-alike try to untangle her 6 inch fingernails from all her shopping bags and heft them into her car, we all work feverishly to get that art contraption into our car trunk.
Then we high five each other, do a little dance and sing the 'Oh Yeah--We're Some Sick Shoppers' song.
That's when I looked up at the sky and took a deep breath and turned to my gal pal and her daughter.
I don't know what it is, but lately I've had dealings with the most scary, disturbed, and just plain weird guys who have all gone by the name of Eric (or Erik, if you prefer).
The latest experience my own dear hubby is responsible for. He calls some car mechanic (whose name of course is Eric) to come to my house and look at one of our cars which was having some 'issues'. The automatic door locks wouldn't work, the horn wouldn't work, the sun roof wouldn't work, the indoor light and trunk lights wouldn't work--and one of the back up lights on the rear of the car wouldn't work.
Of course he schedules the guy to come while he's at work and I'm the one at home to deal with the monster guy.
So 'Eric' shows up at my house and he looks about as inviting as that photo I've posted. . . except without the goggles. He was missing his teeth, two fingers on his left hand, AND his underwear--as he had a huge hole in the back pocket of his jeans where one of his lower cheeks was shining through.
After I point out the car in the driveway and drop the key into his hand, he says to me:
Eric: So your horn, lights, automatic door locks, and sun roof don't work?
Me: That's right.
Eric: What do you think the problem is?
Me: I'm guessing electrical?
Eric: Sounds good. We'll start with that.
Sheesh! Isn't HE the one supposed to tell ME the problem? I go back into the house and leave him to his devices. After a while he taps on my front door and motions for me to follow him out to the driveway.
Eric: Take a look at this! (He's bending over the hood of the car so far that not only is his 'right cheek' about to pop out of his pants--he is displaying a crack the size of the south rim of the Grand Canyon.
He kept screaming for me to "Look. . LOOK!" But all I could do was desperately try to avert my eyes so as not to have that image forever etched in my memory bank. I had no idea what he was showing me or trying to tell me, but after a few appropriate 'uh huhs' and 'hmmmmmms' I discovered he really hadn't done anything to the car yet--so I went back inside the house.
After about 40 minutes or so, I'm thinking he might have at least diagnosed the problem, so I hopefully go back outside to see if he's made any progress. Eric was sitting on the bed of his own truck talking on his cell phone, but flashes a gummy smile my way and shouts:
Eric: You got someone horny in this house?
Me: Excuse me?
Eric: There's been someone very horny with this car.
Me: Well, we bought it used and I'm not sure what the original owners were up to when they were using it but. . .
Eric: (cutting me off) I'm telling ya--someone was very heavy handed with the horn and the horn doesn't work now.
Me: I told you the horn doesn't work. It didn't work right after we bought it.
Eric: Well, that's a darn shame.
Me: Can't it be fixed?
Eric: I'm not sure.
Me: Are you telling me there are only a certain number of times you can use the horn in a car?
Eric: Doesn't sound right, does it?
Me: No, it doesn't.
Eric: Well, I'll get to work on it then.
I fled to the house before he could ask me another embarrassing question.
So ANOTHER 40 minutes goes by--and now I'm thinking, how much is this going to cost me? Is he purposely trying to stall and take his sweet time so he can charge me a goodly sum?
Once again I mentally prepare myself to go outside and encounter this man. And once again, he's sitting on the bed of his truck--this time, gumming down some kind of sandwich and swinging his legs like he doesn't have a care in the world.
That's when I decided to just wrap this up and throw some money his way so he would just get out of my driveway and go.
Eric: (hopping down from the truck and spitting whatever he was eating all over the driveway) Hey! If you just let me finish my lunch here I'll get right to work on your sun roof.
Me: That's quite all right. The sun roof is not a priority. Can you at least tell me the problem? (I'm thinking even if I have to pay this man to leave and he tells me the problem, I can take it to a REAL mechanic at some point and then get it fixed)
Eric: Well, there's good news and bad news.
Me: There's GOOD news? (I was somewhat disbelieving)
Eric: Yep! Your horn now works. The indoor lights and back up lights work. And your automatic door locks work now.
Me: (pretty happy and surprised) Really?
Eric: Really. (and he demonstrates everything for me)
Me: What was the problem?
Eric: Well, it turned out to be electrical, like you thought.
Me: O.K. What's the bad news?
Eric: Your air conditioner doesn't work now. I hope it wasn't important.
Me: (dumbfounded--but wanting to get this man out of my driveway) Can you show me what you did to get this stuff working again and the air conditioner to not work?
So he shows me a relay switch under the hood of the car that he switched out. He didn't have another one--so he just switched the air conditioner one with the 'bad one' and apparently that took care of the problem. (after an hour and a half of 'labor')
Eric: I can go get you another switch and bring it back here and put it in for you--and that should only take me about 2 hours or so.
Me: No thanks. Really. You've done enough.
I pay his extortion fee, take the key to my car and go back inside. Then, after another hour of him doing Heaven knows WHAT in my driveway he finally pulls out and leaves.
Meanwhile I call dear hubby and 'thank him' for my play date with Eric. AND I remind him that if he wants to live with all his fingers, teeth and both rear cheeks to never set me up with a guy named Eric again.
Dear hubby managed to get the needed switch himself and replace it and now the air conditioning works again (for now). His comment to me was, 'That Eric's a genius.'
I'm still debating whether I need to take a 'switch' to dear hubby. . .
Are you kidding me? No, really! Are you seriously KIDDING ME? Cuz, you're KILLING me here!
I've been asked repeatedly if I 'twitter' and I am going to TWEET my answer once and for all in really simple language so everyone can understand where I'm coming from.
Oh! Maybe I should throw an explanation in here so those of you 'twits' who are uninformed about 'tweeting' will know what I'm talking about:
is another ridiculous vehicle for millions of people with absolutely nothing on their minds to be able to share their 'thoughts' to other equally mentally challenged folks who could care less. . .
In other words--never had so many folks with so little to say, said so much banality to so few.
Perhaps I'm being a bit snarky here. But the bottom line is that you basically share your 'tweets' (thoughts) about anything and everything at any time of day or night with your 'twits' (those who follow you) It's called 'twittering' and it is causing real socialization and actual conversation to teeter-totter on the brink of collapse.
"But Showme," (my friends who want to become twits apparently) will say to me. "You could have a real following. You can tell us what you are thinking about all the time and we would have access to the real you. You'd be a SENSATION!"
Put down the crack pipe and just THINK about that for a minute. I'm not sure anyone on planet earth is ready for the 'real me'. And even if by some miracle, a huge following (or heck, ANY following) was created in my twittering wake--let's face it--I just couldn't stand up to the pressure.
Holy Tweetmeister, Batman! I can barely keep up with my e-mail accounts, facebook, and this blog! (not to mention the real life I live out there somewhere past Twitterville)
I just can't see myself twittering on a daily, hourly, minute,millisecond basis. (at least not YET!) My life is just not that doggone exciting.
"But that's the POINT!" My friends shout at me. "You don't have to really say anything. You can write really dumb, random stuff."
Oh, really? And just what do they think this fabulous blog is already doing for me? I already write really dumb, random stuff. So why do I need a Twitter account? It's just one more thing adding to the pressure of my life to put statements out there on the interweb for. . . other folks who apparently love reading really dumb, random stuff.
Thanks, but no thanks.
I mean, what if I run out of things to say? What if my tweeter gets broken? I suppose I could make stuff up. Hey, wait a minute. . . I could make up really GOOD stuff. Juicy stuff! Horrific stuff! Stuff that could make the entire tweeting universe sit up and take notice. . .
Then again, I'd just like to lie back on a sandy beach somewhere and have a hunky cabana boy bring me cool drinks and chocolate drizzled yummies while I laze in the sun and surf. . .
So no. . . I don't think I will be 'twittering' anytime soon. . . But for those of you about to twitter--I salute you!
UPDATE! UPDATE! UPDATE!
Well, as I live and breath! I came across an article from someone who feels the same way I do about 'Twitter'. She's a life coach to boot! It's a pretty thought provoking article and to read it for yourselves (since I won't twitter about it) just click on the link (words) below:
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