So… I get the pleasure of driving The Pshycopath’s truck “The Darkness” every now and again. And maybe I enjoy a wee bit too much rolling up to the office driving the “The Darkness” jamming to one of the baddest metal riffs ever. Apparently, “exuding aggression” seems to be the common consensus among coworkers. I’m thinking sooner or later there will be an employee review that will cover terrorizing others.
So… the other day, the Psychopath decided to ask me how I got the timing on my old Antichrist of a car from decades ago adjusted using crayons. When I explained to him, his response was a very lovely laugh and he uttered God love you and called my technique broke bitch ingenuity.
Let me explain to you how I managed to do this so you to can share in his laughter. Any semi-mechanically inclined man will stare at this dumbfounded and ask the same questions the Psychopath did and later realize there were pointless questions:
So, there I was, in my early twenties with a toddler and the Antichrist for a car. Oh, and dating a good for nothing unemployed ass (not one of my finer moments, but I ditched him not long after this day). The Antichrist was bought for a couple of thousand dollars and was such a crappy car, I had more than that into it trying to fix it over a year. Sadly the real fix would have been cheap, but some mechanics see a woman and just start adding dollars… I was tired of paying them, especially since I was making a whopping $6 an hour raising a child and the damn car needed more repairs. Antifreeze poured out of it faster than you could put it in… My father swear the block was cracked from all the excessive overheating that was never resolved with all the repairs that were supposed to fix the overheating.
Well, I figured what the hell, I’m gonna fix the Antichrist myself. Not that I knew what I was doing or looking at, but I sure couldnt do anymore damage, So I bought the manual on all the stuff you need to know about the Antichrist, I bought a water pump, cause that’s what seemed to be spewing the antifreeze and figured I’d give it a whirl. How hard could it be, especially since my good for nothing unemployed ass of a boyfriend was going to help. Ha…
So while my lazy good for nothing unemployed ass of a boyfriend laid under the apple tree, I dismantled half of the Antichrist, cause go figure the water pump wasnt in an easy to reach place. Maybe I should mention that the pictures in the book didnt match what the engine compartment looked like either… but I figured out that the thing in my was was the alternator and removed it, but I decided to work around the power steering and not take my chances with it. The timing belt, however, had to come off, no way around that.
Now, I didnt have a timing light. I knew enough to know one should have one when messing with the timing, but not enough to have the foggiest idea how to use one. So, being the inventive problem solving person living on a broke bitch budget that I am, I went in got my son’s crayons and…
I marked the top of the belt and top gear with one color, moved to the side and used a different color on the belt and gear and then a different color on the other side… This way I could line the markings up exactly how the belt was when I took it off. Then I every so carefully slide the belt off, ok, maybe not so careful as it was a bit tight.
Once I finished changing the water pump, I slid the belt back on, trying not to stretch the belt and line my crayon markings back exactly and voila. Broke bitch ingenuity at it’s best. The Antichrist started and ran, my overheating issues were resolved, and the block was not cracked.
And every semi-mechanically inclined man who hears this store stares at me with those questions from above in their eyes, wondering just how the hell did that damn car ever start after I was done. I just grin. Since then, I’ve learned you adjust the time while it’s running using the light to line up little markings that exist somewhere and do some other stuff, blah blah blah… or we can do it my way and get the crayons.
The Antichrist lived for several more months before the next issue, which involved a mechanic begging me to not fix the car but to scrap it.
So it seems I have come full circle with the mouse. I just moved into a different office at work this week, and every time I look up I see the drawing of Minnie Mouse. Go figure, I end up in a office with a mouse that I see every time I look up. It’s a wonder I dont have PTSD.
That damn mouse held me hostage in my car and then tried to carry out it’s plot against me at my own home. I thought I took care of it years ago, but it seems it’s back.
While I’m thinking about stories involving mice, I figured I would share this story. Not for the squeamish.
For a few years, I lived in a house that I refer to as the shack. It was a very small house. Small enough it only took 3 steps to get to any room.
Since the shack was out in the middle of nowhere, we frequently had mice try to move in when it got cold. I had two cats that apparently didn’t mind sharing space (but the one tried to kill my then husband regularly, but that’s another story).
Mouse traps were common place and during the fall you would hear them snapping regularly. One day I caught 8 in an hour. Yuck. Mice are nasty.
I guess one of the traps I set was not set right. When I checked it, the mouse it caught was still alive as the trap only caught part of its head. I’ll leave most the details out, but his one eye dangled a bit. So I released him outside, feeling really bad that he was hurt. My intent is to never cause any animal to suffer, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill it. So I hoped for a quick death.
Well, I wake up the next morning. Hang my legs off the bed, feet not touching the floor yet, when I see a little fuzzy something on the floor. I focus my eyes, let out a blood curdling scream and jump standing on the water bed.
Yeah.. what did I see… a little mouse staring up at me with one eye dangling. Oh, you could see he was plotting his revenge. He just sat there staring at me (well and the floor). There I am in an all out panic still recovering from being held hostage by a mouse, dancing around on the water bed saying “yuck. Yuck. Yuck.”
I yell for my cats. Oh yeah, they were helpful. They came running, and sat on the floor waiting for a treat. They see the mouse and ignore it. Really? I’m now yelling at my cats to “kill it” while pointing at the mouse who is still staring at me (and the floor) plotting my death. The cats decide they are bored with my game and wonder off disinterested.
Oh hell… I’m gonna have to deal with this myself I finally realize as I’m still dancing around on the water bed freaked out by the one-eyed mouse who’s plotting my death. So I muster up that backbone that served me so well during the aforementioned hostage crisis with a fugitive mouse.
I pole vault off the bed landing in the living room (actually almost through the front window since it was 3 steps to anywhere). I grab a box in the kitchen and come back to scoop up the one-eyed mouse. My skin is crawling.
Outside I go running with the box containing the one-eyed mouse. This time I decide the mouse must die before it tries to carry out its plot against me. But it’s too tiny to break its neck…
Well, we’ll just leave it as the mouse died and was cremated. I am now thoroughly creeped out by mice.
Traumatizing I tell you, but, ok, funny as hell.
It’s always such a pleasure when people in my life meet and immediately start comparing stab wounds I allegedly inflected or allegedly attempted to inflict. Good God, it’s like listening to war stories of soldiers proudly displaying their battle scars.
The other day my Mother got to meet the psychopath… and promptly shows the scar on her hand from where she impaled herself with a knife I happened to be holding.
So… the psychopath points to his ribs and indicates where he says I nearly stabbed him while I was attempting to cut potatoes.
And there I am, sitting there helplessly, wondering how many others would jump in with “war stories” from knowing me…
So, I bought myself a small damn turkey for me to cook Thanksgiving day… that was the plan… but it seems, like always, my plans change… Now I have this thawed damn turkey and no time to cook it, let alone eat it… I’ve got a full schedule now for the whole 4 days I’m off. My only option, cook it the night before or throw it in the trash.
7pm I’m getting the damn turkey in the oven. I figure if I gotta cook the damn turkey, I’m gonna eat the damn turkey which means I need mashed potatoes, gravy, etc…
For some reason, I think it’s a good idea get into the booze once the damn turkey is in the oven. Damn Irish blood… and I’m a total lightweight.
My Gal Pal was in the area and decided to stop by and pay me a visit… He arrives to:
All he could do was stare at the drunken mess that is me, laugh, and repeat there’s gonna be a trip to the ER tonight. And he felt the need to point out I had a southern accent… I said wait til the New Yorker comes out… He was sure my mood was gonna change and we would end up in a fist fight.
and I was only getting started…
So… a couple more glasses (Again, I am a lightweight, so I’m a really really really happy girl at this point. )
Then I decide it’s time to peel potatoes… with a knife… and numb hands, cause the booze is really starting to hit. Oh, and maybe I should mention I was dancing too… with a knife in my hands…
So I peel the first one, a russet potato (I used a blend of types for the best mashed tators ever!) and grab a sharper knife to cut it up… Well, russets are a bit tough, so the potato went flying when I applied pressure with the knife… The quote from my Gal Pal the following day:
“You went at that bitch like a drunken Edward Scissorhands who was hell bent on losing a finger.”
Well, I managed to keep all my fingers, sustain no major injuries, and eat… and promptly fall asleep directly after eating… Although my Gal Pal says next time, he’s putting a helmet and kneepads on me if I’ve been drinking.
And for the record, it was a perfectly cooked damn turkey that was super yummy and juicy. The mashed potatoes ended up with pieces of the mixer in them when my mixer broke… but I have a shiny new mixer now that even has a boob guard (cause my Gal Pal said he’s never seen anyone nearly get their boob caught in the beaters while mashing potatoes.) I, however, do not recall this.
So… After I shared my blog with family and friends, Mommy reminds me of yet another story my damn Etch-A-Sketch for a brain forgot about. She emails me this:
Just read a couple stories but the one about you almost killing your gal pal made me think of when you first got your shinny new white car and we stopped off at Food Lion. I, like your friend, waited in the car (but it was turned off) and as you walked towards the store the locks locked and the alarm went on. I was scared to death to move or even breath and just prayed that no one that I knew would come up and want to talk to me where I would have to roll down the windows. When you finally came out of the store, I’m waving at you making a hand gesture to turn the car alarm off. You thought this was funny but I was pretty stressed!
Love
Mom
The car I had bought would automatically alarm itself after a couple of minutes. I did not know this… and neither did my poor unsuspecting Mother. <evil grin> You should have seen her sitting there in the car not moving, trying so hard to get my attention ever so carefully so as not to set off the alarm. It was priceless!!
Makes ya wanna get in a car with me, doesnt it?
So, I get a text from my Gal Pal’s phone, but it wasnt him. It was one of his friends whom I have never met and shall now be called Unknown Cohort. Turns out my Gal Pal left his phone and it happened to be unlocked. Silly man.
After a few benign text, my Gal Pal retrieved his phone and realized something was afoot.
The texts go as follows:
A good 90 minutes and tons of text later, that only furthered the escalation of my Gal Pal, I went to bed, still without confessing that we were just messing with my Gal Pal. Ok, I’ll admit that was just plain evil, but he should be glad that I still was taking it easy on him… Just a bit of payback for the Dining Room Table incident.
It’s great when complete strangers join forces for the power of evil and watch a mutual friend go off the rails. LMAO
Thanks, Unknown Cohort, for many hours of entertainment!! You make a great partner in crime!
So, I’ve been looking for a small dining room table. I get an email from a friend, my Gal Pal, with links to several dining table sets…
Seems harmless enough, right?
I decide to view them the next day while I’m at the office… Some are nice, some are out of my budget, and some just arent me… Then I get to the very last one… I unsuspectingly click the link. There doesnt appear to be anything that would make me suspicious of the link…
And… What do I see…
Yep… that’s right… you see it too now…
And here is what goes through my head:
So I call him and say “You are an Ass.” He thinks his little shenanigans are funny. Oh he’ll pay for them one day.
So… Let me tell ya about the time I inadvertently tried to kill my Gal Pal….
I’ve driven a standard shift for 20 yrs… I HATE automatic transmissions; hate, hate, hate, hate, hate them. But, it’s getting harder and harder to find a manual tranny unless you want the disposable, bottom of the line, POS or you have lots of money to spend on a high-end car…
Since my budget is limited, but I wanted something nicer because I travel so much, I opted to buy an…
a u t o m a t i c t r a n s m i s s i o n….
YUCK… It was like committing a sin against nature.
Well, I was excited to get my new car, even if it was one of those… I was picking it up over lunch. I asked my Gal Pal if he wanted to ride along and he did…. Ha Ha Ha… He’ll never make that mistake again!!!
What I neglected to tell my Gal Pal was that when I went to test drive the car, I had to ask the sales guy and I quote:
“So… Silly question, but how do you work an automatic tranny?”
I’m dead serious… I didnt know how to start it because there was a pedal missing… I havent driven one in 20 yrs… I’ve forgot how they work… give me a break… k?
So, my unsuspecting Gal Pal heads to the dealership with me to get my shiny new car with one less pedal… I get my new car and we head back to the office. Before getting to the office, I make a quick stop at the local gas station to get something for lunch. (I live off of gas station food… not really by choice, it’s just so easy, and I always forget to bring something because I have an Etch-a-Sketch for a brain….which is why I’m remember this story now, a year and a half after it happened…) Now, where was I? Oh, right… nearly killing my Gal Pal….
I pulled into a parking spot, leaving the car running, as my Gal Pal opted to stay in the car (ha ha ha, that was a really bad idea)
I get back into the car and I realize
I LEFT the car in DRIVE WHILE it was RUNNING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My Gal Pal sat in my running car, never realizing it was in DRIVE.
I muttered something that I cant recall about leaving it in drive… thankful I was anal about using the e-break… OR my Brand New Shiny Car would have Smashed Through the Front of Rutters and with my luck probably would have crushed me as I was standing in the store… I can just imagine the headlines for that story…
Now I could have been crushed by my own car inside the gas station, but my Gal Pal was more concerned with what he perceived as a near death experience… He was in the car surrounded by airbags… Really… just what harm would have come to him, well, ok, other than having to public admit that he knows me, which, well, let’s face it, that can be really damaging…
Needless to say, the drive back to the office (a whopping 1 mile), my Gal Pal was tense and put his seat belt on and held on to the “Hail Mary” hand grip. I think he even prayed, well, in between asking me “What the fuck is wrong with you?” (as a foot note, he asks that question at least once a week for about 5 yrs so far. lol)
Devious Muse 