So I rushed right home to tell you about it instead

I have always driven the sort of car that required frequent mechanical attention. The kind of car that would be able to unironically sport the bumper sticker "At least it's paid for!"


As a result, while I am not mechanically inclined (because that would render my boobs almost useless), I am at least not illiterate in the ways of cars. I can check and add air, fill the oil and the coolant and even check the transmission fluid with out requiring a lie down when I'm done.


So this afternoon, as I was filling up my tank with delicious $2.89 a gallon gas, I thought I'd do a bit of routine fluid checking.


Sure enough the Juice was low on oil and transmission fluid. Now, because I'm a self sufficient kind of girl, I had both fluids in the cargo area. I retrieve them, find something to stand on (because I can't reach), open the oil, insert the funnel and top her off. No biggie. I'm feeling very smug and modern as I head over to the other side of the engine compartment to top off the tranny fluid.

Now, here's the problem, the transmission fluid is filled through a wee tiny spout way at the bottom of the engine. And my truck is tall. And I am not. But I am clever, so I climb up and stand on the tire. I can now both see and reach what I'm doing. I am not, however, very stable.

I have no problem inserting the tubey-thingy from the funnel, but it doesn't stay in unless you hold it, so balancing precariously, in flip-flops, on the tire, using my boobs for balance, I hang onto the funnel with one hand and unscrew the lid of the fluid with the other. With the sort of one handed skill that only comes from years of opening condom wrappers one handed, I remove the lid and slide my hand down the bottle to get a better grip.

Only, the bottle is warm.

And pliable.

And a little slippery.

As it starts to slide from my hand, I clamp down.

In slow motion transmission fluid erupts like a fountain. All over the engine, all over the hood and all over my arm.

AWESOME.

So there I am, ass in the air, half inside the engine compartment, one arm dripping red and the other perilously close to being severed by moving parts. Defeated, I put down the bottle and hop down.

Now, do you think any of the fifty men at the station come to my assistance? No, they do not. Having no time and lacking the Spanish skills to rant loudly about the lack of chivalry, I decide the most prudent thing to do is clean up. But the towel dispenser is empty. And I have no napkins in the glove box. No tissues in my purse. No too small tee shirt in the trunk. No junk mail even.

Nothing but a package of panty liners. Fresh scented, even. Awesome. Really, though, what are my options? Drive home with an arm looking like a prop from a low budget slasher movie or bite the bullet and give myself a once over with individually wrapped lady diapers?

I only wish I had a camera, so that you could have seen the look on the face of the guy next to me as I discarded 12 bright red feminine hygiene products into the communal trash.

Mars and Venus, Indeed.

There are incalculable numbers of differences between men and women. Chief among them has got to be a man’s ability to do nothing, literally *nothing* productive, for hours or even days at a time.

I’m not sure if it’s because of how they were raised or if it’s something to do with having a penis, but the fact of the matter is boys are infinitely better at fucking off than girls.

Truth be told, it pisses me the fuck off. How in the hell do they manage it?

Take this weekend, for example.

J comes home from work about five. I’m watching something on TiVo. Something specifically for people with vaginas. Something I have looked forward to watching for a couple of days at least. After pointing out that he thought my show was “crap” he stripped off his shirt and jacked the remote from me.

“Let’s go to dinner and then I need to pick some stuff up to change the oil on the truck” he tells me.

Now, any time I can get out of cooking, I’m ALL FOR IT. I HATE to cook. I acquiesce and inquire where he wants to eat. He claims he doesn’t care, but I can tell he’s not listening to me, he’s watching highlights on CNN and ranting about politics. So while he is doing nothing, I am straightening the living room.

We go to dinner, hit up Wallyworld and head home. It’s now 9pm or so. He heads to the bedroom to check his email. I do the dishes.

He emerges in work clothes and I head out to “help” change the oil. (I say “help” because my job is to step n’ fetch things like sockets and towels and whatever.) Half hour of sweating through our clothes later, we’re back in the house. He watches TV, I comb the dogs.

Saturday morning, he’s up at 3am to go hunting. By 3:30 the dogs are up and running about, so I’m up too. I finish a novel and figure, “what the heck! I’m up!” so I vacuum the whole house, dust, shampoo the carpets and clean the bathrooms.

He’s back home by 10:30, eats some lunch and takes a nap. I throw in a load of throw rugs and nap myself for an hour.

Back up at lunch time, he’s on the couch, I’m mopping the kitchen. Then it’s grocery store time and after that I finally shower. J continues to perfect his impression of a log.

Clothes changed, I head to the gas station and the drug store then make him a quick dinner before heading to a friends house for dinner and an excellent night of hanging out. Back home at midnight, I’m asleep by one.

Sunday morning, I’m up at 9:30, I toss in a load of darks and clean out the fridge. Then, because I’m starving, I make WAM (waffles and ham, for those not in the know) and fold some laundry. More washing in and out, and I’m straightening the book shelves.

Then, I remember I need a belt for a dress I bought, so into the shower and off to the mall. Being a good wife, I stop at the boy store and pick him up some manly things and then some lunch before home again to take a quick nap and do some more laundry.

Dinner on the stove and served, dessert made and issued, kitchen cleaned back up, trash to the curb, laundry hung up or folded and I sit down to read a book for a bit and out with the lights by 10:30 once I’ve gotten caught up on the world’s events.

Up this morning and to work a half hour early while J sleeps in before working second shift.

Sign into email, get caught up and responded and Eric IM’s me to ask what I did over the weekend. You know what I said?

“Lazed around doing nothing”!!!

AM I FUCKING RETARDED?

What part of the above sounded like lazing around?

Now, having been an English Lit major in college, you think I would have at least a marginal grasp of the English language. AND YET. And yet, I think that enough manual labor to wear out a team of maids is LAZING ABOUT?

I clearly need help peeps. Serious help. Or at the very least a glass of whiskey.

I know Victoria's Secret

Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.

But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.

And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.

Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.

The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.

I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.

The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.

Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.

So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.

Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.

I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)

Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?

Seems dangerous.

And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.

And I? I am not that brave.

I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.

There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.

Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.

Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.

I soldier on.

Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.

I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.

Oooh! I am so excited!

No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.

First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.

Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)

I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.

Oh, but then.

You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.

I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.

And where are my precious lacy-bits?

UP MY DAMN ASS.

That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.

Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?

Right.

Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.

By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.

At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.

Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.

I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.

So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.

Heavy Machinery Warning

Since the Big Truck is at the doctor, J has the Juice. Which means I have no ride.

Since my lunch date (who I will not name, but who is DEAD TO ME and whom I've TOTALLY BROKEN UP WITH) ditched me, I was forced to scrounge for lunch. Those of you who have been to my house can attest to the fact that I do not believe in grocery shopping more than 2 or three days in advance. This is good, because at least you know the food that's in there is fresh (and by food, I mean BEER and ICE CREAM). This is bad because when you're hungry? You're screwed. Unless you want to eat pickles and butter with marachino cherries and a duab of whipped cream.

Therefore, I almost never bring my lunch. This morning, though, I was starving so I grabbed a Lunchables from the fridge on my way to catch my ride from the Gestating Mrs. Smooth.

Since she's knocked up, she's pretty much always starving. Which is awesome. So we swung through one of the local dive taco shops and hooked it up with some big fat burritos.

Good thing to, since as I mentioned two paragraphs ago, SOMEONE WHO IS DEAD TO ME AND READS THIS BLOG FROM HIS GRAVE opted to have lunch with his mom instead and I was forced to eat my Lunchables for lunch.

Because I'm five.

Actually, I kid. I like Lunchables. Add some"meat" and the "cheese" smack it on a little cracker and squeeze on some mustard. Yum. I love mustard. I put it on everything.

But the thing about the mustard in the Lunchables? It's dangerous. And explosive. And should not be operated by people under the influnence of medication.


Or um. Me.

In addition to the mustard all over the "lunch"? All over my arm. My boobs. My desk.

You know what?

Ate it anyway.

Jersey Style

So those of you that have been with me for years remember the debacle of moving the Buttlickers two years ago. Because how could you not? But I've noticed a lot of new traffic here (Hi! Um, sorry about my bad language. And the goat balls. And um, sucking) so I'll catch you up...

2006 - This was the height of the housing boom here in the Desert and EVERYONE was buying new, giant, custom, overpriced houses. Well, everyone but us, because we love the ghetto and you know, being able to pay our mortgage AND eat. But my husbands friends, the Buttlickers, were seduced by an 80/20 ARM loan on a $400,000 semi custom house. Across the street from a dairy farm. I think they probably had to pay extra for the ambiance of cow ass. They decide to move on a day that registered 112* in the shade. But we're nice people (read: SUCKERS) so we show up to help them move. With our truck. And our trailer. And our hand-truck. And tape, boxes, drinks, tie downs and a babysitter for their children. (yeah, I KNOW). And guess what? THEY HAD NOT PACKED ONE SINGLE BOX. Okay, that may be an exaggeration. There were some boxes that were packed. From their last move. There were four trucks there though, complete with two or more movers each. That's what friends do, right? So as we pack them, the wife leaves. LEAVES. Leaves the kids, the house, all their friends and goes to Home Depot to buy paint for the new house. AND DOES NOT COME BACK. (Why, yes, I DO carry a grudge for ages!) Seven hours and two tanks for diesel fuel later (that I paid for), we break for lunch. That we pay for ourselves. Seven more hours and we go home, exhausted and vow to never, ever move them again.

2008 - They haven't paid their mortgage since last summer. Because he has lost five jobs in less than a year and has found himself to be unemployable in an industry he's worked in for 20 years. Their mortgage has reset bringing the monthly payments to the sum of twice their income. The house goes to auction and they have to move again. Guess who they call? Right. Guess who are the only people to show up? I'll give you a hint, they're suckers. So there we are, the only people they know (including their families!) who show up. I don't say this to pat myself on the back for being a good friend, I say this because I am clearly lacking in some mental capacity. I KNOW they are not fully packed because they TOLD me they weren't. Again. Yet there we are, with truck, trailor, cart, baby-sitter, drinks (they had nothing but tepid tap water - and two cups). Jersey Smooth showed up about a half hour after us and Dr. Hotstuff came by about an hour after that, so we set to moving. And you know what? I was glad I showed up. Their house was so filthy it made me feel much better about my own. (Shut up. I know I'm a bad person. Believe me, I KNOW)

The move was pretty uneventful, except for the screaming match. And their kids hitting each other with sticks and screaming so loud my uterus shriveled up. And Mr. BL almost rolling the truck. And the fact it was over 100*. And spending $50 on Gaterade, ice, bottled water & popsicles. And the second screaming match. And the third screaming match.

We did get all the furniture and packed boxes moved on Saturday, so we didn't feel at all bad about telling them they were on their own on Sunday. Then Mr. BL, knowing our house is 30 years old and a spec house at that, says Hey! Do you guys want new bathroom fixtures? Or some ceiling fans? Because we paid for all these upgrades and we're taking them with us. Right. They're taking the FIXTURES with them. Now you're probably saying, what kind of person moves out and takes the toilets. But me? I'm saying, SCORE! Because my toilets? They SUCK. One doesn't always flush and one flushes sometimes, but then leaks water from the tank and makes an annoying sucksucksucksuck noise and then flushes itself. Despite 6 replacements of it's hardware. So me? I promise Jersey Smooth some pizza and rootbeer (because a. He's a cheap worker and b. he used to be an actual licensed plumber) if he'll steal me the toilets.

Which is how we wound up back there on Sunday at lunch time. Where guess what? They had not moved one single thing. They had however managed to convice Dirty DEA and his lovely bride to drive 100 miles to come and help. And where was Mrs. BL? At the new house. Taking a nap. So we stole the toilets and left.

No, we didn't really. We stole the toilets, the ceiling fans, the faucets and the light fixtures and then helped pack the rest of the stuff (crammed in trash bags) into the truck. While making fun of their collection of breast pumps and thousands of dirty socks stashed in every nook and cranny of the house.

Then we went home and changed our phone numbers. Because I may be a slow learner, but I do learn.