Operation Oil Change

Today’s mission was to get an oil change. Brantley (current husband) usually does it himself, but over the last few days he noticed my car was leaking oil. Instead of investigating the leak himself he told me to take it somewhere and have the oil changed.

I pulled into the Valvoline express and went through the vaguely familiar process of Back up. No. Pull forward, again. Stop. Cut your wheels slightly to the right. Too far! Reverse. Ok, stop. I said stop!

An employee named Michael approaches my car and the following ensued.

“Pop your hood, please.”

“I did. It’s popped.”

“No, Ma’am. It isn’t. There should be a lever below the steering column somewhere.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with levers. In fact, if you’ll lift up on the hood a bit you’ll find that there’s one under there. It can be hard to find, but sometimes you gotta just give it hell and…”

“Yes Ma’am, I too am familiar with levers, but I believe you popped your trunk by mistake because it’s now open.”

“Oh! So it is. Alright. Give me one second. Aaand got it.”

“That was your fuel door.”

“You know what?” I grab the handle and open the door. “Let me just get out and find it. It’s so dark in here.”

Michael, grabs my door keeping me from opening it. “Ma’am, for your safety we ask that you stay in your vehicle.”

“Ohhhhhh-kay. I’m guessing you’re not going to be putting fuel in my car today, are you?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“Then would you mind closing my fuel door AND THE TRUNK while you’re back there since I can’t get out of my car and do it myself.”

“Sure. First, let me just reach in your window here and…”

Of course, he immediately finds the appropriate lever and the air traffic controller who waved me in earlier gets to work under the hood. I hand Michael a coupon that I brought with me, but he proceeds to tell me that the coupon doesn’t apply to cars requiring full synthetic oil. Clearly, at this point he thinks he has the upper hand until I respond with, “I don’t care. I prefer full synthetic. None of that organic crap for my car. No thank you.”

The air traffic controller woman begins barking a series of commands for me to perform as little beads of sweat start to form on my upper lip.

Step on the brakes. Flash your headlights. Put your right hip in. Put your right hip out. Turn on your left blinker.

At this point, Michael who was making his way back to my window shields his face as he is sprayed with windshield washer fluid. I own up to it.

“My bad. That was my fault. I was looking for my blinker. Do me a favor and please tell that woman that my blinkers are fine and that she can stop.”

He is happy to oblige my request. Then he says, “It looks like your car has been leaking oil because whoever changed it last put this in upside down.” He shows me something round and demonstrates the act of turning it upside down in the proper fashion.

I immediately burst into laughter. “That’s so great. My husband did that. What’s that contraption called so I can make fun of him? I have to write it down. O-ring, you say? Got it. He’s so sweet and stupid.”

Operation Oil Change

 

 

HAIKU DAY!

It’s April 17th which can only mean one thing- Haiku Day!!

Throw some wasabi into the air and celebrate with me. You won’t regret it at all.

Now, it’s time to get your culture on, fools!

Haiku Day

The Hell Is Wrong With You, Electric Company?

Electric Company

Maybe it’s the awesome weather we’re having. Maybe it’s the eleventy-millionth day of school being closed due to snow. Maybe it’s because I have a fever- the kind you can measure with an actual thermometer AND the Here’s Johnny! Jack Nicholson kind. Or maybe, just maybe it’s because I’m chemically unstable. Whatever the reason, I am taking off my gloves and I’m dropping the heavy hammer of  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

As some sort of reward for bull-shittery my son came home from kindergarten yesterday with a baby tree courtesy of the MIddle Tennessee Electric Company. Strong work, electric company! Not only did you send home a tree for me to plant amidst the ice and snow-pocalypse, but you sent home the very thing that you lay slaughter to every year!!! What a concept!

We all know that once this tree gets as tall as I am that you will swoop in with your hard hats and chain saws to butcher its limbs off. Hey, I know!. Why don’t you just have my kid name a goldfish, then make us all stand in the bathroom as you flush Nemo down the fucking commode!!

Do any of your department heads talk to each other? Because I really feel like this was the product of some idiot savant in the PR department who didn’t bother to run the idea by anyone else, much less focus group it. I’d love to talk more about this matter, but you see I have a tree to kill, dreams to shatter, and time’s a waisting. Thanks again, butt holes.

Sincerely,

Stable Mom- 35

Forgive and Forget with Brian Williams

Brian Williams

All aboard the I Hate Brian Williams Express to Judgement Village, population: shut your damn mouths.

That’s right. I said it.

Remember the saying “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones?” Well, keep that in mind before you go picking apart every word Brian Williams has reported since the beginning of time, as well as his citizenship. Damn birthers. We ALL live in glass houses. Brian Williams is just the most recent celebrity to have his reduced to rubble. Do you know what it’s like to walk on broken glass? I don’t either, but I have been camping before and I can tell you that it was terrible. Absolutely terrible. The pain he is experiencing right now is unimaginable, unless you have a REALLY creative imagination like Brian Williams.

Journalism is a thankless job in a cut-throat industry with an audience that takes no prisoners. Trust me when I say that no one was there to wipe my brow and hand me a cookie when in November 2014 I singlehandedly blew apart the hiking industry for being the giant scam that it is. Do you think those graphics created themselves? Hell no they didn’t! I spent two hours photoshopping high heels on monkeys, dammit. That was admirable as hell, but I digress.

Did Brian Williams lie to the American people? Not really. He just sprinkled a little sugar on top of his story the same way his Mama used to on his cornflakes.

Instead of shaming Brian Williams for his faults perhaps we should show some concern for his memory loss. I personally experienced a bout of memory loss after a 2012 crafting incident involving a few cans of spray paint and some crazy glue. Sure, I looked fine on the outside- in fact I looked great, but I couldn’t remember my kid’s name for days. Has anyone stopped to think that his memory problems just might be due to head trauma he received in 2003 when the Chinook helicopter he was riding in… Oh, I see what you’re saying.

Well, damn.

Five Things I Hate Hearing

Five Things I Hate Hearing

There are a considerable number of phrases that cause me to cringe a little, but some are worse than others. Here are the top five things I hate hearing.

  1. When the word “seen” is spoken without being preceded by “have.” (e.g. I know she done killt that rooster because I seen it with my good eye.)
  2. “It’s a God thing.” This particular phrase is used to describe anything good that has happened to any person at any time. I find it most reprehensible when said with a southern drawl. (e.g. After not holding nothing down for a week, Sissy drank a whole Mountain Dew. It’s a God thang.)
  3. “Can you do me a favor?” I probably can and I probably won’t. That’s what you get for using a poor, vague proposition.
  4. “Now, that’s where you’re wrong.” FALSE. I’ve been wrong for years. If you’re just now noticing, then that’s your bad. And just in case you’re wondering, nope- I still don’t care.
  5. Unsolicited parenting advice. This is particularly hard to swallow when spoken from the mouth of stranger, or anyone without kids of their own. (e.g. It’s been forty years since mine were that age, but I spend a lot of time volunteering in children’s church and I tell you. You’re going about it all wrong.)

It’s pretty apparent that the older I get, the less I’m able to tolerate. However, I’m not the only one experiencing intolerance with aging. So spill it. I want to hear what grinds your gears? What phrases, cliches, or otherwise annoying activities make you cringe? There are no wrong answers. Go!

Holiday Card 2014! The Big Reveal

After last year’s epic holiday card, I was under a lot of pressure to come up with something of equal, or better value. It was put up, or shut up time.

However, due to several first-world problems I was unable to get the Wescott family holiday card created and mailed in a timely manner. Instead, I’m sending it to everyone on the interwebs, not to mention saving eleventy-hundred dollars on postage.

From everyone here at Loripalooza (aka me and my dog, Baxter who is currently just lying on the sofa and licking the spot where his balls used to be) want to wish you and your loved ones a happy EVERYTHING this holiday season.

LET THE FIGGY PUDDING COMMENCE!

Holiday Card 2014

 

Holiday Card 2014

 

The Hiking Industry & the Dummies Who Fell For It

Hiking History

There are several things that really chap my ass, but being such a soft-spoken, girl-next-door type, I usually hold my tongue (see Stupid Suburban Problems and Moms Against Sexy Faces). However, most likely due to my menstrual cycle I have absolutely had it with hiking.

For centuries Homo sapiens have participated in this activity without need for fancy weatherproof boots, or collapsible, aluminum trekking poles. You know what they called it? They called it fucking walking! And they didn’t even brag about it.

So how did this multi-million dollar industry get started?

I’m glad you asked.

It began as a typical Tuesday in the early 1900’s when a third floor building that housed the headquarters for Millican’s Mustache Wax, Inc. encountered an elevator problem. Maintenance was called and it was estimated that the elevator could be out of operation for up to an hour.

Twelve men wearing suits and wingtip shoes took the stairs and ascended to the third floor on foot for the first time. As they rubbed their weary feet and scratched their heads being careful not to muss their heavily waxed coifs, one of them had a brilliant idea.

You know that thing we just did that poor people do all the time? Let’s make it into a sport. We could sell special shoes and make a fortune!

Mr. Merrell, the obese, mouth-breathing CFO having just walked in the door because he actually waited on the elevator to be fixed, chimed in. “Well, I could never do that. Not without a cane, or a backpack full of snacks.”

And that is how hiking came to be. As fortune would have it, Theodore Roosevelt would soon be gallivanting all over the country declaring National Parks everywhere he turned. This only served to reinforce the concept of walking with canes, special shoes and of course, snacks.

Call it a sport if you want to, but find me a pain-clinic patient with an appointment on the other side of town and a car that won’t start and I’ll show you the most extreme hiking you’ve ever seen. No shoes required.

All this typing has made me hungry. I think I’ll hike downstairs and make myself a snack.

Happy Birthday, Baxter!

Baxter turned ten-years-old yesterday and he insisted on making it a big to do.

Now, I’m not one to judge, but I think he let things get out of hand. I made the decision to shut it down after one of the neighbors called the cops. He was clearly angry at me and yelled something about me not being his real Mom before passing out on the couch.

I came right out and this morning and asked him about the three-legged labradoodle I saw him hitting on before the cops showed up. She wasn’t even wearing a collar. Skank.

I’m not sure how much he will remember from last night, but I hope his memories are fond ones. You do only turn ten once.

Baxter's Birthday