Master Debater

And the Car Debate rages on:

Holly: "Buy me a new car, yet?"

Harry: "No - which do you want? The Chevy SS or the Jeep SRT-8 or my Denali."

What I hear: "Numbers ,numbers, shiny car, numbers."

Holly: "Dunno."

Harry: "Will my Denali make you happy?"

Holly: "It's big."

Harry: "Is that bad?"

Holly: "It's like an elephant."

Harry: "So you don't want it?"

Holly: "Maybe - what about that Chevy?"

Harry: "It only got three stars in driver safety and four in passenger safety whereas the Jeep got five stars all around!"

What I hear: "numbers, numbers, little star, how I wonder what numbers you are!"

Holly: "So which one do I get?"

Harry: "How about we make the Corvette your primary vehicle?"

Holly: "So then it'd be mine, all mine?!"

Harry: "We'll look into it."

What I hear: "OH - HELLLLLLS NO!"

 

Making An Ass of One's Self...

Yesterday, I drove "Whitey", the white corvette to work while Harry took my Escape to strip it back down to stock. I bid adieu to my Playstation 2, my dvd player, six disk changer, and pop out head unit and hopped into the pretty white car with the dangerous roof insert.

After work I picked up Harry, made him ride in the "bitch seat" and went to Chili's. We had a great meal and finished it off by fighting (literally) over every last scrap of a molten lava cake.

Walking back to the car, Harry, chivalrous gent that he is, gets my door and then opens his own. Here is where I digress to tell you the thing about my car I don't like : the seatbelts are not fat girl friendly. I struggle like a floudering fish for a good four minutes every time I get into the gorgeous automobile.

So there I am, reeking of Fajitas and gyrating like a ten cent hooker on the red leather seats. I swear, for such an expensive car - these belts SUCK! I can't get it around my fat ass! Darnit! FIT! Wiggle a bit more - won't go 'round my FAT- "HELP ME, FAT ASS!" I yell. And then stop when I've realized that I've just called my much skinnier than me hubby a lard butt. "With my seatbelt? Help my fat ass with my seatbelt?" I meekly add to my outburst.

He is in the middle of leaning over the armrest to assist me and just shakes his head.

"My fat ass. Not yours." I'm beating a dead horse here (or dead bush as I so lamely commented to my bud Johnny last Saturday morning - yeah - I'm so cool I invent my own phrases).

We're driving out of the parking lot now, and he just keeps shaking his head while I keep repeating "It was mine! I meant mine - I have a large butt...not you - me - my butt's big..."

He looks at me at a green light. "That," he says trying not to crack up, "better make your blog."

And it did.

Hi babycakeshead! My fat ass loves your skinny 'un!

I fear Change...

I do, really, fear change.

Not pennies, nickels and dimes change - but real, actual, "your life shall be forever altered" change.

Case in point - my "ticka, ticka, TICKA, TICKA" car.  I love it.  Don't wanna part with it and about came to tears over the thought of getting rid of it for my replacement - Harry's beloved Gas Guzzling Charger.

So - we're not getting the Charger.

However, on Saturday we went to test-drive a black on black Chevy Trailblazer SS that boasts Onstar, duel (Harry just called to tell me that I mis-typed "duel" -it should be "dual" - but in my mind - I think the other spelling is MUCH more appropriate!) climate, heated seats and a tire inflater in the back.  Not to mention an engine that's faster than my corvette. 

It was heaven.

And, as one online mag put it:  "If you must drive an SUV, might as well drive a fast one!" 

I loved every single one of those 495 horsies under the hood and had mental images of me, zooming down Fifth Avenue and drawing admiring stares from the half-naked frat brats perched on the end of their tattered lawn chairs.

We drive around St. Albans - punching the gas at every green light and playing with the windows and seats when Harry looks at me:  "Do you like it? I think it's great..."

I'm just about to open my mouth to sing the praises of the not-too-big SUV when he says this: "Yeah - I could drive this everyday...  Think you could handle the Denali?" 

I stop, smile and say: "Yup."  Me and Jumbo - we go waaaaay back.... 

So I get a hand-me-down car - again.  But seeing as how the last one was a white 'vette that made today, an otherwise dreary Monday, pretty darn cool - then it's all gooooooood.

Yup.

Charger - it!

Harry and I went car shopping last night after hearing back from the Ford Dealership about my beloved Escape:  "Oh, it's okay, we've fixed everything except the ticking noise. See what happened was that we fixed the other side but not this here side so that's why you got's the ticking noise still happening.  But don't you worry, we'll get her fixed!"  Yeah - right.  That car's gonna explode and leave a mushroom-shaped cloud in its wake...

So we went down the road to the Dodge Dealer.  Harry made a bee-line to the Dodge Charger SRT that was sitting on the showroom floor.  It was black.  It was mean.  It was shiny.  

"Do you want to test drive it?" The dealer pronounced our last name correctly - which never, EVER happens. 

"Can you get it off the floor?  I hate for you guys to have to move-"  Harry started but the salesguy cut him off.

"Not a problem."  Ten minutes later and after jumping three dead showroom cars - we were on our way.

"You like it? I like it?  You like it?"  He's behind the wheel making the "O" face everytime he pushes the gas pedal.  I worry he may be staining his pants.

"Hey - what's a 'Gas Guzzler fee'?" I ask him.

"Oh -that? It's a one time fee that you pay when you buy a car that uses more gas than a typical car," he explained and then adjusted himself on the comfy seat all the while holding the "O" face.

"So... You pay more money because you're gonna have to spend more money on gas?  That doesn't seem fair."  I was obviously perturbed.

"It's a one time fee - and it's usually on high end cars or more expensive ones..." His voice trailed off as he found the auto-stick feature.

"So - you PAY MORE to PAY MORE?"  I was shocked.  This was the equivalent of price-gouging/wallet-gouging.

"You only have to pay it once - ohhhhhh!"  He found the lumbar.

"That's not right..." My voice trailed off as I crossed my arms and fumed at the car maker for making such a ridiculous car for such a crazy price with an insane "Gas Guzzler" fee.  I mean - c'mon - who the hell would want this car after all that?!  WHO?!

"Hey baby?  I think I want this..."  Harry is rubbing the steering wheel with more passion that the Karate Kid (Wax on! Wax off!) and I can see it in his teary eyes - he's in love - and its name is Charger...

The Id v. The Ego

Semi-irrespressable urges that happen at work:

1. I want to play Alison Kruass' version of "Working 9-5" very loudly at my desk.  And sing along.  And put it on the speaker.

2.  I want to sit on the stool in the bathroom and see how long it is before anyone notices I've gone "missing."

3.  I want to change the name of the firm to include the word "hell" and see if anyone on the other end of the phone notices.

4.  I want to empty all the cans of compressed air.

5.  I want to leave a trail of paper clips down one hall and up the other one and end at the candy bowl.  "I dunno who did that.  Must've been the candy-guzzlin' paper clip fairy..."

6.  I want to remove the space bar from everyone's keyboard.

7.  I want to replace all the live plants with user-friendly plastic ones.

8.  I want to have my own pink porta potty installed behind my desk.

9.  I want to reorganize the supply closet so that all the rarely used stuff is in the middle and all the pens, clips, paper pads and binders are waaaaaaay on the top.

10.  I want to send out stupid e-mail updates: "The time is now 2:18 PM.  The weather is hot.  The streets are quiet.  A bird just pooped on my car and, since this IS WV, somewhere a half-sister is marrying her half-brother."

11.  I want to roll down the hallway after having taped myself to my chair - just to see if anyone bothers to "rescue" me.

12.  I want to wear sunglasses, tank top, big straw hat and Nicole Ritchie-esque sunglasses while propping up my feet, sipping lemonade and listening to the radio at my desk, just to make a point about how frickin' hot it is out here in the lobby!!!

13.  I want to change the voicemail to say: "Thank you for calling our firm. We care about each and every one of our clients and your call is very important to us - after all - we DO charge you $250 an hour!"

14.  Everyone here has to track their time but me - I should start: .1  Looked out window; .2 looked out window again; .1  tore off sheets of day-by-day calendar; .2  Looked out window...

15.  Wait until the office manager goes into the bathroom.  Turn off lights.

16.  Run to her office.  Do the same.

17.  Steal everyone's family photos.  Rearrange and distribute throughout office.

18.  Hide "Homies" figurines in various places around the office:  the fridge, the freezer, the copier, the urinals...

19.  Walk through the office carrying on a balances conversation with myself - more often than I already do.

20.  Start offering up asinine explanations for everything like the cleaning people do (their latest - the elevator shaft sucks up all the cool air - that's why it's hotter than Hades in our office) "No - I didn't send your call to the wrong email address - the time flux capacitor was on the fritz causing an anomalie that opened up a worm hole that - ate it."

Shop, Drop and Roll - your car down a hill

I took my 2003 Ford Escape LTD in to be serviced today.

Here are my list of complaints:

1.  The ticking "Holy crap! Your car's a freakin' time bomb!" noise that has increased, NOT decreased since the last time it was "fixed."

2.  When they plopped on my four new tires last night - they didn't make sure my steering wheel was straight - so it's been crooked - and I didn't notice it. Harry had to point it out to me while we were driving around a few nights ago:  "Do you know your steering wheel's messed up?"  "Huh?"  I said.  "Look," he said, pointing at the wheel that was obviously VERY crooked.  "Huh."  I said in quasi-grunting agreement.

3.  My airbag light came on, flashed and stayed on.  Scary.

4.  My brake light comes on every third time I start my car. 

      I can deal with the ticking.  I can make due with a crooked wheel. But the idea that my air bag may deploy at any given time like a big non-edible marshmallow and that - I won't be able to stop - kinda freaks me out.

      Dropped it off at 8 AM.  It is now 1:47 PM and I've heard NOTHING.  This is not a good sign  - for Harry.  Poor guy.  Has to give up his Denali and drive my ticking, possible air-bag bursting, non-stopping, vehicle...  Just doesn't seem right... ahahahahah!

 

Welcome to my Vacuumy Life...

When I got back from lunch (I have a HUGE cheesey stain on my shirt - looks like - well - something badddddd...) there was a note to call my sister.

"What did you need?" I asked when I finally got her on the line.

"Iwascallingtoseehowtoturnonthevacuum," she said in a quick, hard-to-follow, voice.

"You were calling me - at work - to see how to turn on the vacuum?"

"Yeah."

"Are you at my house?"

"No. I'm at mom and dad's."

"Are you using my vacuum at mom and dad's?"

"No..."

I struggled to comprehend.

"You called me at work," I paused to gather the strength to go on, "to ask me how to turn on mom and dad's vacuum cleaner at mom and dad's house?"

"Yeah. That'sanemergencyright?"

I banged the receiver against my freckled forehead.

This is the chick who will be accompanying me to my upcoming surgical procedure.

Send help.

Please.