Today has been one of those days. Not bad, precisely, just, well, meh. It started when I woke up at the unpleasantly early hour of 8:30. I know, I know--8:30 is NOT early. Well, maybe it isn't when you go to bed at 10 or 11 pm like a normal person. But when you go to bed around 2 or 3 am every night, 8:30 comes pretty early. As if that weren't bad enough, the ankle that I'd rolled for the first time in months was a little swollen and distinctly unhappy when I awoke. Still, I decided to take advantage of the early (for me) hour by showering and going to Panera's for my favorite breakfast sandwich since I'm usually getting up too late to shower and drive over in time to get there before breakfast ends. It was glorious...I get a Power Sandwich with an egg, ham, and lovely white cheddar, but I switch the healthy whole grain bread for ciabatta so I can enjoy that lovely crunch. There's little more relaxing than sitting in an empty booth at Panera's and munching away on that little slice of heaven while reading one of my books.
Replace the bacon with ham for a yummy, yummy meal.
Since I was up and about earlier than usual, I decided to go and finally get my car washed since it's been a while because my preferred car wash closed and I foolishly kept waiting. There was always "one more road trip," and who wants to wash a car only to get it encrusted with bug guts again days later? Plus, since I have a van, getting to the top is a hassle. Friends don't trust me on ladders or, you know, the floor anymore, and the hubs has never been particularly good about keeping up with washing the vehicles. So off I went to a local car wash. I probably need to get the van detailed, but I figured I'd wait and see how they did with everything else first.
I drove in, ordered the "special," which is a full wash, vacuum inside, window wash inside and out and, theoretically, a wax, though I'm not convinced I got that. I walked inside the office/waiting room and strolled through the displays of air fresheners and car accessories to get to the cash register, where a young lady of vaguely surly mien took my money. I found it difficult to breath inside because of an overwhelming miasma of what could loosely be termed "fragrance." Not even the multiple air fresheners could produce a pong that strong. I never could find the source, thought there were candles and other odiferous items deployed throughout the shop, so it could have been anything, or perhaps even everything. My sinus started rebelling. I tried sitting at the end of the shop by the outside porch which overlooked the cars being wiped down and vacuumed, where I promptly knocked over one of those plastic fishbowls of business cards. It didn't help. I began to get a headache and so went outside to sit at one of the tables. My book hadn't been open more than 3 minutes when a woman came out, sat down, and lit up a ciggie directly upwind of me. Great. First cloying perfumes, now smoke inhalation. I moved to a bench on the other side of the porch that was mostly out of fumes' way, though it was directly in the sun. I sat and sweated and read for a while till the lady left, then again changed seats to one in the shade.
Eventually my car was finished and I was called to "examine" it to make sure I was pleased with the results. I noticed a few little spots, which the guys then rushed to rub off, stopping in front and asking if one spot was scratches or bug guts. "Oh, no, ma'am, that's scratches...sometimes the bugs gets imbedded in the scratches and won't come off 'cuz of the clearcoat..." Uh-huh. Sure, dude, whatever you say. That's the same sort of logic that encourages conservatives to defund Planned Parenthood and make contraception more difficult to get on the basis of it "reducing the frequency of abortions" or which suggests that teaching to tests instead of teaching critical analytical skills and not holding students accountable for their own responsibility to their learning will somehow magically improve education in this country. Because yeah, that's it. And because I was raised in the era of accountability and critical analysis, I see certain flaws in your argument, such as 1. how can bugs get imbedded in scratches less than a millimeter deep and 2. why in the hell would you be clearcoating a car that isn't all the way clean in the first place?? But whatever, dude.
Rather than waste my time arguing about something that wasn't going to change, I got in the car and drove off, but not before noticing smears which somehow got missed all over the inside of my windshield. Sigh. To be honest, I didn't check the windows very well since I was focused on the car body, except to look and see if the sticker gunk was still on my back window. Yesterday I admitted to myself that since the girlie is almost a junior now in college and will be gone virtually all summer, it was finally time to accept that I'm no longer a Soccer Mom and remove some of the Soccer Mom flair from the back window of my van. It was a sad moment, but I still giggled thinking about how everyone must have thought I had two kids since one sticker was for dance and used the girlie's first name, whereas the other sticker was for her playing flute at All-State, but had her middle name, which is what she used in high school. I love my girlie and her multiple personalities! Anyway, though I'd scraped them off, I didn't scrub off the goo that was left behind because I was curious to see how the car wash people would deal with it. Which they didn't. When I came out to inspect the van, the gunk was still proudly there, mocking me from the otherwise clean window.
I left the car wash and drove to the grocery to pick up a bag of dog food. When I got home I spent an hour or so de-gunking the back window, wiping off other spots, and cleaning the windshield more carefully, as well as removing the bits of processed egg that had fallen from a hasty breakfast into the middle console of my van and lodged in the cap of the power outlet for my phone charger. (Don't ask). The car wash place dutifully wiped out the inside of the compartment with Armor All or whatever product they use, but thoughtfully left the petrified egg bits inside the cap. Double sigh. I went inside for a late lunch, took my drugs (4 hours late) and settled in for the mostly uneventful rest of the afternoon.
Other than exciting things like putting away dishes and making some travel arrangements to handle playing musical dorms with my kid's stuff, not much happened. So here I sit, at the end of just another boring day in not Paradise. I need to find something more interesting to keep me occupied. Either that, or find a website from which I can order a hot pool boy. At least if I got arrested for trafficking in pool boys it would be less dull around here.
Of course, I suppose it would be help if I actually had a pool.
Today has been one of those days. Not bad, precisely, just, well, meh. It started when I woke up at the unpleasantly early hour of 8:30. I know, I know--8:30 is NOT early. Well, maybe it isn't when you go to bed at 10 or 11 pm like a normal person. But when you go to bed around 2 or 3 am every night, 8:30 comes pretty early. As if that weren't bad enough, the ankle that I'd rolled for the first time in months was a little swollen and distinctly unhappy when I awoke. Still, I decided to take advantage of the early (for me) hour by showering and going to Panera's for my favorite breakfast sandwich since I'm usually getting up too late to shower and drive over in time to get there before breakfast ends. It was glorious...I get a Power Sandwich with an egg, ham, and lovely white cheddar, but I switch the healthy whole grain bread for ciabatta so I can enjoy that lovely crunch. There's little more relaxing than sitting in an empty booth at Panera's and munching away on that little slice of heaven while reading one of my books.
Replace the bacon with ham for a yummy, yummy meal.
Since I was up and about earlier than usual, I decided to go and finally get my car washed since it's been a while because my preferred car wash closed and I foolishly kept waiting. There was always "one more road trip," and who wants to wash a car only to get it encrusted with bug guts again days later? Plus, since I have a van, getting to the top is a hassle. Friends don't trust me on ladders or, you know, the floor anymore, and the hubs has never been particularly good about keeping up with washing the vehicles. So off I went to a local car wash. I probably need to get the van detailed, but I figured I'd wait and see how they did with everything else first.
I drove in, ordered the "special," which is a full wash, vacuum inside, window wash inside and out and, theoretically, a wax, though I'm not convinced I got that. I walked inside the office/waiting room and strolled through the displays of air fresheners and car accessories to get to the cash register, where a young lady of vaguely surly mien took my money. I found it difficult to breath inside because of an overwhelming miasma of what could loosely be termed "fragrance." Not even the multiple air fresheners could produce a pong that strong. I never could find the source, thought there were candles and other odiferous items deployed throughout the shop, so it could have been anything, or perhaps even everything. My sinus started rebelling. I tried sitting at the end of the shop by the outside porch which overlooked the cars being wiped down and vacuumed, where I promptly knocked over one of those plastic fishbowls of business cards. It didn't help. I began to get a headache and so went outside to sit at one of the tables. My book hadn't been open more than 3 minutes when a woman came out, sat down, and lit up a ciggie directly upwind of me. Great. First cloying perfumes, now smoke inhalation. I moved to a bench on the other side of the porch that was mostly out of fumes' way, though it was directly in the sun. I sat and sweated and read for a while till the lady left, then again changed seats to one in the shade.
Eventually my car was finished and I was called to "examine" it to make sure I was pleased with the results. I noticed a few little spots, which the guys then rushed to rub off, stopping in front and asking if one spot was scratches or bug guts. "Oh, no, ma'am, that's scratches...sometimes the bugs gets imbedded in the scratches and won't come off 'cuz of the clearcoat..." Uh-huh. Sure, dude, whatever you say. That's the same sort of logic that encourages conservatives to defund Planned Parenthood and make contraception more difficult to get on the basis of it "reducing the frequency of abortions" or which suggests that teaching to tests instead of teaching critical analytical skills and not holding students accountable for their own responsibility to their learning will somehow magically improve education in this country. Because yeah, that's it. And because I was raised in the era of accountability and critical analysis, I see certain flaws in your argument, such as 1. how can bugs get imbedded in scratches less than a millimeter deep and 2. why in the hell would you be clearcoating a car that isn't all the way clean in the first place?? But whatever, dude.
Rather than waste my time arguing about something that wasn't going to change, I got in the car and drove off, but not before noticing smears which somehow got missed all over the inside of my windshield. Sigh. To be honest, I didn't check the windows very well since I was focused on the car body, except to look and see if the sticker gunk was still on my back window. Yesterday I admitted to myself that since the girlie is almost a junior now in college and will be gone virtually all summer, it was finally time to accept that I'm no longer a Soccer Mom and remove some of the Soccer Mom flair from the back window of my van. It was a sad moment, but I still giggled thinking about how everyone must have thought I had two kids since one sticker was for dance and used the girlie's first name, whereas the other sticker was for her playing flute at All-State, but had her middle name, which is what she used in high school. I love my girlie and her multiple personalities! Anyway, though I'd scraped them off, I didn't scrub off the goo that was left behind because I was curious to see how the car wash people would deal with it. Which they didn't. When I came out to inspect the van, the gunk was still proudly there, mocking me from the otherwise clean window.
I left the car wash and drove to the grocery to pick up a bag of dog food. When I got home I spent an hour or so de-gunking the back window, wiping off other spots, and cleaning the windshield more carefully, as well as removing the bits of processed egg that had fallen from a hasty breakfast into the middle console of my van and lodged in the cap of the power outlet for my phone charger. (Don't ask). The car wash place dutifully wiped out the inside of the compartment with Armor All or whatever product they use, but thoughtfully left the petrified egg bits inside the cap. Double sigh. I went inside for a late lunch, took my drugs (4 hours late) and settled in for the mostly uneventful rest of the afternoon.
Other than exciting things like putting away dishes and making some travel arrangements to handle playing musical dorms with my kid's stuff, not much happened. So here I sit, at the end of just another boring day in not Paradise. I need to find something more interesting to keep me occupied. Either that, or find a website from which I can order a hot pool boy. At least if I got arrested for trafficking in pool boys it would be less dull around here.
Of course, I suppose it would be help if I actually had a pool.
Every once in a while I like to take a look at the stats page for my blog. Sometimes it's quite educational. For example, I am now being found by searches on Google India, Google UK, Google Australia and even Google Algeria, among others. I feel so international.
I've also graduated from being referred by Ukranian porn sites to being referred by a Ukranian website which appears to sell "Military weapons without a permit and documents." Well, I know I'm relieved to have made the jump from pornography to illicit gun sales. Phew! Near as I can tell, the website is based on some movie and subsequent Danish stealth game. Still, the website looks disturbingly real and were I so inclined, I could spend many happy hours filling my "cart" with assorted guns, gun parts, and live ammunition. I'm still trying to figure out what on earth I could have previously written that would garner me such attention in the Ukranian underworld. It's rather disconcerting, to say the least. Of course, I'm also getting hits from a place in Russia that sells modular cabinetry and office furniture, as well as Russian hockey webpage. Perhaps the Soviets think I'm luring people to my lair of modular furntiture with my wanton and scantily clad body, after which I bludgeon them with a hockey stick and stuff them into the Walnut Emill Wall Unit, with my trusty illicit Luger standing by in case of emergencies. And I thought I was overly dramatic...
When my blog isn't being discovered through searches by nefarious home-decorating Ukranians, it's being discovered by an inordinate number of people feeling the need to search for "bad ginger perms." Apparently my 1983 prom picture has become the definitive image for bad ginger perms. Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying it wasn't a bad perm or that I'm wasn't "ginger." On the contrary--my hair was poofy and poodley in the grandest of '80s traditions. What I can't fathom is why so many people are suddenly interested in finding images of red hairdos gone wrong. Is there some uprising of Disturbed Overreacting Independent Citizens Against Redheaded Egregiousness (DOICARE) about which I have not been informed? And, if so, why?? All this redheaded discrimination just reminds me of Tim Minchin's song about prejudice, called...Prejudice. (Be forewarned; some of the lyrics are not family-friendly. Of course, neither am I all of the time.)
Seriously--Gingers often get a bad rap, and for no good reason. Redheads are feisty and fiery and full of passion. Redheads are awesome and brilliant; Galileo, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Van Gogh, and James Joyce (good Irish lad) were all ginger. And because we are feisty, you don't want to mess with us--just ask Lizzie Borden, Oliver Cromwell Margaret Sanger and Queen Elizabeth I. Redheads are talented and entertaining, just like Reba McIntyre, Willie Nelson (apparently we also like country music), Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball. And if you think redheads can't be hot, all you have to do is read about Jamie Fraser from Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. You'll be fantasizing about tall ginger Scots for months. Of course, the whole men in kilts things doesn't hurt.
DeviantArt's imagining of James Fraser.
Gabriel Aubry, with hair photo-shopped to red.
Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right. When I'm not getting hits for bad ginger perms or all things Russian, I also get some distinctly interesting keyword searches. One of my favorites was for "Duct Tape Messiah." I don't even want to try to figure that one out. Other recent searches have been for "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" and "laurie hugh - cannibal." Um, scuzemewhat?? In the first place, I wasn't aware that Hugh Laurie had ever been cannibalistic, and in the second place, trying to find a "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" sounds like something I might try to find/accomplish while on some equally magic chemical substances. Some of the keyword searches make sense after I think about them for a while; at least I can see how my blog is getting pulled for them. Then I get stuff like this:
"Toddler sports bras?" Really?? What toddler needs a sports bra? That's just messed up. Also, "shirt woot ginger boobs??" Um...are we wooting for the ginger boobs in a shirt, or what, exactly? I know there is a company called Shirt Woot, but to my knowledge they've never had any shirts related to ginger boobs, nor have I written about that particular aspect of gingatude. Still, it makes for a colorful search term. "Bizarro Wuxtry" I get; that's a local comic book/music store. "Tressed" I also get; that would relate to my post about bad haircuts--and we're back to bad ginger perms. Then we get to "Enlargement time delay electric shock physiotherapy." I don't know who told them what I do in my spare time, but... Seriously--while I've probably had a couple people suggest I need electro-shock therapy, I don't actually write about it, much less about any "enlargement time delays" resulting from using it. I'm starting to think people need to get out more. Step away from the computer...well, read this first...step away from the computer and get some sunshine and fresh air. Take a book. NOT one about toddler sports bras or electro-shock therapy. Or learn a new hobby. Like macrame. Apparently macrame is the hot topic of the current decade; I've gotten over 200 hits off of the term "macrame" alone, never mind the 150 or so from "macramé" (because that accented 'e' makes all the difference to the macrame elite in the world). And you haven't lived till you get hits in Cyrillic for "macrame." Who knew so many Soviets were into macrame? I guess one has to have something to do when one isn't trolling the web for pornographic hockey hit men who like to decorate houses.
I probably shouldn't be surprised by some of these hits, though; I know what goes through my warped mind on occasion, so I can hardly expect that other people are any less "colorful" in their searching needs. And they give me the occasional laugh, as I hope they do for you.
P.S. Now if I really wanted to keep this interesting, I'd offer up a dozen snickerdoodles to the person who creates the most entertaining sentence using no less than 5 of the search terms above...hmmmm...
Every once in a while I like to take a look at the stats page for my blog. Sometimes it's quite educational. For example, I am now being found by searches on Google India, Google UK, Google Australia and even Google Algeria, among others. I feel so international.
I've also graduated from being referred by Ukranian porn sites to being referred by a Ukranian website which appears to sell "Military weapons without a permit and documents." Well, I know I'm relieved to have made the jump from pornography to illicit gun sales. Phew! Near as I can tell, the website is based on some movie and subsequent Danish stealth game. Still, the website looks disturbingly real and were I so inclined, I could spend many happy hours filling my "cart" with assorted guns, gun parts, and live ammunition. I'm still trying to figure out what on earth I could have previously written that would garner me such attention in the Ukranian underworld. It's rather disconcerting, to say the least. Of course, I'm also getting hits from a place in Russia that sells modular cabinetry and office furniture, as well as Russian hockey webpage. Perhaps the Soviets think I'm luring people to my lair of modular furntiture with my wanton and scantily clad body, after which I bludgeon them with a hockey stick and stuff them into the Walnut Emill Wall Unit, with my trusty illicit Luger standing by in case of emergencies. And I thought I was overly dramatic...
When my blog isn't being discovered through searches by nefarious home-decorating Ukranians, it's being discovered by an inordinate number of people feeling the need to search for "bad ginger perms." Apparently my 1983 prom picture has become the definitive image for bad ginger perms. Don't get me wrong--I'm not saying it wasn't a bad perm or that I'm wasn't "ginger." On the contrary--my hair was poofy and poodley in the grandest of '80s traditions. What I can't fathom is why so many people are suddenly interested in finding images of red hairdos gone wrong. Is there some uprising of Disturbed Overreacting Independent Citizens Against Redheaded Egregiousness (DOICARE) about which I have not been informed? And, if so, why?? All this redheaded discrimination just reminds me of Tim Minchin's song about prejudice, called...Prejudice. (Be forewarned; some of the lyrics are not family-friendly. Of course, neither am I all of the time.)
Seriously--Gingers often get a bad rap, and for no good reason. Redheads are feisty and fiery and full of passion. Redheads are awesome and brilliant; Galileo, Thomas Jefferson, Mark Twain, Van Gogh, and James Joyce (good Irish lad) were all ginger. And because we are feisty, you don't want to mess with us--just ask Lizzie Borden, Oliver Cromwell Margaret Sanger and Queen Elizabeth I. Redheads are talented and entertaining, just like Reba McIntyre, Willie Nelson (apparently we also like country music), Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball. And if you think redheads can't be hot, all you have to do is read about Jamie Fraser from Diana Gabaldon's Outlander series. You'll be fantasizing about tall ginger Scots for months. Of course, the whole men in kilts things doesn't hurt.
DeviantArt's imagining of James Fraser.
Gabriel Aubry, with hair photo-shopped to red.
Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right. When I'm not getting hits for bad ginger perms or all things Russian, I also get some distinctly interesting keyword searches. One of my favorites was for "Duct Tape Messiah." I don't even want to try to figure that one out. Other recent searches have been for "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" and "laurie hugh - cannibal." Um, scuzemewhat?? In the first place, I wasn't aware that Hugh Laurie had ever been cannibalistic, and in the second place, trying to find a "d latch and a d flip-flop using magic layout tools" sounds like something I might try to find/accomplish while on some equally magic chemical substances. Some of the keyword searches make sense after I think about them for a while; at least I can see how my blog is getting pulled for them. Then I get stuff like this:
"Toddler sports bras?" Really?? What toddler needs a sports bra? That's just messed up. Also, "shirt woot ginger boobs??" Um...are we wooting for the ginger boobs in a shirt, or what, exactly? I know there is a company called Shirt Woot, but to my knowledge they've never had any shirts related to ginger boobs, nor have I written about that particular aspect of gingatude. Still, it makes for a colorful search term. "Bizarro Wuxtry" I get; that's a local comic book/music store. "Tressed" I also get; that would relate to my post about bad haircuts--and we're back to bad ginger perms. Then we get to "Enlargement time delay electric shock physiotherapy." I don't know who told them what I do in my spare time, but... Seriously--while I've probably had a couple people suggest I need electro-shock therapy, I don't actually write about it, much less about any "enlargement time delays" resulting from using it. I'm starting to think people need to get out more. Step away from the computer...well, read this first...step away from the computer and get some sunshine and fresh air. Take a book. NOT one about toddler sports bras or electro-shock therapy. Or learn a new hobby. Like macrame. Apparently macrame is the hot topic of the current decade; I've gotten over 200 hits off of the term "macrame" alone, never mind the 150 or so from "macramé" (because that accented 'e' makes all the difference to the macrame elite in the world). And you haven't lived till you get hits in Cyrillic for "macrame." Who knew so many Soviets were into macrame? I guess one has to have something to do when one isn't trolling the web for pornographic hockey hit men who like to decorate houses.
I probably shouldn't be surprised by some of these hits, though; I know what goes through my warped mind on occasion, so I can hardly expect that other people are any less "colorful" in their searching needs. And they give me the occasional laugh, as I hope they do for you.
P.S.
Now if I really wanted to keep this interesting, I'd offer up a dozen snickerdoodles to the person who creates the most entertaining sentence using no less than 5 of the search terms above...hmmmm...
Time has a way of sneaking up on people, whether they like it or not. This was proved over the weekend when the hubs turned the big "5-0" on Saturday, much against his will--even though I've spent months reminding him that he was going to be officially old this year. (I figured it would lessen the blow on his actual birthday by giving him a chance to get used to the idea. Repeatedly. I'm just helpful that way.) I'm sure he thought I was being mean, but he needs to realize it could have been much worse; he may have negated my original suggestion to flamingo the yard, but I was completely prepared to throw 50 of his computers (and yes, he almost certainly has that many and more if you include all the parts and not just the terminals) into the front yard and put up a great big sign that read "Another One Bytes The Dust." For some reason, he didn't find this idea as amusing as I did; I don't know why. He should just be grateful we moved because if we were still in Memphis I'd have thrown him a big Over-the-Hill party that would make a few of his precious computers in the yard seem positively idyllic. Lucky for him I'm inherently lazy, so I didn't throw any computers in the yard either.
And you thought I was kidding. This is only one side of the basement storage.
No one wants to get flocked on their 50th.
Mischief aside, after pondering what to get him for this auspicious occasion for at least a month or two, I finally decided that I wanted to get him one of those great big tool cabinet/chest things that all the serious mechanics and builders on TV have in their workspaces. The benefit of this is that he'd finally have an easily accessible place for all of his tools and, more to the point perhaps, stop complaining to me about not being able to clean up because he didn't have a place for his tools and he couldn't find what he needed, and so on and so forth. Getting him a big tool chest was a win-win as far as I was concerned. Still, like so many other things within my sphere of influence, things did not go quite according to plan.
First, I started my research. I figured if I was gonna spend significant money on one of those things, most of which are ridiculously over-priced, I wanted a decent one--no flimsy metal drawers that won't open or get off-kilter easily, no easily scratched paint, etc. Plus if he griped about the money, I could always tell him I'd only spent $10 for each year of his life. I eventually found a unit made by Homak that I really liked and in the price range I wanted to pay, but no one here in town carried it in stock. Shipping one directly to my house cost a minimum of $100, just for regular shipping. Expedited shipping was three times that. Naturally. I was willing to drive to Atlanta to pick up one of the chests, but no one there had it in stock either and ordering it would take 1-2 weeks I didn't have. I know I should have ordered sooner, but got distracted by my mom's funeral and waited to long to take care of it.
Since I wasn't going to be able to order it in time, I started looking at other brands and ultimately found something similar here in town at Harbor Freight Tools, though it was bright red instead of the pretty blue of the other unit I'd found. Still, I didn't figure the hubs would care; he is a guy, after all. Best of all, the unit I liked best was $200 off! Yay for me!! It was enough cheaper that I was even able to get another add-on drawer unit and pay for both for less than the one would have been originally with tax. Needless to say, I was rather pleased with myself--till we tried to load the mother into my van.
Big-boy Toy Chest
In order for you to truly appreciate this, you need to understand my vision. Wednesday night the hubs and I went to see Les Mis in Atlanta. I didn't want to buy anything before that because he would see it in my car. So I figured I would go and purchase the item on Thursday, after which I could just throw a blanket over the top of it so he wouldn't notice it when he came back from work that evening. On Friday the plan was to sort through and clear out all the rubbish in the garage, tidy everything up, then unload the tool chest and park it by the wall in front of his side of the garage. I was going to put 50 of something in each drawer--50 screws in one drawer, 50 Tootsie Rolls in one, 50 washers, 50 nails, 50 Milky Way fun bars, 50 pieces of gum...you get the idea. Then I'd have a giant bow on the front. When he'd get home from work that night, he'd pull in, flip out over the new and exciting tool chest, and reel with every drawer he opened at my cleverness in reminding him that he's freakin' FIFTY YEARS OLD. No one can ever say I lack a flair for the dramatic, however improbable or unrealistic it might be.
In real life, what happened is this: I pulled my van around back of the tool shop and opened the hatch. It occurred to me that I should probably have taken out one or two of my seats before going shopping (which of course I didn't), so I released one of the back seats and piled it on top of its neighboring seat. Piece of cake. The tool chest should slide right on in. Have I mentioned I lack spatial skills?? One guy comes out with the thing in a CRATE on a forklift. I took one look at it and thought to myself: "This does not bode well." The guy lowered it to the ground and proceeded to dismantle the crate. He then had to remove the unit from its box because there was no way it was going to get in the back of my van with all the cardboard and stryrofoam surrounding it. Next, Dude #1 calls to Dude #2 to help him lift the thing into the back of my van. Dude #1 gets back onto the forklift and hoists the chest (which weighs close to 300 lbs) up into the air, the idea being to try to get it as close to my car as possible. After some tricky maneuvering to get it close without ripping my back door off, the two dudes push and pull and grunt till the front end is in my van. Dude #2 then climbs over one of the middle seats (which I have folded down for him--where's a freaking Stow n Go when you need one?) so that he can pull the unit from the front while Dude #1 pushes from the back. This proved to be an even bigger challenge than first anticipated because the attached casters kept getting hung on one tine of the forklift.
Eventually the guys managed to clear the forklift, only to discover that they couldn't shove the chest up and over the last few inches of my car because the bumper angled the chest up enough that it got stuck on the ceiling. Lovely. I offered to shut the door with bungee cords since I didn't have far to go, till Dude #2 pointed out that if I hit any bumps the corner of the chest might shatter my back window. This was not helpful news. So the guys climbed out of my car and pulled the chest back out. I told them I could go home, deposit my seats, and come back, but by this point I think they were just determined to get me loaded up and out of their hair, or at least Dude #1 was. Dude #2 was much friendlier; he even told me he "wanted to come home with me" when he saw the lovely gift I was bringing home to someone. Shoulda told him it was for me...wouldn't that have dropped his jaw?? Instead I told him that if he came home to help me unload this beast, I'd make him any dinner he wanted. He liked the idea of a home-cooked meal (students are all the same), and we jokingly discussed menus.
That forklift driver was the BOMB.
We folded up the other middle seat, released the other back seat, and piled them all on top of each other. The guys then flipped the tool chest on its back on the forklift, again drove it towards the back of my van, and managed to manhandle the thing into the rear of my van, flat instead of upright. Dude #1 then shoved in the boxed extra drawer unit, made me sign a paper, and took off. Dude #2 let me have some of the styrofoam from the original box so that I could put it between the seat latches and the tool chest to keep it from getting scratched. I drove the load home, with the rear of my van noticeably riding lower than usual. Once home I looked at the load. Even with the main chest on its back, the boxed unit still filled my whole window and there was no way to disguise it from the hubs, much less unload the monster by myself.
Just minutes after I got home the hubs pulled up. I acquainted him with my glorious vision of how this was all supposed to go, then informed him that he had to help get the chest out of my car. I went next door to try to borrow my neighbor's muscles, but he wasn't home yet, so the hubs and I tried to unload the units ourselves. He managed to remove the box single-handedly, then got in the van to shift the main unit out while I braced it from behind. All in all, things went much more smoothly than I might have expected, and we were able to tip out the chest and slide it to the ground, after which I braced the wheels so we could flip it upright. A few minor scratches from the driveway and dings to the back courtesy of the Dudes later, and the hubs had his birthday present. A man of few words, still he salivated with glee at the thought of filling all the little drawers with his tools. Nerd. I told him we had to clean out the garage first, though, so there would be a place to put it, to which he happily agreed. I planned to spend Friday cleaning the garage, with which he could help when he got home, so he could spend all of his birthday playing with his new toy.
Instead, I woke Friday with cramping pain in my lower right abdomen. After spending some quality time with the bathroom, I assumed the pain would recede--but it didn't. I started to wonder if I'd regrown my appendix. I spent the entire day walking hunched over just like I did after my surgery and googling things like "What does a hernia feel like" and "gall bladder attacks" and "kidney stones." As if that weren't enough, my sinuses started kicking into gear, finally deciding that two weeks in a holding pattern was boring and they need to get on with torturing me. Not surprisingly, I didn't do squat in the garage.
When the hubs got home we did go out and work on cleaning it out, and by "we" I mean that "I" opened my van's sliding door and sat on the floor cleaning dust and scum off of stuff that's been sitting in the garage for 2 years while the hubs moved stuff around. Moving, albeit slowly, seemed to help a little, but it was still a rather uncomfortable few hours out in the hot garage.
Saturday morning, I showed the hubs this video to brighten his birthday morning:
Then I wished him a "Happy Uterus Liberation Day."
After lunch, the hubs went off to his nerd show antique computer group meeting and I hobbled through Lowe's to get a few more organizational devices for the garage. Afterwards I went to the local minor med and demanded to see my bestest bud, the FMD. I know you aren't supposed to ask for specific people at the minor med, but considering the entire waiting room was empty, I didn't figure they'd care all that much. Even so, they tried to palm me off on a nurse practitioner. I politely told her "no offense" (which I'm sure there was), but that I would really prefer to see FMD. Him I know, him I trust. Plus, he has a little more understanding of my recent ailments than the NP.
FMD came in and examined my abdomen, asking all the sorts of questions one might ask if they thought you were having kidney issues, all of which I was able to answer in the negative. After digging around and palpitating the tissue, he decided that if I did indeed have a hernia like the surgeon said after my appendectomy, it was still very small and more importantly wasn't strangulated. I was relieved to know I hadn't blown it out shifting the hub's birthday present. He told me he thought I'd probably just torn a few muscle fibers around the baby hernia, and they just stiffened overnight which is why they didn't hurt or feel pulled when we were unloading the tool chest, then he told me not to lift anything for a few days. FMD then had a look at my ears and throat, and while my sinusitis was not yet very advanced, he did say that I had fluid in one hear and my throat was starting to look funny, so I "definitely have something brewing." Then he gave me a prescription for some antibiotics to knock it out before I even have a chance to lose my voice. I love this man. He gave me something I've never used before, called "Omniflex," which just sounds like it ought to be a brand of workout machine at the local gym. I like it, though. My nose was running like a faucet all day Saturday, and after only one pill, the drainage stopped dead in its tracks. Can't beat that!
"Omniflex--Give Your Germs a Work-Out!"
Later after the hubs returned from his geekfest computer meeting, we finished cleaning out the garage (with me continuing to move slowly) and organizing what was left, then I swept the floor thoroughly.
The ladders are well-hung.
Acting sweepishly.
Telescopes and extension cords always go together, no?
The birthday present in its new home.
Afterwards we were both pretty tired and sweaty, so rather than go out for a birthday meal like usual, we ordered in pizza ("Well, it is my birthday...") and vegged out. I made a chocolate birthday cake with mint icing, which I decorated with a lame scythe out of green sugar because I was too tired and lazy to mix up decorator's icing and draw a grim reaper on the cake.
Yeah, I know...cake decorating fail.
Sunday afternoon the hubs finally got to go out and play with his new toy, loading all the filthy and disgusting tools from his boxes in the basement into his new tool chest. So much for making him clean everything in the garage before putting it away; I guess he didn't think his tools were included in the cleanliness edict. The drawers still need to be labeled, and he could do a better job consolidating some of the drawers so they aren't all either stuffed to the gills or half empty, but it's a start. I suppose not everyone can be gifted with organizational OCD like me. More's the pity.
Playing in his drawers
And that is the story of the epic birthday present that was epic for entirely unexpected reasons. I just hope the hubs enjoys using his present after all that. He'd better...if not, I can still pitch his computers in the front yard--at least once my groin pull heals.
