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Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Oh I wish I were an Oscar Meyer.....

Okay, someone had to say it and now it's out of the way.

I have had an extremely busy month. Mother's Day. Yeah, that was the usual. Then I spent two weeks cleaning the apartment because my baby graduated from COLLEGE the end of May and, try as I might, I could NOT convince anyone that the garbage dump they call the living room really, really needed to be cleaned up because someone might actually SHOW UP. Not for us, mind you, but for the kid.

It also took me two weeks of manipulations and borrowing and trips to the California Department of Motor Vehicles with all of this borrowed loot (at least THREE of said trips were made by the hubster, I'll have it known) but the car was finally, after TWO years, registered and street legal. It was also FILTHY. With a capital FILTH. It had a dead battery. Well, we got THAT taken care of, which absolutely fried my buns because it was sitting there with a virtually new battery when all of this poverty hit but no one would go downstairs and turn the damn key in the ignition once or twice a week and let it fun for five freaking minutes so that the batter stayed charged.

Well, the kidlet graduated on the Tuesday before Memorial Day. I ended up taking three vacation days to a) deal with the cleaning of said apartment, b) deal with the car and c) well, hell, why not?

The graduation was WAY across the Los Angeles Basin at 8am and we were advised to get there by 7am if we wanted to sit down. This meant a departure time of no later than 6:30, which is why I hit the WALL on the damn car sitting there, in the carport, PAID FOR and unusable.

Well, we finally got the paperwork finished on Friday morning. Friday afternoon we got a very expensive battery. However, as the mechanic came to our place, jumped the battery and took the car to his place of business, thus saving me the price of a tow truck, it probably came out about the same. Saturday morning, bright and early, off I went. Yes, in the car. I went to the recycling place to get rid of about 20 bucks worth of cans and bottles that had been accumulating in the car, because that was where we had been storing the empties for the last year. I put gas in the car and hopped on the freeway. I didn't really NEED the freeway, but hell, it had been a very long time since I'd actually driven on one.

As we accelerated up the on ramp the car started to vibrate. I thought it was rough road. By the time we got it up to 50 I was feeling like I'd been put in one of those 1950s exercise machines, the kind where you stood on a little platform, put a wide belt around your read end and turned it on so it could just shake the fat off? Seems rather ridiculous now that I think of it but, on the other hand, we were a LOT thinner back then, maybe there was something to it.

Anyway, the vibrations was eclipsed only by the deafening noise. It sounded like an earthquake at full throttle. If you've never been in one, it's kind of like a roar. and the two boys got out the cell phones and started in calling tire stores. On a Saturday morning. Did I mention we were going to a party over by the coast and were going to leave about 2pm? We finally found a place with a decent price on tires although by this time I was tapped. The almost graduate and I scraped together enough for four off brand tires and spent what was left on half a dozen cans of beans and three packs of wienies, which we ate for the rest of the week and then some.

We got the tired and then hied ourselves to the car wash, the one I had the coupon for. And we staggered home a mere four hours later, about 1:30. Where the hubster, showered and dressed, was tapping his foot waiting for us because he seemed to think we'd been out for a joy ride. Now...picture this. When I left, unshowered and in yesterday's jeans at 8am to buy some fresh corn and recycle the bottles, the car was rattling, wheezing and under about a half inch of accumulated dirt.

When I came back said car was parked in front, shining, clean inside AND outside, four brand new tires and raring to go. We were going to a party we had missed the year before because we didn't HAVE a car to get there. As we trooped downstairs and the hubster approached the passenger side door he stopped dead. "What the hell did you do to the CAR? LOOK at these scratches!" Okay, I shouldn't have been surprised. He can't read the clock but he's got a "Y" chromosome and that means that he can see a fingerprint on a car from three blocks away. I mentioned that the guy at the car wash had seen them too and he said they could be easily buffed out for about 90 bucks (this is with my generous local employee company i.d.) and I would have that done but I had neither the time nor the extra cash to do it that week-end.

He then accused me of scratching the hood of the car myself. And then finished the tirade by claiming I smash the car for the fun of it and then announce that it's only a "thing" and isn't important. THIS is a bone of contention, I'll admit. The hubster has apoplexy if someone scratches the furniture. He once told the boys that I lined the burners on the stove with aluminum foil because if evened out the heat and reflected it up to the bottom of the pan. Nice try. I explained that I lined them with foil because it was a pain in the ass to clean them. He then said "I wish you wouldn't do that, it's like covering the furniture with plastic."

Well, I stopped lining the drip pans with foil and spent the next six years scraping burned on bubbled over food off of the pans. I notice HE never scrubbed the damn things. Not only that, he decided that the way to properly revere the TV credenza was to take what was left of my rubberized shelf liner and drape it over the top of the thing, thus protecting it from scratches made by the television, DVD player and the occasional human. It looked a LOT like furniture, wrapped in plastic. When I'd had enough and took the damn thing off I found that it had adhered to the wood. After an hour of scraping and scrubbing I gave up, it's now textured maple. Whatever, as they say.

This is where his screaming about "things" comes into play. It's weird looking now. It also has some nicks in it, some of them from moving and some of them from living. Shit happens. If you're lucky, it happens to the furniture and not to you. The hubster has always interpreted my basic "Oh, chill OUT, it's a TABLE for crissake" to mean "I'm going to throw this into the middle of the street and drive your car over it six or seven times." Which is probably what he thinks caused the scratches on the hood because it SURE as hell couldn't have been the THREE two trucks or the car carrier transport now, could it? It couldn't have happened when the two thugs showed up and 2am and threatened us with jail if we didn't let them repossess it...the same two thugs who freaking STOLE personal property out of the inside and I hope you get lead poisoning from the expensive personal thermos you're now drinking your coffee out of you sticky fingered a**hole. It couldn't have happened during the four weeks sit sat out in the open an some impound lot in another county, could it? Nah...I did it. And let's not even get INTO the fact that when we had to get rid of one of the cars we got rid of MINE, not HIS...but I digress. Oh, and btw, he's very welcome for all the work I did to get that car back out on the road. He never said "thanks" but what the hell...

Now...what does all of this have to do with Weiner? He's a man, that's what. He took a picture of his crotch in tighty whities and sent it through the Internet and now all anyone can talk about is Weiner's wiener. Really? And now every Republican is yelling "off with his head!" Yes, I did intend to say that. Now, this needs to be broken down into it's basic differences here. In the first place, Representative Weiner at least kept it in his pants. Okay, his underpants, but my point stands. Mark Sanford, Newt Gingrich, hell, even Strom Thurmond couldn't do that. In the second place, Rep. Weiner has not made a career of espousing morality and the sanctity of marriage. Nor did John Edwards, currently under indictment. Say what you will, John Edwards may be (hell, IS) a scumbag but he's not a hypocrite. A crook? Yeah, probably. In the third place, if you're going to send a picture of yourself in your jockey shorts to someone there should be a ruler somewhere in the .jpg. No ruler, no point to the pic, it's really a waste of every one's time. In the fourth place, did he learn NOTHING from Chris Lee? In case you forgot, he's the one who ended up resigning because he posted pictures of himself shirtless on Craig's List. Frankly, I'd rather see Chris Lee without his shirt than pretty much any guy without his jeans. Abs are hot. Underwear? Not so much.

Only a guy would send pictures of his privates out into cyberspace and get flustered when someone comes across them. No woman would be that stupid. If a woman sends lewd pictures of herself over the Internet she knows she's taking a chance and probably WANTS someone to check it out. Men? I have NO freaking CLUE what they all think.

I blame this entire mess on digital cameras. You take a digital picture and you post it. You really need to be aware of the fact that nothing is sacred online. Nothing. Think about it. Before digital cameras, if you wanted to take pictures of your dick you didn't use a Kodak. You used a Polaroid. Because that way you didn't have to put up with the college kid in the Photomat booth checking out the quality of your photography and then calling you "Mr. Johnson" when you stopped in to pick them up.

Buy a VOWEL, guys. You use the Interwebs, some one, some where, is gonna see it.

And in the fifth and most important place...if the guys name wasn't Weiner, no one west of the Hudson would have heard about it. QUICK...what's his FIRST name?

I rest my case.

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