Oy!

This scares me.

Whistling Does Not Help Me

So my poor Ghetto Bug has been having some issues. Some of these issues require time at the shop with payment coming in the form of one of my vital organs and some only require some minor tweaks on my end and I get to keep my liver which is important to me given how much I drink. Tonight I had to do some tweaking.

Sometimes the Ghetto Bug makes a clicking noise and that means it needs some oil. I have to state here in my defense that I am diligent about replacing the oil every three months. I am all about keeping up on regular maintenance. However, the past year, the Ghetto Bug has been losing oil rapidly. No one can figure out why, maybe it's the off-roading. I have started taking the Ghetto Bug into the oil place between changes to have the oil checked and when I do that - guess what? The Ghetto Bug is fine on oil. If I happen to be busy and miss the between the oil change check up - IT NEEDS OIL. Sometimes I think the Ghetto Bug takes pleasure in messing with me. Like that time at the drive thru window when I needed to roll the window down and it kept rolling itself back up. When that happened, the Ghetto Bug probably did the equivalent of shooting milk out its nose only with oil not milk and that is why it has been coming up short. Anyhoo, back to the filling of the oil. So the Ghetto Bug has been clicking. It is late and I decide to pull into a store parking lot under a lamp. I get out, open the hood, and am putting oil in the Ghetto Bug. I am perfectly capable of performing this task by myself however it makes me feel a little less misanthropic when someone at least offers to help. As I am filling the oil people keep passing me and no one says jack. Finally a car full of guys drives up slowly and I think, "at last some helpful people." Do they stop and offer a hand? No! They whistle and drive off! I understand that the image of a women bent over the engine of a car elicits a reaction in some men due to the featuring of said image in many a men's magazine but COME ON! I had oil smeared on my hands because I was doing actual mechanical work. It was not strategically smeared on me to make my butt glisten. In fact I was wearing slacks therefore there would be no glistening butt or for that matter cleavage because I HAVE NO BOOBS!

Needless to say after receiving only a whistle in the way of acknowledgment, I had given up hope of any help and was preparing to shut the Ghetto Bug's hood when a kind couple drove up and asked if I needed assistance. I smiled and said "no thank you" and as I drove home in the Ghetto Bug I felt some peace knowing that caring people still inhabit this world and then my thoughts shifted to the weird burning smell coming from my engine.

My Thoughts Exactly

My friend posted this on his blog and after I read it I knew I had to post it on mine also, because I am a copy-cat. In the Seventh Year

I'm thinking of making him a bubble-wrap suit

So my step-dad has always been a tad accident prone. For the most part it is only himself that he injures, but that is only because we have learned to avoid him when he breaks out the tools or any sharp or hard or metal or wood or stone or very solid cheese object. We learned this through some unfortunate accidents.

When we were little, my step-dad bought a puppy for us (he knew exactly how to buy our love) and he and my brother set out to build a doghouse. I was inside watching my stories (Nellie Oleson was such a BITCH) and all of the sudden my brother runs in screaming, clutching his eye. Turns out that my step-dad pulled a nail out of a board and accidentally hammered my brother's eye socket in the process. Fortunately my brother was not blinded and we now laugh about this incident and the time I had severe OCD. A few years later my step-dad accidentally removed part of my mother's finger in a freak farm machinery accident.

His accidents through the years involved things as random as sheep, an alpine slide, a riding lawnmower (he rode it off the top tier of our lawn) and most recently an ottoman. Thanks to said ottoman, he now is recovering from a broken hip in a care facility.

As his family, we try our hardest to keep him safe, however we can only do so much. Being the proactive person that I am, I have decided to try and talk him into being enclosed in a giant bubble. The point being not to make him feel like a hampster, but rather to keep him from further harm, because I care and because it would give me something to brag about.

Olga is one lucky woman

No Lactose for You!

So my cute, pale, dairy-obsessed Hoshie has been put on a strict non-dairy diet by his pediatrician due to some stomach issues. This diet would be doable if we were not talking about Hoshie. I am pretty sure that instead of 90% water that kid is made up of 90% cow juice, 8% Kraft American cheese slices, and 2% anger (for good measure). Now my poor sister, who is very tender hearted, has to listen to her lactose craving lad wail as if hope itself had shriveled up and died in Pandora's Box. Hopefully the doctor will discover that all things cow are not the cause of Hoshie's illness and Hosh can once again go through a gallon a day.

My Talented Little Yert