I'm writing a paper! Can you tell? I've gotten so far on this masterpiece that I've ALMOST finished reading the book I have to write about!
See, I'm trying this new method of writing. It's called "will the paper to write itself while I do other stuff." This is a brand new method that I invented myself!
At least, I thought I invented it. Then I found out that students have been using this method since the invention of the university in the 12th century. Okay, so I'm hearkening back to my medieval heritage.
Then I found out that students were using it in the Middle East (who came up with a system similar to the university, called Madrasah) two centuries earlier. Alright, so I'm defying my Western heritage because Westerners invaded other people's lands, imposed their culture and government, and forced them to switch religions or die (which, of course NO other civilization has EVER done before) and I am instead adopting a piece of Islamic culture... who has never done any of the above mentioned things.
Then I found out my brand new method has been in use since the beginning of dreaded tasks.
Fine, so I'm just not special at all, okay???
Dear paper,
Tremble in fear, for I shall not only write you, but I shall write you in such a way that you will purely hate me for it! Bwah ha ha ha!!!! You are a paper about death, destruction, plague, and upsetting the "divinely instituted" social system of rich people at the top and peons at the bottom!!!
Love,
Me.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
If it goes vroom...
When I was 19, I bought my first car. While shopping for said transportation, I completely scandalized my 15 year old brother with my list of requirements. The list consisted of:
1. It goes vroom.
Barry seemed to feel this was proof of my utter incompetence as a car shopper, but I sure showed him. The car I bought not only went vroom, it went vrrrOOOOOOM!!!! Barry then offered to be my mechanic for free so he could have the chance to play with my 3.5 liter engine.
So, that was my first car. After I smacked her into a gate... and a cow (who was kind enough to leave a smear of poop on the hood as it ran off without a limp), I affectionately named my fenderless, bailing-wire-and-duct-tape Intrepid the White Trash Mobile. I thought about buying some fake flowers to stick into the holes in the fenders, just to add a cherry to the top of that redneck-mobile sundae, but I never got around to it. Instead, I avoided paying money toward it as much as possible, leaving the bucket behind the front seat to hold it up, holes in the fenders, and otherwise fully ignored anything cosmetic. But, somehow, it always found a way to make me spend money - exploding tires, faulty crank shaft sensor, dead alternator - you know, stuff the car can't run without. Considering that it was made in 1994, that's not terribly surprising.
So, by the time I bought my second car, I added a new requirement:
1. It goes vroom
2. It was made in this century
My new car is affectionately named Nemo. This is because it has a gimpy fin, and the child lock is permanently on one of the doors (awkward moment the day I found THAT out). This car was made in 2002, and it goes vroom, so it therefore meets my requirements.
I should have made 2009 the cut off.
I took Nemo to the mechanic today. When I got my inspection, the told me I would soon need a tie rod replaced. That was about 6 months ago. So, today I got that taken care of. While window shopping to pass the time, the mechanic called me.
Him: "Which tie rod were you wanting replaced?"
Me: "The one that's worn out."
Him: "They're both pretty bad."
Me: "Hm. How much will it cost."
Him: "About $115 each."
Me: **thinking, "If a tie rod snaps, your car will do automobile acrobatics and you will die. Hmmm... that sounds like fun!"** "Okay, fix 'em both."
Him: "Also, you asked for an oil change, and... well... the air filter is in terrible condition."
Me: **thinking, "Yeah, I figured that would need replacing soon."** "Okay, fix that too."
Him: "Also... there are some maintenance things that need to be done, tune up and stuff... but I'll just write that stuff down and you can think about it."
$300 later, I drove away, refusing to think about the balance on my credit card, because I know that I'll catch up on it at least a paycheck before they would charge me interest. The important part is that Nemo is no longer a death trap!
But, I should have known. I had the thought - hey! Have them do a full "trip check" just to see if anything else is wrong! But I thought, "Nah... they already did like 3 important things. What else could be wrong with my car?"
Heh. Yeah. Once again, Murphy laughs in my face.
I drove home. I did homework. I drove to school. I went to class. I walked back to my car. I put the key in the ignition. I turned the key.
I turned the key.
I turned the key again.
And again.
"CURSE YOU MURPHY FOR YOUR STUPID LAW OF IRONY!!!!!"
I thought it might be the battery, because I knew it was weak, and I'd solved the exact same problem by jumping it before. But, in order to jump my car, I needed another car's help. I called Michelle. No answer. I called Clarke. No answer. I called Caro. No answer.
Well, friends and family with automobiles are out.
So, I did what any smart girl would do. I got out of the car, opened the hood, and tried to look as helpless as possible.
It worked. I kid you not, 30 seconds after I'd opened the hood, a guy was there to help me.
His name was Phoung. He was from Vietnam. He seemed surprised when I pronounced his name correctly, but don't worry. You don't have to read the name out loud if you don't want to... unless you speak Vietnamese... or are good at English spellings of Vietnamese names... then you HAVE to read it out loud, just so people can hear you say, "Phoung," and wonder what the heck you're talking about.
"Do you need help?" he asked with his thick Vietnamese accent.
"Yeah, it won't start."
I then demonstrated it not starting.
He offered to jump it, so I rolled it out of the parking space and waited for his car and cables to arrive.
Well, turns out, fixing it by jumping it before was a fluke. The problem wasn't the battery. Next guess was the starter.
So, I called AAA. They sent "Robert" out to help. When Robert arrived, I decided he had been incorrectly named. "Lug Wrench Bob" would have been better. With his thick drawl and 6 teeth, he made me feel riiiiiiight at home! Siryuslee, he coulda bin raight outa Laethrup Mizzurah.
He tried jumping it with his truck (See! I wasn't the only one to suspect the battery! Even Lug Wrench Bob thought he'd give it a try), but when that failed, he went at the starter.
And boy... I mean went AT it! He brought out this big, metal wrench thing that was about two feet long, and stuck it down in there where the starter should be.
"All raight, missy, now go 'n' turn that thar key 'n' try tuh start 'er fer me."
I turned that thar key.
"Now, hold 'er like yer turnin 'er on an' just hold 'er thar."
I held 'er.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He walloped my engine with his metal wrench.
Nothing happened.
Ummmm...
"Huh. That shoulda done it. Lemme check on somethin raight quick here."
He poked around the engine a bit more.
"Oh! Raight! Haha! That'd do it, now wouldn it? I was hittin' the wrong part! All raight now, turn that key agin."
Despite common sense screaming that letting a crazy redneck whale on your car with a heavy metal stick was a very stupid idea, I trusted his mechanical wisdom. I turned the key again.
BANG! BANG! BANG! VROOOOM! It worked!
Wow.
It worked.
"Yep, yer starter's faulty. I'da get that fixed buhfer now if I's you. Now, you kin go drop it off at a mukanix plaice, and he'll getcha fixed up buhfer too long. Heer, lemme getchu the address."
He kindly provided me with a mechanic, but that was alright, because I already had one. However, I took his note (complete with map, where "Bulldog Blvd" was spelled "Bouldog": "Heh! They're payin me tuh fix cars, not tuh spell!"), thanked him, said goodbye to Phoung, and drove to my brother's house to get transportation back from the auto place. Luckily, I got my car dropped off [shamelessplug]25 minutes AFTER they closed... such nice people! I highly recommend All Tune and Lube on 546 N Freedom Blvd [/shamelessplug] and made it home safe and sound.
So, what do we learn from this?
**kid raises hand** "Ooh! Pick me! Pick me!"
Me: "Okay, kid that just popped out of nowhere to answer my blog question... what did YOU learn from this?"
Random kid: "Always listen to that voice in your head that tells you to get your car checked out."
Me: "Um, no. That's not it. Try again."
Next kid: "Don't name your car something demeaning like Nemo because it has a handicap, or it will get revenge?"
Me: "Good! But no."
Little Johnny in the back: "Sell it and buy a Trans Am."
Me: "Clearly, the only lesson to be learned here, is if it's broke, whack it with a stick. And if that don't work, have a redneck whack it for you."
So, remember that, dear children. Whack it with a stick.
1. It goes vroom.
Barry seemed to feel this was proof of my utter incompetence as a car shopper, but I sure showed him. The car I bought not only went vroom, it went vrrrOOOOOOM!!!! Barry then offered to be my mechanic for free so he could have the chance to play with my 3.5 liter engine.
So, that was my first car. After I smacked her into a gate... and a cow (who was kind enough to leave a smear of poop on the hood as it ran off without a limp), I affectionately named my fenderless, bailing-wire-and-duct-tape Intrepid the White Trash Mobile. I thought about buying some fake flowers to stick into the holes in the fenders, just to add a cherry to the top of that redneck-mobile sundae, but I never got around to it. Instead, I avoided paying money toward it as much as possible, leaving the bucket behind the front seat to hold it up, holes in the fenders, and otherwise fully ignored anything cosmetic. But, somehow, it always found a way to make me spend money - exploding tires, faulty crank shaft sensor, dead alternator - you know, stuff the car can't run without. Considering that it was made in 1994, that's not terribly surprising.
So, by the time I bought my second car, I added a new requirement:
1. It goes vroom
2. It was made in this century
My new car is affectionately named Nemo. This is because it has a gimpy fin, and the child lock is permanently on one of the doors (awkward moment the day I found THAT out). This car was made in 2002, and it goes vroom, so it therefore meets my requirements.
I should have made 2009 the cut off.
I took Nemo to the mechanic today. When I got my inspection, the told me I would soon need a tie rod replaced. That was about 6 months ago. So, today I got that taken care of. While window shopping to pass the time, the mechanic called me.
Him: "Which tie rod were you wanting replaced?"
Me: "The one that's worn out."
Him: "They're both pretty bad."
Me: "Hm. How much will it cost."
Him: "About $115 each."
Me: **thinking, "If a tie rod snaps, your car will do automobile acrobatics and you will die. Hmmm... that sounds like fun!"** "Okay, fix 'em both."
Him: "Also, you asked for an oil change, and... well... the air filter is in terrible condition."
Me: **thinking, "Yeah, I figured that would need replacing soon."** "Okay, fix that too."
Him: "Also... there are some maintenance things that need to be done, tune up and stuff... but I'll just write that stuff down and you can think about it."
$300 later, I drove away, refusing to think about the balance on my credit card, because I know that I'll catch up on it at least a paycheck before they would charge me interest. The important part is that Nemo is no longer a death trap!
But, I should have known. I had the thought - hey! Have them do a full "trip check" just to see if anything else is wrong! But I thought, "Nah... they already did like 3 important things. What else could be wrong with my car?"
Heh. Yeah. Once again, Murphy laughs in my face.
I drove home. I did homework. I drove to school. I went to class. I walked back to my car. I put the key in the ignition. I turned the key.
I turned the key.
I turned the key again.
And again.
"CURSE YOU MURPHY FOR YOUR STUPID LAW OF IRONY!!!!!"
I thought it might be the battery, because I knew it was weak, and I'd solved the exact same problem by jumping it before. But, in order to jump my car, I needed another car's help. I called Michelle. No answer. I called Clarke. No answer. I called Caro. No answer.
Well, friends and family with automobiles are out.
So, I did what any smart girl would do. I got out of the car, opened the hood, and tried to look as helpless as possible.
It worked. I kid you not, 30 seconds after I'd opened the hood, a guy was there to help me.
His name was Phoung. He was from Vietnam. He seemed surprised when I pronounced his name correctly, but don't worry. You don't have to read the name out loud if you don't want to... unless you speak Vietnamese... or are good at English spellings of Vietnamese names... then you HAVE to read it out loud, just so people can hear you say, "Phoung," and wonder what the heck you're talking about.
"Do you need help?" he asked with his thick Vietnamese accent.
"Yeah, it won't start."
I then demonstrated it not starting.
He offered to jump it, so I rolled it out of the parking space and waited for his car and cables to arrive.
Well, turns out, fixing it by jumping it before was a fluke. The problem wasn't the battery. Next guess was the starter.
So, I called AAA. They sent "Robert" out to help. When Robert arrived, I decided he had been incorrectly named. "Lug Wrench Bob" would have been better. With his thick drawl and 6 teeth, he made me feel riiiiiiight at home! Siryuslee, he coulda bin raight outa Laethrup Mizzurah.
He tried jumping it with his truck (See! I wasn't the only one to suspect the battery! Even Lug Wrench Bob thought he'd give it a try), but when that failed, he went at the starter.
And boy... I mean went AT it! He brought out this big, metal wrench thing that was about two feet long, and stuck it down in there where the starter should be.
"All raight, missy, now go 'n' turn that thar key 'n' try tuh start 'er fer me."
I turned that thar key.
"Now, hold 'er like yer turnin 'er on an' just hold 'er thar."
I held 'er.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He walloped my engine with his metal wrench.
Nothing happened.
Ummmm...
"Huh. That shoulda done it. Lemme check on somethin raight quick here."
He poked around the engine a bit more.
"Oh! Raight! Haha! That'd do it, now wouldn it? I was hittin' the wrong part! All raight now, turn that key agin."
Despite common sense screaming that letting a crazy redneck whale on your car with a heavy metal stick was a very stupid idea, I trusted his mechanical wisdom. I turned the key again.
BANG! BANG! BANG! VROOOOM! It worked!
Wow.
It worked.
"Yep, yer starter's faulty. I'da get that fixed buhfer now if I's you. Now, you kin go drop it off at a mukanix plaice, and he'll getcha fixed up buhfer too long. Heer, lemme getchu the address."
He kindly provided me with a mechanic, but that was alright, because I already had one. However, I took his note (complete with map, where "Bulldog Blvd" was spelled "Bouldog": "Heh! They're payin me tuh fix cars, not tuh spell!"), thanked him, said goodbye to Phoung, and drove to my brother's house to get transportation back from the auto place. Luckily, I got my car dropped off [shamelessplug]25 minutes AFTER they closed... such nice people! I highly recommend All Tune and Lube on 546 N Freedom Blvd [/shamelessplug] and made it home safe and sound.
So, what do we learn from this?
**kid raises hand** "Ooh! Pick me! Pick me!"
Me: "Okay, kid that just popped out of nowhere to answer my blog question... what did YOU learn from this?"
Random kid: "Always listen to that voice in your head that tells you to get your car checked out."
Me: "Um, no. That's not it. Try again."
Next kid: "Don't name your car something demeaning like Nemo because it has a handicap, or it will get revenge?"
Me: "Good! But no."
Little Johnny in the back: "Sell it and buy a Trans Am."
Me: "Clearly, the only lesson to be learned here, is if it's broke, whack it with a stick. And if that don't work, have a redneck whack it for you."
So, remember that, dear children. Whack it with a stick.
When Appliances Get Cheeky
So, I was in the bathroom at work, standing at the sink. I farted. It’s okay to do that in the bathroom. But, the instant I did, the automatic air freshener went off, squirting its freshness at me.
Pesky little wisenheimer.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Snot is in the air
I didn't feel so hot when I got up this morning. I slept in, like, 15 extra minutes. (Not 15 extra minutes... just like 15 extra minutes). I was a tad dizzy, and my head felt stuffy. I dismissed it as sleepiness, and stumbled into the bathroom, where I stared in the mirror for 2 solid minutes, wondering where I was and why my toothbrush was in my hand.
Then I remembered.
Oh yeah. I'm awake. It's Monday. I have to leave for babysitting in 1 minute. Brush teeth. Must brush teeth.
The zest of fluoride was enough to rouse me to consciousness to the point that I could drive. With a muffin in my mouth, bag in one hand, keys in the other, I trudged off to the car. My mind was still somewhere in my dream... I think it involved a stone dungeon... and dreams about dreams.....
Then I got to Clarke and Caro's house. Caro let me in, and gave me the news.
"Sophie's sick. It's not as bad as it was yesterday, and she doesn't have a fever anymore, but she's still really congested."
Aha. Sophie is sick. Good thing I'm not sick! But wait... my head is still stuffy, and I'm not even asleep anymore.
Oh darn.
Well, not much to do about it. Time to start babysitting.
You know, you'd think, with a head as stuffed up as she has, Sophie wouldn't be attracted to obnoxious noises. She should detest them, and just want to sleep, right?
Nope. That's the thing about little kids. They're immune to noise headaches. I'd only been there about 30 seconds when the music started. It was emanating from this toy steering wheel thing that makes noise when you turn the key, croaks when you pull a lever, and honks when you push the button. But, right next to the honking button are these two arrows. When you press those, it plays classical music! Only, this is the kind of classical music you would only hear if Sesame Street got a commission to manufacture educational toys for hell. To give you an idea, Ode to Joy is played on what sounds like a mixture of a synthesizer and a kazoo, mixed with honking sounds and quacking. Yes, quacking. Like a duck. They got a DUCK to accompany Beethoven... who is now pounding on his coffin, screaming to be let out so he can raise a zombie army to level Toys R Us to the ground.
Worst of all is a piece so famous that I do not know its name. It is accompanied by cats. "Meow! Meow! DoodoodoodooDOOOdoodoo. Meow! Meow! Doo doodoodoo doo doo Meow doo! Meow! Meow!"
"AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
It was a sweet relief the moment she dropped the steering wheel in favor of her dinosaur book. She brought it over to me and plopped it on my lap. Gratefully, I read it to her... well... half read, half quoted from memory. It's definitely a favorite ("Here comes Zoomer rocketing past/Whatever she does she does it fast/She's a nifty little thing with energy galore/She's a jazzy orange dinosaur!") and for the bazillionth time, I put on my various dinosaur voices to chronicle the lives of Zoomer, Dozy, Hey-Ho-Howdy, Sob, Snort, Tremble, and Smooch. So much better than Beethoven-Meets-Donald Duck!
Shortly after she got bored with Dinosaurs-on-the-Go, it was time to check her temperature. Insert thermometer in armpit (and thank heavens it's not rectal!) and wait for results. 98.2? Just about right, though a little on the cool side. Since my head was still clogged, I decided to check my own. I couldn't get it higher than 97.2! Well, I don't have a fever, but apparently I'm freezing! What's wrong with my body? What could possibly be happening?!
Clearly, I'm a vampire.
After confirming that her temperature was at a decent degree, I filled up a bottle with apple juice, to make sure she stayed hydrated. This she downed nearly half of with a passionate fervor.
Then came the sneeze.
Babies can't blow their noses. I'd been wiping up the slimy river that was flowing out of her nostrils, but I hadn't anticipated what was soon to be coming.
I saw the sneeze building. It was the "Ah... ah...." part of "Ah... ah.... CHOO!" I reached for the tissue...
"CHOO!"
The blast was incredible. The shockwave alone sent me flying into the fireplace and part way up the chimney. The boogers completely encased my body. So, I was stuck there, in the chimney, locked in a shell of snot. Luckily Sophie wanted her dinosaur book read and climbed up after me, washing the boogers away with a waterfall of drool.
I'm thinking it's time for a trip to Washington DC.
"Mr. President," I will say, holding Sophie in front of me. "I would like to offer my niece as the next generation of anti-terrorism defense. Her greatest weapon - the snot bomb. No terrorist will dare face off to that."
And that is why I decided I was too sick for my US history class.
Then I remembered.
Oh yeah. I'm awake. It's Monday. I have to leave for babysitting in 1 minute. Brush teeth. Must brush teeth.
The zest of fluoride was enough to rouse me to consciousness to the point that I could drive. With a muffin in my mouth, bag in one hand, keys in the other, I trudged off to the car. My mind was still somewhere in my dream... I think it involved a stone dungeon... and dreams about dreams.....
Then I got to Clarke and Caro's house. Caro let me in, and gave me the news.
"Sophie's sick. It's not as bad as it was yesterday, and she doesn't have a fever anymore, but she's still really congested."
Aha. Sophie is sick. Good thing I'm not sick! But wait... my head is still stuffy, and I'm not even asleep anymore.
Oh darn.
Well, not much to do about it. Time to start babysitting.
You know, you'd think, with a head as stuffed up as she has, Sophie wouldn't be attracted to obnoxious noises. She should detest them, and just want to sleep, right?
Nope. That's the thing about little kids. They're immune to noise headaches. I'd only been there about 30 seconds when the music started. It was emanating from this toy steering wheel thing that makes noise when you turn the key, croaks when you pull a lever, and honks when you push the button. But, right next to the honking button are these two arrows. When you press those, it plays classical music! Only, this is the kind of classical music you would only hear if Sesame Street got a commission to manufacture educational toys for hell. To give you an idea, Ode to Joy is played on what sounds like a mixture of a synthesizer and a kazoo, mixed with honking sounds and quacking. Yes, quacking. Like a duck. They got a DUCK to accompany Beethoven... who is now pounding on his coffin, screaming to be let out so he can raise a zombie army to level Toys R Us to the ground.
Worst of all is a piece so famous that I do not know its name. It is accompanied by cats. "Meow! Meow! DoodoodoodooDOOOdoodoo. Meow! Meow! Doo doodoodoo doo doo Meow doo! Meow! Meow!"
"AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!"
It was a sweet relief the moment she dropped the steering wheel in favor of her dinosaur book. She brought it over to me and plopped it on my lap. Gratefully, I read it to her... well... half read, half quoted from memory. It's definitely a favorite ("Here comes Zoomer rocketing past/Whatever she does she does it fast/She's a nifty little thing with energy galore/She's a jazzy orange dinosaur!") and for the bazillionth time, I put on my various dinosaur voices to chronicle the lives of Zoomer, Dozy, Hey-Ho-Howdy, Sob, Snort, Tremble, and Smooch. So much better than Beethoven-Meets-Donald Duck!
Shortly after she got bored with Dinosaurs-on-the-Go, it was time to check her temperature. Insert thermometer in armpit (and thank heavens it's not rectal!) and wait for results. 98.2? Just about right, though a little on the cool side. Since my head was still clogged, I decided to check my own. I couldn't get it higher than 97.2! Well, I don't have a fever, but apparently I'm freezing! What's wrong with my body? What could possibly be happening?!
Clearly, I'm a vampire.
After confirming that her temperature was at a decent degree, I filled up a bottle with apple juice, to make sure she stayed hydrated. This she downed nearly half of with a passionate fervor.
Then came the sneeze.
Babies can't blow their noses. I'd been wiping up the slimy river that was flowing out of her nostrils, but I hadn't anticipated what was soon to be coming.
I saw the sneeze building. It was the "Ah... ah...." part of "Ah... ah.... CHOO!" I reached for the tissue...
"CHOO!"
The blast was incredible. The shockwave alone sent me flying into the fireplace and part way up the chimney. The boogers completely encased my body. So, I was stuck there, in the chimney, locked in a shell of snot. Luckily Sophie wanted her dinosaur book read and climbed up after me, washing the boogers away with a waterfall of drool.
I'm thinking it's time for a trip to Washington DC.
"Mr. President," I will say, holding Sophie in front of me. "I would like to offer my niece as the next generation of anti-terrorism defense. Her greatest weapon - the snot bomb. No terrorist will dare face off to that."
And that is why I decided I was too sick for my US history class.
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