Mrs. Lube? (No! It's not dirty or XXX)

One of the things in life I absolutely despise doing is getting an oil change done on my car.  It's not that I don't love my car or want to take car of it.  The problem lies first in that the minute those greese monkeys at Mr. Lube see a chick pull in they start rubbing their hands together like Donald Trump at a real estate sale.  So I pull in and have been identified as an easy mark right from the get go.  If that's not bad enough I then have to endure the most recent graduate of "the school of upselling".  This entails hearing how my car would benefit from a more expensive oil because "the gaskets in your engine are getting old".  Really buddy, what do I look like Paris Hilton, my gaskets would benefit most if you shut your pie hole and just put a couple a bottles of that nice regular oil in the reservoir and I will be in my merry way.  I had the pleasure this trip of being notified that my engine light was on.  Not shit Shirlock, that sucker has been on for months.  So I politely told the university degree greese monkey that yes, indeed the light is on and when I hooked up the scope to the car it informed me I needed to replace my oh two sensor (nicely spelled don't ya think). Well, Mr. Monkey gave me a look like I just told him my car had a second world war land mine hidden in the trunk and didn't ya know he would be able to get me the part for that.  I said it wasn't a problem, I could pick up the part and do it myself (shout out here to UTube!). Well, he says "the engine can get really hot and we have special heat resistance gloves for that job."  I very politely say "Really! Hot!  Well, how bout I just wait for the engine to cool then?"  University monkey realized right then that I was not a commission earning jackpot and had to suddenly "fix his computer" and pawned my oil change off on the Junior Monkey.  Nice.  So I politely tell poor Junior that I just want a regular ole oil change. I will change my own air filter, cabin filter and go to the nearest auto parts store for that pesky oh two sensor.  Really dudes? Some of us ladies know what a piston and a gasket is.  Seriously! 

This post, as you can imagine, will be filed under the ever growing "If I ruled the world" folder (for future reference of course because you never know when THAT job posting is going to come up!)  My recommendations?  How about a Mrs. Lube?  I will happily help with the start up.  First course: "How to talk to a woman with a little respect Jerk Face!"

Gunfight At The House of Sand And Dirt

Yes you read that right. There's gonna be a show down. A gunslinging, name calling, red neck gun fight. Oh ya baby. It's on! Wait... you probably want to know why?? And with whom? Well let me tell ya a little story (like you could stop me!)...

At around 12:30 pm last night almost our entire family was woken up by a loud, very strange noise coming from above us. I say almost all the family because apparently the youngest money sucker was so tired he slept through the entire ordeal, which in hindsight was probably good because he would have ended up wound up like an eight day clock and would never had gotten back to sleep. Anyway, the old fella hopped outta bed to investigate the noise which sounded shockingly like a pack of angry beasts in our attic thumping, chewing and destroying everything in its wake. I, having heard this noise a few other times, didn't bother getting out of bed. What the heck was I going to do anyway? Fret like a girl? No way baby. Last time this noise happened I called the old boy and he assured me it was a crow on the roof. Well lookey here. Pretty sure the old boy was starting to quickly believe me when I said that had to be a two hundred pound crow to make that racket. So the old boy, deciding against sticking his head through the attic hatch, goes outside with the awake money sucker, who was brandishing a very sinister looking hockey stick as his weapon of choice, to find out what kinda nasty beast is trying to tear our roof apart. I meanwhile stayed put for a bit hoping it was roof, fixer elves because if we didn't need a new roof before this adventure we certainly would now! After not hearing any whistle while you work song I decided to half assed join the fun. I got up and opened the bedroom blind only to see an unidentifiable creature streak below the window at a breakneck speed. All I could think was what the hell was that? Speedy the Possum? I was awake now so I went downstairs to see the old fella with a broken axe handle and a flashlight and the hockey stick wielding ninja boy freaking out because there was a extra large, thanks for leaving your garbage bin open every night, raccoon illuminated by the flashlight. The buggar did not even bother to take off. Just gave them the back ally stare down and dared the two of them to come on up and lets see what you can do with those sticks you have in your hands! Hockey ninja decides to take evasive action and grabs a couple of tennis balls and a lacrosse ball. That should do it. Hockey ninja apparently missed his called as a major league baseball player because he hits the sucker right in the face with a ball! What does the wicked masked roof wrecker do? Gives the two of them a dirty look and proceeds, ever so leisurely, to another section of the roof! Like he pays the mortgage and has every right to be up there! Well the unmasked, bedheaded humans will have nothing of it so they proceed to hit the sucker a few more times with balls (alll the while I am walking from window to window trying to figure out what the hell the two of them are doing). Roof wrecker decides he has had enough of this after being hit in the face three times and makes his way off the roof and lumbers over to the neighbours yard.

After the Coon Warriors got back in the old boy and I had a chuckle about our families weapons of choice. An axe handle, a hockey stick and we figure the other two would have a hockey stick and Xbox games to be used as ninja stars. Oh ya, we are a resourceful bunch over here. My weapon? Of course words would never work on this enemy so I would go with the nearest large object or rocket launcher that I have saved up for the summer time fun.

The next morning the old boy does a roof inspection to see how much damage the little buggar managed to do and I go online to order cammo gear and face paint for the family. You gotta be prepared when going into war.

This Coon does not know what he is asking for trying to turn our attic into his own personal Penthouse. You see we have just spent the last two weeks watching back to back to back to back episodes of Duck Dynasty. We my friends have our red neck on!

Yet Another Road Trip

Yes, I am soon to be embarking on yet another sports related road trip. Why do we get ourselves into these situations? I mean come on– it’s hard enough to find good friends you can travel with let alone a bunch of near strangers! Some years we get lucky and have a pack of really great people to road trip with, other years you end up with every cracker jack in the box. This trip should be interesting, to say the least. There is a group of people attending that will be fun to spend wayyy to much time with. There also is a group of people we could respectfully call “quirky”. One can only hope that, once the bevy’s start flowing, that maturity filters stay in place and the truth remains unspoken, mostly because the truth in this case is ugly. Not showered, wearing yesterdays dirty clothing, ugly.

Why You Should Never Get Into a Pissing Match With a Crazy Person

 

Well, obviously, to start off, getting into a verbal or written pissing match with a crazy person is like hitting yourself over the head with a hammer repeatedly and wondering why the pain won’t go away. Until recently, I had assumed that all humans had just a teeny bit of common sense and respect. I WAS WRONG! Oh boy, was I wrong. You see, I recently had the misfortune of engaging in a written bitch fest with a person who shall be forever, in my mind, called: BatShitCrazy. Ms. BatShit figured it was her right to verbally abuse a volunteer and send this abuse out globally. Yes, to everyone. I figured her motive in doing this was to garner support for her “opinion” and possibly start a little bitch riot. What she got however, was a large number of people who were amazed at her disgusting display of disrespect. This was not the first time BatShitCrazy went on a written attack. This time however, I decided I had had enough. Someone needed to point out to her that she was crossing a line and entering into the realm of people who have no regard for others feelings or respect for others. So I eloquently told her so. To which I received a reply that I can only say was written by someone who needs to have their mood altering medication checked by a doctor every six months. I was shocked (as were others). What level of crazy do you have to be NOT to understand that you are wrong and your actions are hurtful? I figure when it is pointed out to a person that they have been acting disrespectfully the last thing most people do is try to justify their actions! Don’t get me wrong here, I don’t regret getting into this particular pissing match, mostly because there did not appear to be a single person around who was willing to point out to BatShitCrazy that she was being a bitch and no one seemed to want to stand up for the victim, even though many people wanted to talk about how wrong the written verbal abuse was (sort of now figuring out why no one want to engage in this particular match, with this particular person). I figure BatShitCrazy will just continue going about her business attacking people until someone has the balls to stand up and tell her she is wrong.

Lesson learned: You cannot reason with crazy people, but it is sure the hell is entertaining trying!

There Has Got To Be A Way To Shut This Sh*t Up

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I have a bit of an overactive imagination. One would think that this would be a great thing – and trust me, if I made a million dollars off this mental deformity, it would be all good. Million dollar paycheque not withstanding, my case of imagination overdrive has always been a bit of a hindrance. At any given time my brain has had six cups of expresso, two Red Bulls and a shot of speed and to make matters worse there is NO off switch. I wake up at all hours of the night, at least 6 to 12 times a night, with two thousand thoughts running through the old neuron holder BEFORE I have even opened my damn eyes to check the time. Add a few stressors to the regular stream and I become the proud owner of a couple of Samsonites under my eyes in the morning! I constantly look like I got punched in the face! Don't even get me started on "sleep medication". That stuff is just crap. The stuff the doctor hands out leaves you with a hangover that rivals the morning after a decent frat party (and hey, if I am going to be sporting a hangover it certainly is NOT going to be from sleep aids!), the over the counter stuff is a bigger load of crap because really - they claim its NOT addictive? Seriously, tell that to someone with insomnia. You think they are not going to become addicted to something that will help them get to sleep? Really people? I would rather just be tired than have to look for a Sleep Medication Dealer in the back of the local pharmacy. Meditation looked to be a good alternative for a while until I ended up in a schizophrenic smackdown between my Zen self and my NotsoZen self. Probably the only time I can say I have argued with myself. In case you were wondering, NotsoZen self won that war. Like I said. NO off switch. It would be so much better, of course, if even a couple of the thoughts were brilliant, then I wouldn't be so pissed about losing so much sleep! Waaiiiitttt a minute! Should I be checking the big ole book of psychological disorders? Holy Hannah - I might just be onto something........ (maybe two things - that could be one brilliant thought!)

My Un-Inspiration and A Brief Reminder About Public Transit

Yes, a few of you have mentioned my apparent lack of sarcasm lately.  It really is a combination of extreme hibernation and utter lack of inspiration.  Usually the smallest things make me grab some kind of writing implement to write about but the last month I have not been compelled to see the humor in things.  Normally when un-inspiration hits I go into my “posts for editing” or “things that piss me off” folder and I have some story to share but not so much lately.  It is seriously time to shake things up.  (I might want to mention here that you all have not been sharing your most embarrassing moments for me to post as well, so its partially your fault to!).  For now I give you this little service reminder:

Why (Again) You Should NEVER Take Public Transit

So I finally let the people at work know that I am none to impressed with having to get on any form of public transit and, if necessary, I must be given at least two days notice before they expect me to get on any germ infested, smelly death trap known as a public bus or train.  I have deftly explained that I must be prepared for said travel and if not given proper prep time, will undoubtedly have to take some “stress” leave to recover from any unprepared, unplanned trip.  So in order to avoid the need for meds, my manager gave me two weeks notice that she would like me to attend a meeting at her office.  Nice work.  Travel prep begins.  First and foremost I pretend I do not even have to take the train for the first week, hoping there might be some kind of natural disaster that happens therefore nullifying the whole need for travel in the first place.  Natural disaster did not pan out so I had to move onto phase 2.  This next stage of planning has me researching the route on line, finding out how much exact change I will need to get on the train and pre-planning the cross shoulder purse, flat shoes (for the get away) and small, undisclosed weapons.  Four days before I had the wherewithal to ask my manager about the forthcoming trip whereupon she informed me that I needed to get off the train and get onto ANOTHER train mid way through! (I am figuring this could be why she gave me two weeks notice.  I mean really?  Two trains?  That’s a bit much don’t ya think?)  So I write out careful directions about where to get off the first train, where to get on the second train and where the heck to get off to attend this meeting. 

The morning arrives and I am prepared.  Of course there are things you can never plan for, like people who SMELL and little gangster wannabes who, with their hats pushed sideways, tattoos, earrings and jeans with the crotch down to their knees, talk on their phones like the are all that and a slice of bread, not to mention the odd few who get on the train who look like they haven’t showered in over two weeks and are all shifty eyed and stuff (my manager was clearly lying when she said most of the people on the train were going to be students.  Really, why does that student have a plastic bag with all his worldly possessions and look like he hasn’t shaved in two years?)  I did however get a very huge reminder about why I hate transit:  RUDE PEOPLE!  I am still amazed at how rude people can be.  At least the only rude person is my car is ME!