Dropping The Hammer. Literally.

Sigh.  So this is how my Friday ended.

car 2

I told you.  I told you that I’m a terrible person and I 100% deserve all these car issues because I let Murphy ruin Daniel’s shoes. For the record, Murphy ruined a pair of my own, too, when he did his business in the garage and I stepped in it in the dark one morning and fell down.  I hate that cat.

I wrote you a whole post about how my car croaked and how I got a new battery and everything was hunky dory except that was a whole post of misinformation.  Right after I got my new battery and the assurance that all was fine, my car wouldn’t start.  That non-starter began a long and drawn out saga titled “Drama: Jimmie’s Car”.

Car 1

Over the last few months, I used up a large percentage of my messaging allowance sending pictures of this nature to Pee-tah and asking “What is wrong with it?! It won’t start!”  Pee-tah responded with a diagnosis of “bad connection” and a prescription of “wiggle the cables around until the connection is good and it starts.”  This worked for a time, and I learned that carrying a lot of paper towels in my car was a good idea as my hands began to resemble those of auto mechanics from all the wiggling of cables.

After that no longer worked, Advanced Auto Parts made a diagnosis of “needs a shim” and prescribed “place new shim on terminal and whack down with a wrench.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that whacking my battery terminals with a heavy object was an effective way to start a vehicle.

When that began to fail, Slim made a diagnosis of “loose cables” and prescribed “tightening everything, so much so that no one can get the bolts off ever again.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that Slim is really very cute when he works on my car.

After some time, Daddy-O and Coach had to make the diagnosis of “needs new battery cables and shims altogether” and prescribed “buying new ones at Auto Zone.”  They also prescribed “using a Dremmel tool to loosen up those nuts and bolts that Slim so faithfully tightened on.”  This also worked for a time, and I learned that nothing is more comforting to me than having my Daddy-O work on my car.

Meineke had to then rescue me and made the diagnosis of “loose cables, again” and prescribed “Jimmie, I say this with love – please never get under the hood of your car, ever.  The metal you have been whacking on with a hammer is so mangled we cannot recognize it.”  This worked for a time, and since Meineke charged me nothing for that visit, I deducted that they are honest and forthright.  They will always receive my business.

Meineke had to rescue me a second time and made another the diagnosis of “new shim did not properly crush onto terminal” and prescribed “remove shim and tighten mercilessly.”  They also prescribed “here’s some tissues, please stop crying.” This worked for a time until the next time my car wouldn’t start, yet I still will give my business to Meineke as they are honest and forthright.

All of this brought me to Friday.  I’d like to note a few things here, some things I learned through this process.

  • There’s a reason why auto mechanics always have grease-stained hands.  That stuff does not come off.
  • Having grease-stained hands is not a good look for me.
  • Men (numerous men, men with mechanic uniforms on, men who make eye contact and then look immediately away, men who speed up to rush past you when moments before they were merely strolling, men with nothing better to do but sit on the curb and smoke) who see a woman banging around under the hood of her car with a hammer will not stop and help her unless they work at Jersey Mike’s in Madison, Tennessee.  Chivalry is dead. Except in Madison, Tennessee.
  • Repeatedly banging on your battery terminal with a hammer will give Slim apoplexy. It’s probably wise to not tell Slim everything.
  • Having a vehicle that repeatedly won’t start will make me miss a visit to Woney’s house when Squash and Nurse Bananahammock are there, and I will get sulky.
  • My new boss is really nice.  I know this because she had to rescue me from the Publix parking lot where I went to get cold medicine and cough drops on my lunch break. My humiliation at having to ask for that rescue after being employed for only three weeks was lessened ever so slightly by her niceness.

I’ve put the hammer away.  I’m out of paper towels.  I now have calluses on my hands from all the mechanic work I’ve done.  I know more about this car than I ever wanted to know, and it does not fill me with joy that I know it.  It’s a marvelous thing that I am independently wealthy and also made of money because my car is now scheduled for a diagnostic session to determine why it intermittently won’t start and a catalytic converter repair, left over from last year’s separate car saga titled “Drama: Jimmie’s Car Falls Spectacularly Apart”.

You want to know the part that really ticks me off?  I’ve been stranded numerous times lately with this car, in parking lots and at gas stations, and in not a single instance was I doing something fun.  I bought no new shoes.  I was not making out with Dwayne Johnson in some swanky hotel.  I wasn’t even making out with Slim!  I wasn’t eating chocolate.  I was doing boring stuff like buying gasoline and cough drops.  Huff.  How annoying.

Please send money.

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I Can’t Think Of A Clever Title

You guys remember Dammit Todd, right?  Unfortunately I have not had the opportunity to bake him any cookies, nor has he eaten four pounds of anything in one sitting in recent history so I’ve got no big stories to tell about him.  A long while ago he had a girlfriend that I really wanted to meet because, you know, it was Dammit Todd’s girlfriend.  I had planned on writing about her, but that meeting never materialized before they broke up in a non-dramatic fashion.  Until lately, he has given me squat with which to work.

You know, I can never rest when my friends are single and they don’t particularly want to be, thus I am always on the lookout for excellent partners for all my nice people.  I get that some of them are happy in their singlehood – they can trust me to not foist unwanted hot men and women on them because I respect boundaries (sort of) – and unless I find the most perfect person for them, the person they just must absolutely meet, I leave them in their joyous state of singleton.  I have had some success playing matchmaker for those who allow me.  One couple is even married and now has a kid.  And Dammit Todd, I’m proud to say, has the loveliest of new girlfriends because I introduced them.  (Yes, I know he did all the work and she was fetching, yet I will take full credit for this relationship because this is MY BLOG.  NOT THEIRS.)

I think Dammit Todd was one who was quite happy in his bachelor-hood, he is a hottie after all, but I don’t always respect boundaries (see above), and when I went to Florida last year to meet a bunch of strangers for some mini golf and some tasty beverages, we got a temp to cover my job for the week. She was eventually hired for a permanent position, and we were thrilled.  I realized right away that she was very pretty, athletic, tall and funny and sweet and all that good stuff but it took me a hot minute to realize that Dammit Todd might like to meet her.  I knew she wanted to meet him, because, you know, it’s Dammit Todd.  One movie night for the three of us (Wolverine!) and while they were talking in the front seat of the car after the movie, I slipped out of the back seat and that was all she wrote.  Happy couple.

Aren't they pretty? Dammit Todd is the one on the left.

Aren’t they pretty?
Dammit Todd is the one on the left.

I told you all that to say that her name is Ashley and if you read any of the comments from my last post, you will realize that she is the winner of my giveaway!  (Uh, Martie?  Perhaps we should decide on a prize.)  She was the first to guess Slim. Oh, for those of you who didn’t follow the post all the way through the comments and are still waiting on pins and needles, desperate to know who my romantic interest is – it’s Slim.  Probably the day he came over and trimmed all my hedges back was the day things changed for me only it took me four long months to see it because while I am excellent at finding lovely people for all my friends, I suck at it for me.

You know, funny story, when I first met Slim, I grilled him specifically on his situation so that I could play matchmaker for him should the opportunity ever present itself.  HAHAHAHAHAHA-HAAAAA!  I’m a moron.

I realize in typing all of this that I’ve really got such a fantastic group of friends.  And I also realize in typing all of this that a large chunk of my friends I met through a job.  When I left my last company, the one that was sold, Daisy asked me, her eyes big and potentially a little extra damp, “You’ll move on, won’t you, and find new work friends and forget about me?”

I was shocked!  That would never happen!  I said rather passionately, “Daisy!  You know I met Pee-tah at work, don’t you?  And Lynnette.  And Dammit Todd.  And Freddie, Felix, Kindle, and Bootsie.  I take my people with me, no matter where I go.  You are no different.”  As if.

I’m pretty proud of my friends.  I’m certainly fortunate in employment and social life.  I mean, I met Katniss at work.  Every time I tell the story of when she fell down face first in the elevator, spilling an entire Coke all over her clean clothes, all of this done in front of a fully functioning security camera, I laugh until my stomach hurts.

I met MJ-Love at work.  She’s a tiny, elegant little thing but she’s scrappy, as evidenced by the time we attended a silent auction fundraiser and she bolted across the room, tossing her wine glass to the side, shoving people out of her path to outbid someone on a signed Beatles album cover, which she won by the way, and presented to her husband much to his delight.

And this girl.  I met this girl at work.  That is cheese dip.  In a bowl.  She is drinking cheese dip from a bowl and she weighs about 98 pounds and I hate her.

image 1

Yes, I’ve moved on to a new job.  I’ve moved on to new work-people and while no one yet has decided to be my bff, one day someone will.  One day someone at my new job will do something so embarrassing and so funny that I will share it with all of you here on my blog and then we will be fast friends for life.  That doesn’t mean I forget about my old friends, though.  I’ll still write all of our humiliating stories for your enjoyment and take you with me everywhere I go. That’s a heartfelt promise.

I’m such a nice person.

It’s Not Complicated (At Least Not Anymore)

I have news. If I were that kind of girl, I’d have announced it on Facebook by changing my status from “single” to “in a relationship” and then added a bunch of hearts and exclamation points and smiley faces.  I’m not that kind of girl but can I get a “Hell, Yeah!” anyway?

This has been a long time coming.  I missed a lot of signs, it seems, because I don’t understand it when someone likes me just for me.  Everyone else saw it and told me all about it but again, I’m a little slow on the uptake.  Apparently he is too, because we’ve walked around for the last five months claiming we are “just friends”, even as we snuggled up on my floor in front of the Christmas tree lights.  You couldn’t get paper between us, we were so close, yet we called it “fellowshipping” and “listening to Christmas music”.  (Lest you leer at me with an <eyebrow waggle> over the “snuggling”, “fellowshipping” or “listening to Christmas music”, please remember that my Daddy-O reads this blog.  Pervs.)

In the time it took us to get from “you are a nice person” to “making out with you sounds like a great idea” we spent a lot of time hanging out and getting to know each other – always ideal.  I should have known something was up, though, because every time we left each other, I felt lost and confused yet hopeful.  And when we did finally talk about whatever this was becoming over the last month or so, I left every conversation with an answer that was clear as mud.  This was not an easy road.

However, the bridge has been crossed, the path determined, the fork . . . . what exactly do you call it when you decide which way to go at the fork?  I’d like to now tell you about him and how he wooed me.  Truth is, you already know him. I’ve written about him. Why don’t I run down the list and let you see if you can guess.

  1. He is taller than me. (Yay!)
  2. He does not have a stupid name.  (I prolly won’t tell it, either way.)
  3. He does not live with his mother.  (Have mercy, what a relief.)
  4. His heart beats for God. (Hallelujah!)
  5. NASCAR has never been on his list of fun things to support.  (<heavy, relieved sigh>)
  6. He has lovely hands and teeth.  (I’m a sucker for lovely hands and teeth.)
  7. More than once I’ve found him washing dishes in my kitchen, towel draped over his shoulder and suds up to his elbows.  (As an aside here, men, I’d like to give a word of advice.  Women almost never, ever find it sexy when you send naked junk pictures to our phones, nor when you describe in detail what you would like to do with that junk.  We do, however, find it incredibly sexy to find you sweeping the floor without being bribed or asked.  A man with a broom in his hand? MEOW!)
  8. He told me that he likes my big hair, that he likes my talking and that he likes it when I’m sort of loud and bossy. (I don’t get it either . . . )
  9. He bought me flowers and a candle and stuffed donkey.  (A donkey!)
  10. He’s as nice to me as Pee-tah is.  (For those of you wondering if Pee-tah was the one, if he made the switch, please know that as awesome as I am and fabulous as we are together, he is and will always remain Not Interested In Women.)

An extra bonus:  Madre and Martie like him. As do Pooh and Tigger.  (Crucial bit of acceptance.)

Any guesses?  First one to get it right gets a prize.  Wait, first one who didn’t already know the answer gets a prize.  Martie is going to help me pick it out because she’s good at that sort of thing and I’ll either mail it to you (if you are a stranger) or deliver it to you over lunch (if you aren’t).  And then we will gush over this new relationship of mine that I’ve waited eons for and I’ll tell you all my stories.  Then we can gush over whatever stories you want to tell me in return.

Also, in conclusion:  Hell, Yeah!