One of those days.

I would have been very happy staying in bed this morning.

It was cold outside. It was raining. And it was very grey. I pulled myself out from under the pierzyna and padded down the hall. 54 degrees. Still no heat.

Hot shower, hot breakfast, hugged my puppy, headed to class.

Fell down the stairs. Moccasins and wet wood reduced the coefficient of friction to something close to zero. Skinned knees and grass stained tush are not a novel occurrence in my life, so I picked myself up and headed to the Jeep.

The Jeep had low air in its tires. The car was undriveable secondary to its run-in with the tree and subsequent hot-dog bun appearance. DH took the only umbrella because he secretly thinks it's funny when my hair gets really fuzzy in the rain. Plus blue is his favorite color, so he likes it when my fingers lose all circulation from the cold.

I walked in the rain.

There was a crazy woman walking on the sidewalk in front of me. I probably shouldn't call her crazy. She was wearing a walking boot, a purple trash bag wrapped around her waist, and a red nylon bag over her head. She was pushing an empty stroller. So instead of crazy we'll go with Susan. DH said she was probably homeless. I don't think she was homeless. It was a really nice trash bag.

I didn't want to pass her in case she got ideas about running me down with the stroller, so I trailed behind. It was a poor decision on my part.

You see, Mr. Bus Driver had the same idea I did. He was trailing behind Susan for about three blocks ~ just enough time for the rain to soak through my shoes and give my hair a nice halo effect. Then Mr. Bus Driver decided to blow past Susan and I on his merry way to the bus stop a block ahead of us.

There was a large muddy puddle along that route.

Susan laughed so hard at drenched, muddy, shivering me that she had to sit down in her stroller.

I laughed too. All I could think was "if only I had wrapped up in a trash bag."

Hot Dog anyone?

My mom has a story about her first brand new car. It was a Cougar. Sexy and shiny and all hers. She parked it under the only tree in the hospital parking lot so it would be shaded. Sometime during her shift, the tree fell on it. Hot dog bun car.

I parked my baby car under the lone tree by the sidewalk outside my house. It was still pretty warm, and I don't like the dash to get too hot. Sometime during my Southern food cooking spree a cold front moved in complete with straight line winds, and that idiotic tree fell on my car. Hot dog bun car.

Like mother, like daughter I suppose. Why couldn't I have inherited her height instead?

I'll only be a second.

Ladies and gentleman, I have seen a breakthrough.

It is perfect for those times when you see the forbidden prime parking real estate directly outside the door of a business and then note the next closest parking is a whole twenty spaces away. Who has time to walk twenty parking spaces? We are busy. We are important. We are only going to be inside for a second.

Introducing the 30 second parking sign.

This a real sign in a small town in the northern U.S.. It is strictly enforced by the 30 second parking meters along this stretch of sidewalk. How much does 30 seconds cost you? A nickel.

How much is the ticket for going over your alloted 30 seconds? Thirty-five dollars.

So enjoy your prime parking place. Revel in your superiority over the guys who have to walk twenty feet. Just don't revel too long. You've only got a second.

New phone

My new phone (whose parent company is not named Pear or Grape) is fantastic. I have the new phone because I managed to destroy four other phones since January, and I convinced DH that I would take extra good care of this one.

Sucker.

Truthfully, I am being extra careful with it. I even bought a super-heavy-duty-only-cockroaches-and-this-case-will-survive-a-nuclear-attack protective case for it. There are three layers of plastic. Two screen covers. A rubber cover encases the plastic covers. It's sand proof, dog proof, and oven and freezer resistant. Oh yeah.

Here's hoping it lasts more than a month.

Paul Bunyan

I met real live lumberjacks awhile back. Muscle flexing, ax wielding, flannel wearing lumberjacks.

Okay, so they were wearing safety pants, sleeveless shirts, and protective eyewear, but the muscles and axes were there. It was the Lumberjack Days championships. (Yes, it's a real event... a side effect of living this far north.) Wood chips were flying, saws were buzzing, poles were scaled, and axes were hurtling through the air. Lumberjacks are hot.

It was also the Dock Dogs championship. Crazy dogs take flying leaps off the dock, grab a bar seven feet in the air, and land with a huge splash in the pool below. My pup is a little crazy and loves water. I decided that she should watch the dogs compete. After all, kids learn by watching. Why can't dogs?

So there I am, holding my dog up to watch other dogs jump into the water. Stupid? Absolutely. Did I care? Absolutely not - until the nice cameraman decided to get an up-close-and-personal shot of the crazy lady holding up her dog. I tried charm, pleading, and threatening, but he would not be budged. It was going to be on TV.

At least it's not a popular channel.

And it continues...

What shall we choose for my misadventure two of J.'s wedding day? I think we'll go with my beloved spouse.

The bridal party's day started bright and early at eight a.m. - at least for the females. I secretly think males wake up on the day of their wedding, shower, shave, watch football/basketball/golf, take a nap, watch more sports, then wander down to the ceremony site thirty minutes before the wedding begins. The little devils still manage to look devastatingly handsome, which is completely unfair.

Since I was in the wedding and DH was coming as "designated reception mingler", he was under strict instructions to arrive no later than 4:00 p.m for the 4:30 ceremony. Unfortunately for him, there was some sort of catastrophe that closed the road to the gardens. He called me in a panic.

"Tell J. I'm sorry, but this cop is being a total *bad word* and won't let me through." He moved the phone away from his mouth.

"What if I just drive through? What are you gonna do?" He moved the phone back.

"Apparently, he's going to arrest me if I drive through. "

We gave him (and the many other guests who were being held up) alternate directions and had the coordinator postpone the wedding. Forty-five minutes passed. There was a wedding scheduled after Mrs. Darcy's, so we couldn't wait any longer. Out traipsed the wedding party down the hill, the girls clutching the arms of the men to keep from toppling over in their heels.

From behind us we heard "thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump." As one, we turned.

There was DH and the usher sprinting toward us from the parking lot.

DH slapped my tush as he ran by. "Look great babe. See you in a few J. - you look great too!"

At least the man knows how to make an entrance.

Don't pull my hair

My best friend got married this past weekend. She was beautiful, as was to be expected, and the wedding was wonderful. It did not, however, go off without some hiccups in my world. (Luckily, my world was way down on the list of important things that day. J.'s world was top priority, as it should have been.)

Hiccup one was my hair. The stylist, a darling gay man who practices his updo skills on drag queens, took one look at my hair when I walked in and started shaking his head.

"Curls." He grabbed a handful of hair. "Thick curls."

Then, ladies and gentleman, he took a blow-dryer AND a brush to my hair. I haven't brushed my hair whilst it was curly since I was in my early teens. He now looked aghast at the halo of frizz that he had created. Diana Ross had nothing on me.

He threw me in hot rollers for awhile, then started twisting and tugging. I no longer had curls. I had knots - twisted ropes of hair tied into knots. It was cool, I'll give him that. It also took me forty-five minutes to get undone when I came home that night. DH helped me pull out all the bobby-pins (68), and my hair didn't move. The knots had to be untied, unrolled, and washed out with conditioner. Just a word of advice for you stylists reading: if the hair is curly, just leave it curly. There is no need to attempt to make it follow the straight hair rules. It doesn't want to follow those rules. It is a hair government anarchist.

Either way, hair went up, make-up went on, and dress was wiggled into. We'll call that adventure one of the day.

We walk around the leaf.

Stupid ducks

There are days when I feel that I am on top of everything. My cute yellow ducks are lined up in a nice neat circle, paddling like mad under the surface, all headed the appropriate direction. That was yesterday. Then there are days when my ducks have lost the ability to stay in line - some are flying away, some are paddling off, and a couple are drowning. That was more today.

I requested an official copy of my transcript for my application. For the privilege of looking at the grades I earned in classes I had to pay for, I was charged ten American dollars. The registrar office sent out the official grades on fancy blue paper. Unbeknownst to me, I needed it on plain white paper. Now I have to pay another ten American dollars so an undergraduate in a work study program can hit the print key in the registrar's office and give me a copy on white paper - the color of paper one normally would print upon.

A few minutes after I received this notice, I headed out for class. My professor told us yesterday that we had the option of taking the class on 'campus 2' via live video stream. I thought this was awesome news since campus 2 is much closer to my house. It's about a twenty minute walk to the building on campus 2, but it was a beautiful day. I walked. The classroom was suspiciously empty when I arrived, but I was a few minutes early. I emailed my professor to thank him for the option. He wrote back three minutes before class was supposed to start.

"Oh, I have bad news. I canceled that classroom this morning. Sorry. Can you make it to campus 1?"

No, I cannot bloody well make it to campus 1! I have a twenty minute walk to my house to get my car, a ten minute drive to campus, and at least ten minutes to find parking, pay for parking, and get to the classroom. The class is only an hour long! Are you serious, Mr. Professor? Could you not have sent out an email when you decided this?

I dislike you Mr. Professor.

I remembered the inter-campus bus and started running. Breathless, glistening (because girls should avoid sweating, or at least calling it sweating), and late, I flagged him down. I snuck into the classroom on campus 1 twenty minutes later. Slid into a seat, flipped open my laptop, and looked up at the prof and screens ... only to see three students on live video feed in the campus 2 classroom.

I really dislike you Mr. Professor.

Ouch.

I love my pup. I think she is absolutely wonderful. I also think she may be the death of me.

Since pup and I have become best friends, I have twisted my ankle, gotten multiple rope burns, and busted my lip on her head twice. She has tripped me, drug me down the stairs, and caused me to spill numerous glasses of tea on my lap. She has helped me fall down hills, fall down stairs, and just fall.

Last week, she broke my arm. It's a tiny itty bitty little break - no cast required - but a break nonetheless. She knows the command 'whoa' pretty well. Her release command is 'all right'; I had already given her release. She was hanging at my ankles, leash dangling from my left hand, when that albino squirrel came tearing by us. She particularly hates that squirrel because it throws acorns at her when she is on the deck. She shot after the vermin.

My arm went after her. Unfortunately for me, the Jeep door was directly in the path my wrist had decided to take.

Four to six weeks - surely I can survive accident free for four to six weeks.

Revertigo

I love the show 'How I Met Your Mother'. As far as I know, they coined the term 'revertigo' and so I must give them credit. If it is patented by another organization, they may have credit instead. Either way, I did not invent it. I wish I had; it's an awesome word.

Revertigo: upon encountering a person from one's past, one begins to act in the manner he or she did when he or she used to spend time with that person. You all know what this is. You all suffer from it at least a teeny, eentsy, little bit. Think hard ~ do you always play the same role at family gatherings even though 'peacemaker' isn't your style anymore? Do you let your big brother boss you around and take his advice even though you outweigh him, are taller than him, and have six more college degrees than him? Are you still a little intimidated by the cheerleading captain and the quarterback? You're guilty, my friend.

As am I.

I experienced a bad case a while back. I like to believe I am a confident, pulled-together, intelligent person. I am a physician. I love fashion. I can juggle multiple tasks at once with ease.

Yet I found myself arguing and giving in to another person's choices for my clothes. My choices were more flattering, more current, and a heck of a lot cuter in my opinion. This person always dictated what I wore though. I snuck my clothes in my purse and changed at a gas station like a guilty teenager trying to sneak a short skirt past her parents.

My opinion was asked on a medical matter and promptly discredited by another person who has no medical training. "I know better than her. " I desperately wanted to pull out the fancy diploma to disagree, but found myself biting my tongue. What harm was it really doing?

I was teased about losing things (which I do), about my driving (which is acceptable), and about how I needed constant reminders to keep up with two tasks (which I don't). I took all the teasing in stride and bit my tongue. There is a sizable dent in my tongue. I did it because I care deeply about the people who were causing my revertigo. It doesn't make me terribly happy, but it's their way of showing they care for me too. That easily makes up for any temporary angst I might have.

One of those people called me later to let me know their doctor had the same advice I did about the medical problem. The person thought that was funny. I didn't mind this time. After all, they're the one who had poison ivy.

What time is it?

I was awakened by the pleasant 'whoosh-thump' of nail guns. They are re-roofing the house next door. I am all in favor of roofs that don't leak. I am less in favor of working on the roofs before the sun is fully up.

Pup was up and barking at the idiots on the roof outside our window, so I drug my disgruntled self out of bed. I stumbled to the kitchen, poured a cup of tea, and squinted at the two teenagers on the roof. Something wasn't quite right.

To the bathroom, contacts in, and back to the kitchen. I sipped my tea and studied their progress. They were moving right along. Unfortunately for them, they were moving in the wrong direction. They were putting the shingles on upside down. I thought long and hard about not telling them. It seemed fair since they had woken me so early, but with interview season coming I need to store up all the good karma I can.

I opened the window and caught the attention of the nearest teen boy. "You should start from the bottom. You guys are putting them on upside down."

He stared me down. "Right. I'm sure you've roofed before. We know what we're doing." His buddy giggled.

I shrugged. I had tried. Their boss came by about 8. They spent the next hour ripping off all the shingles they had put on that morning. Looks like karma doesn't like being woke up that early either.

"I've got a touch of hangover bureaucrat. Don't push me."

Pup has an internal alarm clock that gets us both up around 6:00 a.m. Unfortunately for me, it does not have a snooze button. Four hours of sleep, and we were up and back on the road.

I dislike the idea of bumper stickers. I can swallow one or two on a vehicle, especially if they are work or military related. I get those. I actually like it when a car has twenty or thirty on the back door. It’s a friendly notification that the two of us will probably never be friends. Then there are the cars with bumper stickers whose messages are belied by the driver’s behavior. I particularly hate those. I offer for reference the woman with the ‘hang up the phone and drive’ sticker who was talking on her phone and driving fifteen miles under the speed limit on a two-lane highway for about fourteen point seven miles. She was annoying me doubly – stupid driving habits and stupid bumper stickers. I muttered an ancient curse upon her back tires and passed at the first opportunity.

Usually I am in a hurry to arrive at my destination and blow by all the roadside attractions, but not this time. Pup and I stopped at every brown-signed tourist stop we passed. Jesse James’ birthplace – we saw it. George Washington Carver monument – we were there. Harry Truman’s birthplace – check. If there had been a sign for America’s largest ball of yarn, we would have stopped.

One of our first detours was John Wayne’s birthplace. It was a precious little white farmhouse draped in American flags. I loved it. The sidewalk was made of bricks donated by people from around the world, famous and not so famous. Someone had a van with murals of John Wayne covering all the sides.

While we were there, we met a group of bikers headed to Louisiana. I admired their bikes, and they admired pup. (She is rather pretty, but I’m rather biased.) We exchanged favorite John Wayne quotes. (Mine is from McLintock, in case you were wondering.) It was a lovely ten minutes.

My excellent sense of direction took us the wrong way out of town. We had turned down a gravel road (because all gravel roads eventually come to pavement or end thus bringing your lostness to a conclusion, though not always a satisfying one). We crested a hill and there it was, rural Midwest Americana at its finest. Cornfields on one side, beans on the other, a creek dividing the two, and a red-sided, one-lane, covered bridge awash in sunlight. We had stumbled on a covered bridge of Madison County. We took a break to stretch our legs and wandered down to the creek side. There was a man taking photographs of the bridge. He looked up as we came down the hill. He held up the camera.

“Do you mind?” I tilted my head quizzically. “May I shoot you two?”

I smiled and agreed. He snapped a few photos, and we chatted for a few minutes. Clint Eastwood, he was not. He was a very nice man shooting some of the bridges for a piece for a magazine though. We discussed pup (who was being a doofus and pointing dragonflies), and he gave me a tip on a good restaurant for lunch in a nearby town.

Iowa is better than I previously thought.

Hourly rate

I finished summer classes on Wednesday. While attempting eighteen master’s level hours in ten weeks was not my best idea, it doesn’t matter. Fait accompli. I grabbed my favorite boots, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, my swimsuit, and a sundress, loaded pup in the car, and headed south. Nothing restores a girl’s spirit like a road trip. It was well after dark by the time we made it out of the city. It also happened to be storming. I flipped the wipers on high and kept driving. At one point the rain was coming down so hard the road lines were obscured. I toyed with the idea of pulling over under an overpass and sleeping the storm out but pressed onward. We drove through two tornado-producing storms on our way to the hotel that night. Two. Perhaps the overpass idea had merit.

We finally made it to our pre-booked accommodations around 1:30 in the morning. Pup was being a brat, I was exhausted, and all I wanted was a bed and pillow for a few hours. As I was pulling into the parking lot, I noted the room doors were on the outside of the buildings. In my past experience, that has never been a good sign. The lobby door was locked, so I rang the bell – five times. A rumpled man emerged from a back room rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“How much did you pay for the room?” he asked.

“I have no idea. DH paid for it online. Forty?” He eyed me suspiciously.

“It will be fifty five dollars then, plus tax. If you have a pet, it’s twenty more plus a hundred dollar room cleaning fee if she destroys something. You are on the second floor.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “She’ll be sleeping in the car.”

I grabbed my bag and the key. A wave of musty air hit me as I opened the door. A queen bed with two flat pillows took the majority of the space. A wall mounted lamp cast a yellow glow over a lonely towel, washcloth, and bar of soap resting atop a spindly brown table. The TV was directly from the 1960’s. I did some quick math and determined there was not a hundred dollars worth of objects pup could destroy unless she managed to maul the questionable mattress to a timely death. I thought about going back to get her but decided against since she was sleeping quite happily.

I have been on many a trip where a layer of road grime was part of the allure, but I desperately wanted to shower and brush my teeth that night. There was a tiny problem with my plan. The shower was still wet, the curtain was half pulled, and there was a special something floating in the loo. (Did I use loo appropriately or does it mean the entire bathroom? I’ve wondered that.) I looked back at the bed suspiciously. The motel did rather have the feel of a ‘rent-by-the-hour’ place.

I just would have rather they cleaned the rooms between the hours. I switched rooms, and pup upgraded from the car to the motel room – pet fee waived.

Incorrect measurements

I went to pick up my bridesmaid dress last week for my best friend's wedding. This is the second dress the store has ordered me for this wedding. The first one was a teensy bit too small in some areas, so I was forced to choose a new style so the dress would be in the store in time for the wedding.

It takes six weeks to ship the dress. Apparently, even though they are a national chain, they have every single dress ordered shipped via camel from Sri Lanka. My dress made it in, safe and sound.

I insisted upon trying the dress on before I left the store. The sales assistant assured me it would fit since she had helped me choose the dress the second time. She humored me though. I pulled off the plastic covering and slipped the dress over my head. Up went the zipper....and stopped. Three inches separated the two edges of the dress in the bust area. Are you friggin' kidding me?

I stormed out of the dressing room. "It's too small."

"No, it is the right size."

"It's too small." I showed the assistant the expanse of exposed skin on my side. She tsked and called over the seamstress. The seamstress agreed it was too small. Out came the tape measures. Over came the manager and another sales assistant.

" I do not understand. You wore this size last time you came in. We were going to take in the waist." The assistant looked me up and down. She leaned in conspiratorially.

"Perhaps, you got the implants?"

I denied plastic surgery. She asked if I was sure. I replied I thought I would remember falling asleep in the operating room and waking up with an improved chest:hip ratio. The seamstress looked up at me.

"Your chest is a size 12. Your waist is size 4. This will never fit. We get bigger size and take in waist." The manager tutted. They couldn't get another new dress in store in time for the wedding. Perhaps I could try the sample size twelve? I thought of C. and agreed. The assistants scurried off to find the twelve and all the other dresses they had in that color in the store. I dutifully tried on the sample dress. It seemed a bit big, so I clinched my arms tightly to my sides.

Bridal stores are set up rather interestingly. There are a zillion mirrors surrounding small raised circular platforms. This allows everyone to see all angles of the dress they are contemplating. It also gives everyone an excellent view of the other people trying on dresses.

I came out of the dressing room and stood on the little platform while the women circled me.

"Raise your arms," the diminutive seamstress said.

I did as I was told.

The dress promptly fell to my hips.

The prospective groom sitting at the next platform over with his prospective wife wolf whistled.

We're going with a smaller size.

Do you hear that ringing?

I am notorious for not answering my phone. It drives my friends crazy. It drives my family crazy. Sometimes it even drives me crazy. Over the years, different people have developed different strategies to get me to answer the phone or call back.

My grandmother calls twice and leaves messages about how I am a terrible granddaughter, probably lying dead in the street somewhere, but she wouldn't know because I never answer my phone. I'm not sure how I would let her know if I were dead in the street, but it is an effective tactic. I always call back.

DH just keeps calling over and over until I either give in and answer the phone or stuff the darn thing under a mattress. He does not leave voicemails. He knows I often forget to check them, then get completely overwhelmed at the sound of that snide automated voice saying "you have seventeen messages" and promptly delete them all without listening to any to avert an imminent panic attack.

Some have taken to calling DH and leaving messages for me. He makes an excellent secretary. I have one friend who only calls between the hours of 1 and 3 AM. I always answer his calls, although it is mainly because I am confused and think it is my alarm clock. Effective, yes. Nice, no.

I have lost my phone, frozen my phone, driven over my phone, and had my phone stolen by my pup. They refuse to sell me phone insurance. Good call on their part.

Take last week for evidence they made the right decision. It was an accident, I swear. I was cleaning the oven and talking to some idiot who wanted me to donate money to his grassroots healthcare reform program. I have no idea how these people found me. I tossed my phone on the table when I was done with him, finished cleaning, and put my cast iron skillet back in the oven. About twenty minutes later I heard a muffled ringing. I followed the ringing to the kitchen, but it stopped before I could find the phone. I looked in the refrigerator, the freezer, the cabinets - all the places I have misplaced my phone before. No success. I emailed DH to have him call the missing phone. I found it in the oven, warm and a teensy bit melted.

Oops.

The good news is it still works. The bad news is the speaker is rather gooey looking. So if you call, and if I answer, speak up people. I can't hear you.

Goodbyes again

It's one of those things where you wait days for something to happen, and then you are sorry that it did. That's about how I would sum up the past week.

DH's grandmother passed away, an event we had been expecting. We had lived the week or so before waiting on edge for the call to come. Come it did, at 6:30 in the morning. A deep sigh, tears, and then a flurry of activity. Packed and on the road, heading back to the farm.

Funerals are a strange thing. There is an odd combination of sadness and joy that make it hard to find your emotional footing. It's like a family reunion on which one person is missing out. The food is always the same (although I've learned there are regional differences). The sentiments are always the same. The preaching is always the same. I suppose we find comfort in that, in the rituals of death.

Personally, I hate them. I've been told I am so vehemently against going to funerals because I don't want to show my emotions. Poppycock. I have lovely emotions, and I am rarely unwilling to show them. Anger? No problem. Happiness? I'm there. Adoration? You bet. Grief? Well, maybe I like to keep that one a little more to myself.

My theory is that I have seen a lot of death. It comes with the business - a job hazard I suppose. Some deaths still hit me hard, like S.'s. Most don't though. I know it's a platitude that is spouted a lot at funerals, but I truly believe that the people who die are going on to a better place, a place where they are healthy and young and happy. Oh, and hot. I think everyone in heaven is hot. I couldn't find that in the Bible anywhere, but it makes sense.

You know the saying, "if you make something idiot-proof, someone will just build a better idiot"?

I have found that someone.

On hiatus again

Blog will not be posted this week due to a death in the family. My apologies.

S

Unwanted knights

I hear that chivalry is dead. I accidently developed an excellent experiment that seemed to prove otherwise. Men are quite gallant - more so than I wanted. The experimental protocol:

Step 1: If at all possible, be female. If you can't pull off step 1, the test may not work quite the same way.

Step 2: Once you are on the highway, notice that your car is pulling to the left just a tad and recall that you meant to stop and put air in it before you left. Sigh heavily at your terrible memory, and pull over to the side of the road. Do your absolute best to be wearing a dress and very high heels. It would most likely work with other clothing choices, but this will be a definite aid.

Step 3: Put on hazards. Get out of car. Note that the stupid tire is all the stupid way flat. Toss your hair angrily over your shoulder, annoyed that you don't have a ponytail holder so your hair is going to be in your face while you change the tire. Be thankful you figured this out before you ruined the tire. Open trunk. Bend over to pull out spare. At this point, the first car should be stopping.

Step 4: Thank the gentleman for stopping and explain that you just have a flat and don't need his assistance. Tell him again. Give up and let him take the tire out of the trunk. Show him how to loosen bolt so he can get tire out. Tell him again, firmly. Thank him for his phone number. Assure him you don't want him to be late. Send him on his way. Roll tire to front of car where flat is. Go back to trunk to pull out jack and tire iron.

Step 5: Try not to get hit by second car pulling over. Explain to nice man that you have things under control. Thank him for stopping. Assure him you can do this. Give up and let him crawl under car to put jack in place. Politely pull tire iron out of his hand. Send him on his way with profuse thanks. Crawl under car and move jack to proper place. Start loosening nuts.

Step 6: Wipe grease from hands off on napkin first guy gave you with number on it. Notice you have a smear of dirt on your leg from the jack and a smear of grease on your forehead from the tire. Laugh, start to wipe it off. Jump toward ditch to avoid getting hit by third truck stopping.

Step 7: Explain to three guys that you are almost done changing tire. Get picked up and set on tailgate of truck by the one who looks fourteen. Chastise him about manhandling and hop down. Ask if his mother would approve of that. Notice him looking sheepish. Check time. Let them finish changing the tire. Thank them profusely. Jump in car, roll down passenger window, blow a kiss, and tell them that their mothers would be very proud as you drive away.

I appreciate the chivalry, really I do. I think it's darling when men stop to help women. I would just rather they only stop if they actually know how to change the tire.