Squeak’s Squeals

I have been sick the last few days. Yesterday, my temperature peaked at 103(F). This morning, it was still at 102. The bottom line: I feel poopy.

But life must go on and since I was not spewing forth nastiness from any of my orifices, I went about my daily routine as usual.

• Feed kids: Check.

• Everyone dressed: Check.

• Kids on the bus: Check.

• Car keys: Check.

• Four fully-inflated tires: um… well…

I had a flat. Not just a low-on-air flat. A pancake-on-a-rim flat. In my driveway.

I started digging through the car. I pulled out the dummy tire. I pulled out the pathetic looking little jack from the secret Subaru jack compartment. I looked it over. I put it down. WTF!? I don’t know how to use it. I’ve never seen one like it.

I went inside and called the office. “Boys, I’m gonna be late. I don’t know how late. Just late. Really, really late.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bull, our resident tech.

“I’m stuck in a catch 22 at the moment. I have a flat tire and a jack I don’t know how to use. I can’t afford to pay someone to change my tire until I get my paycheck and I can’t get my paycheck until I get the tire changed so I can get to the office.”

“No problem,” my savior replied. “I have an appointment out your way in half an hour, I’ll swing by and change that tire for you when I’m done.”

“You, sir, are my freakin’ hero!” I replied.

I wandered around the house, straightening and tidying for about an hour, but there was no sign of Bull. I called his cell… his appointment was taking longer than expected, he had no clue how soon he’d get to my place.

Time for Plan B. The Internet. (Now, I realize with every blog post I write, I prove myself more and more the dumb blond I try NOT to be, but if it didn’t end with me doing something completely bizarre or utterly stupid it wouldn’t make much of a story, now would it?) So, I hopped on the internet and looked up instructions on how to use my weird little car jack contraption.

I changed my tire. All by myself. I was so proud! And all while running a fever that could fry an egg.  Now, if I could just get the grease monkey marks off my hands…..

Humor-blogs.com: More tales of personal achievement from short bus riders.

The condensed story:

Men suck and I am outraged.

The back story:

Yesterday, I completed a site for a local, high-ranking political figure which included information on a special task police team.  For the site, I was responsible for the full design, full code and full back-end CMS development.  A link to the completed work was forwarded to the officer in charge of said special task police team, we’ll call him “Officer Sludge.”  Officer Sludge called my office this morning.  As luck would have it, I - ironically - answered the phone.

Little known - and apparently surprising - facts:

1. I am 100% female.

2. I write code for a living.

3. Roget’s defines “sludge” as ‘a viscous, usually offensively dirty substance.’

The call:

Sludge: “Hiya, sweetie, I was looking at this website and they asked me to look over the section about my special task team.  I can’t find a link to my team anywhere.”

Me: “At the very top of the screen, there is a menu.  It should say Home, About, Enforcement, Assistance and Education.”

Sludge: “All mine says is Education with a blue box behind it.”

Me: “Is the link on the far right side of the screen?”

Sludge: “No.  It’s the first thing on the left.”

Me: “What internet browser are you using?”

Sludge: “Sweetheart, I’m a cop.  I don’t sit in front of a computer all day.  I have no idea what you just said.”

Me: “If you look at the very top of the window, there should be a little picture.  Does it look like a blue E?  Or is it more of a blue circle with orange around the bottom?  Or is it something else entirely?”

Sludge: “Honey, I don’t know what a ‘window’ is.  Where do I find it?”

Me: “Are you in front of the computer now?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Are you looking at the website?”

Sludge: “Yeah.”

Me: “Okay.  You know the box where you type in the website address you want to go to?”

Sludge: “Yeah.  The one that says ‘http://www….’?”

Me: “That would be the one.  Either just above it or just below it, you should see a line of menu options: File, Edit, History, Tools, Help and so on….”

Sludge: “Yeah.  I see em.”

Me: “Good.  Click on ‘Help’.”

Sludge: “Okay.”

Me: “There should be a little menu that drops down.  What does the LAST line on that menu say?”

Sludge: “It says ‘About Internet Explorer.”

Me: “Great!  Your internet browser is Internet Explorer!  Now, click on the words ‘About Internet Explorer’ for me.”

Sludge: “Okay.  It gave me a little box.”

Me: “Good.  Somewhere in that box, it should give you a version number.  Can you read it off for me?”

Sludge: “It says ‘Version: 5.0. ……..”

Me: “Okay.  That would explain why the site is not displaying properly.  It was designed for use in Internet Explorer 7.”

Sludge: “Look, sweet cheeks, I have no idea what you are rattling on for.  My problem is I can’t see what I need to see on the website.  What I need is to talk to the guy who’s working on it.”

Me: “You got him.”

Sludge: “What!?  You’re a woman!  Jeezus!  [short pause] How about this: I’ll find out how to get my hands on this number 7 you’re talking about, then I’ll call you back.  I don’t want to makes things too hard for you to understand.”

Me: “You do that, sir.  Might I suggest you start your quest for the number 7 at microsoft.com?  Although, I could go back and modify the code to make it compliant with your current version.”

Sludge: “No!  No.  Dont’ do that.  No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”

The commentary:

Hmm…. where to begin?  Do I dare begin?  Do I make light of the situation?  Or do I go on a full-fledged feminazi rant about how men need to have their wankers firmly attached to their thighs via heavy-duty carpet staples and undergo involuntary estrogen infusions?

Now, don’t go getting your frilly, lace thongs in a bunch, fellas.  I know full well that not ALL men feel the way Sludge feels.  And I truly, TRULY appreciate those men.  My outrage here comes from the knowledge that men like Sludge STILL exist.

Honestly, WTF!?  Is this 1952?  Am I supposed to be donning a house dress and curlers while baking bread and planning a rummage sale for the PTA?  Give me a freaking break!  The simple fact that I have tits is NOT a reason to treat me like an uneducated, incompetent moron!

My absolute favorite part of the conversation (aside from being called a multitude of pet names)?  “No sense in having a woman go in and screw it up.”  That’s my favorite part.  Cuz, y’know, I’m only the SAME woman who went in and made it work in the first place.  But that was alright because it was assumed I had a nutsack.

Start YOUR search for the number 7 at humor-blogs.com.

My face hurts. My ear hurts. My jaw hurts. And, yes, there is a reason for it. I debated long and hard over whether or not to share this tidbit of my life with all of you for one reason and one reason only: It makes me look REALLY dumb. And I’m not, well, not ALWAYS.

I was tucking the girls into bed the other night while Roo was asking me questions about things she did as a baby - she has recently been fascinated by everything and anything she might have done prior to the age of two.

“Mommy, how did I eat pizza when I was a baby?”

I turned my hands to fists and sort of ’smeared’ them around my cheeks and mouth.

“How did I eat spaghetti when I was a baby?”

I proceeded with the same arm movements.

“What about cookies?”

Same thing… except this time I brought my arms up quickly and nailed myself in the jaw - just below the left ear.

I kid you not folks, I nailed myself with an uppercut on one side and heard a pop on the other side. Advil has become my best friend.

Go ahead. Laugh. You know you want to. Did you get the visual on that? A tall, wussy redhead literally punching herself in the face? It’s a retarded visual, I know. But seriously - truly - honestly - I achieved it.

Last week at the sitter’s, I laughed at a kid wearing a “My mommy says I’m special” t-shirt. Now I’m wondering if they make them in adult sizes.

Need more self-punishment?  Try humor-blogs.com!

Some days, I can’t help but look lovingly at my Neanderthal and wonder how I lived without him. Most days, I can’t help but wonder how he survived on his own for 11 years.

From his first waking moment, I am barraged with questions that cause me to cock my head to side and wonder if his IQ claim is in the negative range. My all-time favorite: “Honey, how do I make the stove work?” So, you are telling me that for ELEVEN YEARS you’ve never had to turn on a stove? Not once? Not ever? It’s not that difficult to figure out: turn the knob and by the magic of modern technology, you get heat! Amazing, isn’t it?

In one of his more brilliant moments, on a weekend I went to visit my mother, I was driving home when he called my cell. “Where you at?” came his shining inquiry.

“About 20 minutes away,” was my reply.

“Oh, OK. I’ll see you when you get here.” And he hung up.

I walked in the back door to find a literal TRAIL of dirty laundry - all HIS laundry - running from the laundry room, through the kitchen, across the living room and into our bedroom - socks, underwear, jeans, flannel shirts - strewn from one end of our tiny little concrete bunker to the other. When I asked him his reasoning for what was obviously a terroristic attack on our home (damn those laundry bombs!), he looked at me like I was stupid and replied, “Well, I was going to do some laundry, but you said you were almost home. So I left it for you.” We walked on his dirty laundry for a week before he finally realized that I was refusing to touch it.

And, oh, the effect he has had on my offspring! JellyBean - who will be 5 this May - came wondering through the living room with a bad case of the walking farts, little poot puffs escaping with every step. As she climbed onto the couch, she proudly announces, “Whoo! Did you hear that fart!? And, boy, is it sti-i-i-i-nky!” And this comes within 12 hours of her letting one rip in my face during a tickle fight yesterday afternoon.

What happened to my sweet, dainty, feminine little girl? She was tainted by Og the Neanderthal.

Oh, the pride that swells within me when I overhear the girls calling each other retarded pollocks! And how could I ever tire of belching contests between two little pink-clad angels? And who could forget the new, official definition of a “sissy”? According to JellyBean: “A sissy is a boy who wears dresses and makeup.”

Yes, Og has made his mark upon the impressionable young minds of my wee anti-ladies in training.

And so, in honor of my very own Og the Neanderthal and his personal catch phrase, I present to you the “Pat Yourself on the Head Award”. This first one is for you, baby. Any man who can be so amazing and sincere and so obnoxious and oblivious simultaneously, not only deserves an award, but he deserves to have it named in his honor.

Visit Humor-Blogs.com and the only pat you’ll get is on the back.