In Today’s Episode of the Joys of Home Ownership . . .

The writing partner chose this time to go away on a much-needed vacation. My husband cringed.

Why cringe, you ask? Because when I’m not spending my weekends writing, editing and working on publishing projects, I have The List. And because I spend so many weekends on my writing projects, The List grows long.

Partner JJ, the husband is gunning for you.

This weekend’s list was grueling, but since Saturday brought snow and ice, the chores outside had to wait. The day was spent pursuing a level of cleanliness this home has not experienced during the very busy summer months. When I hit the ground running, the family had better hop-to, because Mama ain’t kiddin’.

So, each member of the household was assigned chores. Mama said, “No grumbling, or life as you know it is over.” The grumbling went on, of course, but by the time the dust had settled, I was almost satisfied with the shininess.

Almost.

Hey, I’m a woman. Nothing is ever clean enough—but we were close, and we were tired. I called a halt. You’d think the husband had been released on early furlough. Never mind that in the middle of the cleaning frenzy, he suddenly decided it was time to take a gallon of loose change to the bank to find out how much cash he could get. The kid acted like she’d been worked to death, never mind that while she spent much of her time cleaning her room; somehow the rest of the house was magically finished without her. Mama was done for the day.

That brings us to Sunday—and back to The List. Now, there are few things that frighten a husband more (at least in this household) than roof work. Yes, that’s right. Work needed to be done on the roof. Being a self-sufficient DIY-type gal, I feel small projects do not require a phone call to some handy-dandy repair dude that’s going to charge a hunny just to look at something.

No, this type of work could be handled by us—and by us, I mean me. This involves the man standing at ground level, holding the ladder, cringing constantly, spouting needless words of caution, running for tools I don’t have in hand, sighing constantly at having his Sunday disrupted, whining on occasion about how cold it is standing under the shelter of the house’s eaves, and generally driving me to the point of distraction. I have to point out that I’m on top of the roof, which is wet and slick, and the more he distracts me, the more danger I’m in.

He grumbles more, which makes me wonder if he wants me to fall and break my neck. It’s possible. After all, if I’m in the hospital or the bone yard, he wouldn’t be out in the cold watching me working on the roof.

Nah, he wouldn’t do that. That’s more my M.O.

Anyway, the work on the roof included clearing autumn from the gutter caps and cleaning the chimney. Ditch your romantic images of a Dickens chimney sweep. There’s nothing nostalgic or even competent about my abilities as a chimney sweep. It’s just something that has to be done and I fumble my way through it.

The flue cap has to be loosened and removed, the long chimney brush must be inserted and the flue scrubbed until I feel as if my arms will come off. Think really big butter churn that must be pumped about a hundred times while one is perched precariously on the apex of steep roof.

So, up the ladder I went. “Be careful,” he said before my foot was on the second rung. The long steel brush in my hand almost fell on his head while I thought, Actually, I was thinking of doing a swan dive when I get to the top. Do you think you can catch me?

I didn’t say the words—or the oh-so-vicious other things that came to mind—but it boiled down to: well, duh. Once at the top, I laid the brush on the shingles and pulled myself over the edge.

“Don’t kneel on the gutters,” he said.

Seriously? How stupid does this guy think I am? Of course, I asked him as much. Of course, he reminded me that I had married him. Point taken.

As I said, it had snowed the day before. As with most early snows in this part of Illinois, it was gone by the time I decided to embark on the miserable project. It didn’t mean the roof was dry, or that the wind wasn’t cold. It just meant no snow and ice on the roof. It was still slick. It was still wet. It was still freezing cold.

Now, normally, I do this chore a month earlier, but time had gotten away from me. I wanted to light a fire, but didn’t dare. The child whined for a cozy fire, so there I was, in the chilling wind, staring at a flue cap that was higher than my waist. With a morbid sigh, I looked the situation over.

There are layers of skirts that are held with tension over the top of the chimney. Think large Christmas tree with a table-like flat top. I’ve often thought it would be a good place for a picnic, but . . .

The tension comes in the form of two sets of brackets held together with screws, washers and nuts. The bottom skirt has to be loosened and lowered. The next layer has to loosened and the assembly can be lifted away.

As luck would have it, the bottom piece fell away easily. On to the next. The next was not such a sure thing. Now, don’t tell the husband this part, but while I was working on it, my foot slipped on the wet shingles and—just for the briefest of moments—I almost saw the ground coming up to meet me. Believe me, friends, this is not something anyone wants to experience. I righted myself, wiped my suddenly sweaty brow in the freezing wind, and took a deep, steadying breath.

There was nothing for it but to sit on the cold, wet surface so I could better see what I was doing and approach from an improved angle. My butt will never be warm again—even with a fire in the fireplace. Seriously, you could freeze ice on my ass.

So, now sitting beyond my husband’s view as he stepped backwards to look, he thought I’d fallen and yelled. Of course this freaked me out, so I dropped my screwdriver and it rolled off the opposite side of the roof. At that moment, I kind of wished it had dropped the other way and landed on his head.

Oh, come on. You all know I have a vindictive side.

So, there was a fair amount of cursing under my breath and a responding yell that I was fine. And not to worry, being my daddy’s daughter, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the spare screwdriver, muttered a few things about how I hoped he’d keep his mouth shut and went back to work. The screw wouldn’t budge. The nut was frozen tight. I reached for the wrench in my other pocket, but realized I’d left it on the work bench in the garage.

On my feet again, I climbed over the peak and down toward the waiting man. I told him what I needed. He answered by telling me to be careful and went to get the tool. He came back, handed it up to me and told me to be careful.

Back up over the top of the roof and back to work. But it didn’t work. I struggled, cursed, struggled some more. Back to the edge of the roof. “I need the W-D.”

He went for the spray lube and told me to be careful. When he brought it back, and I stood to go back up, he told me to be careful. I almost dropped the can on his head, and smiled at him.

I sprayed and worked, sprayed and fought. I hit the nut with the wrench a few times, sprayed it again and tried once more. (Hey, smacking it around works on the threads of pickle jar, so I thought it couldn’t hurt.) The head of the screw wallowed out to the point there was no way it was going anywhere.

He asked what was wrong. When I told him, he told me to be careful. Peeling my frozen posterior from the shingles, I made my way back to the ladder. He told me to be careful. I told him to shut up and hold the ladder.

So, it was off to the hardware store for new screws, nuts and washers, then to Harbor Freight to see what tools they had which might cut through the mess.   

Now, my husband likes tools. It’s a guy thing, I suppose. He has a nice, small array of tools. He’s proud of them and likes to show them off from time to time, but I’m the one who uses them most. The husband is brilliant at his job, is much-respected by those in the printing industry because he’s a true artist and craftsman.

What he’s not is handy around the house. Most repair work is done by his wife who isn’t afraid of it and has no qualms about possibly screwing it up. I do minor plumbing and electrical work, can drive a nail straight, operate power tools with a fair amount of proficiency and truly enjoy working with my hands. That’s my thing.

But his tools did not yield anything with the capacity to cut through a stubborn screw. At Harbor Freight we found a lovely oscillating multifunction power tool. I bought the cutting attachment and back to the house we went.

In the scant hour we were gone, the temperature must have dropped ten degrees. The wind had a real bite to it and I was not looking forward to getting back on the roof. The sun was lower, the breeze higher, and somehow, the shingles looked wetter. Bummer.

After assembling the tool and finding a bucket to put all the tools in I’d left on the roof, I started in on the squirming mass of extension cords kept so precariously piled in a corner of the garage. I think there were five of them tangled up together. This is where knowing how to curse properly really comes in handy. I cursed, I snarled, I slapped the husband’s hand when he reached in to help.

Poor guy.

Once done, I climbed back up, pulled up the cord and the bucket with my new power tool nestled in it. He told me to be careful and I whipped the cord out just hard enough to strike the side of his head. With a smiling apology, I walked up over the top of the slick roof and realized it was starting to ice over. Fabulous.

I sat my already-wet butt down and it froze to the ice on the shingles. Now, this new tool is a jim-dandy. When I turned it on, it sounded as if it would cut through a diamond. With a grin, I went to work, but the grin soon fell away. No matter how hard the thing oscillated, it wouldn’t cut through the screw.

He must have heard me drop the mother of all curses because he yelled up, demanded to know what was up. When I told him, he said he’d hire someone in the morning to come do it. Oh, hell, no. There was no way this thing was going to beat me—and no way I’m paying someone to do something I can do.

With a savage and barbarous battle cry, I went after the rusted nut. I drove the tool into it over and over until it disintegrated and dissolved away.

He heard my cry of victory and told me to be careful. I muttered something under my breath about where he could bite me and lifted the cap away. By this time, I was worn out. Fighting cold wind and frozen hands, I retrieved the heavy brush and started scrubbing the flue. He yelled at me to be careful. I almost kicked the bucket of heavy tools over to drop on his head.

He disappeared, but before he left, told me to be careful. When he came back out, he told me he didn’t see any soot falling into the fireplace. The glass doors over the hearth had been sealed with masking tape, so the soot wouldn’t leak out. I knew he wouldn’t be able to see it. Soot is blacker than midnight under a skillet, to quote a friend of mine from Texas, so falling into a blackened hearth would be nearly invisible. I knew the thing was getting clean, from the copious amounts of sooty dust flying out in the wind.

He told me to be careful.

I finished scrubbing, laid the brush aside and reassembled the cap. I had yet to do the gutters. There is only one area where the gutters have an issue. It’s a corner of the roof right over the door. When it clogs up, rain pours down over the stoop. It was next of my hit list.

After unplugging the multi-tool, I let go of the extension cord and let it slide down over the roof. Apparently, the husband thought it was me falling, whipped his head around and stared up at the top of the roof. I smiled down and told him, “Heads up.”

He was not amused. He told me to be careful.

As I handed the brush down to him, he told me to be careful. I let it fall and it almost landed on his head. He accused me of doing it on purpose. I smiled innocently.

He held the ladder, but I didn’t climb down. I went to work on the gutters. He told me to be careful. I growled at him as I sat down. My butt stuck to the frozen shingles as I worked. A large glob of sludge hit his glasses.

“Oops, sorry, honey.”

“Don’t step on the gutter,” he said. “You’ll break it. Be careful.”

Another glob landed on his head. Then the chore was done. I lowered a foot to the ladder and he stared at me. I put my foot on the ladder and gave it a shake. He stared at me.

“Are you going to hold the ladder?” I asked.

“Nope.” He grinned at me while picking the last of rotting leaves from his hair.

I cocked a brow at him and reached for the ladder. When he saw I meant to climb down without his help, he jumped at the ladder and held it steady. I handed him the bucket of tools and down I went.

Now, sitting in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket with a heating pad under my frost-bitten ass, I’m wondering which of us will cook dinner. You know it’s going to be me. Sigh.

I need tequila.

Christmas ADHD

It was a rough Christmas. To be honest, the entire holiday season has been a whirlwind of furious activity. When September arrived, I finally started feeling better. After one week shy of a year from the time my heart went haywire, I was finally starting to feel like my old self.

My old self took a look around and discovered my home was a mess. I spent several weeks scrubbing, cleaning, spackling, painting and barking orders at the rest of the household. New furniture was ordered and the place reorganized just in time to feed the multitudes for Thanksgiving. It took a week to prepare the food that would be devoured in less than two hours.

The next day I rested. Then it was time to prepare for Christmas. The days flew; the husband injured his shoulder at work. He needed care. He needed meds. He needed a doctor but convincing him of such is like trying to pull teeth on a tyrannosaur. We argued. I threw up my arms in surrender and tried to carry on.

The project this year was bath stuff—you know, soaps, oils, gels, salts, powders—all the stuff needed to enjoy a decadent bath, complete with chocolate truffles. What’s a luxurious bath without amazing chocolates? All of it had to be formulated, made by a caring hand for the women in the family. I turned my dining room into a laboratory.

Men don’t really care about luxuriating in a hot bath with fragrant salts and oils. For them it would be baked goods. The kitchen was turned into a bakery. I had to spend hours creating goodies and slapping the husband’s good hand every time he tried to sneak a treat.

Treats are a favorite of most men. They wander through life looking for some tasty confection to shove into their mouths. Grandma always said, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” I think some women should aim their culinary weapon more carefully. Some of them tend to cook for the wrong men and end up with broken hearts and fatherless children.

Oh, yeah—the child. In the midst of flurry and mayhem, the princess fell ill. She came back from the annual cookie baking at Grandma’s with a stuffed head and a slight fever. On Monday, I left work early to take her to the doctor. The poor kid had a sinus infection—or so they thought.

Missing time at work, behind on the gift projects and still trying to find time to do the shopping, Christmas was just a week away. The work week ended, the child was not improving. I was in the final push when she began crying in the night. Fortunately, I was still up furiously working away at getting things finished. At this point, I was no longer looking at the calendar, but at the clock.

The husband was pressed into taking her to urgent care. They sat there for three hours while the smoke hissed from my furious hands. The oven fired non-stop, with the aromas of various cookies mixing with the scents of lilacs, lavender, jasmine, oranges and cloves.

The salts spilled all over the floor.

I love my floor, durable hardwood that shines as highly polished wood should. I believe I wrote about the odyssey of having it installed. Home repairs always come with their own special problems. No matter how well you plan, how organized you are, something always goes wrong.

I have yet to paint the kitchen and dining room. Kitchens need fresh paint regularly, at least in homes where kitchens are used. I cook. I cook a lot. My walls are a mess. I really must get them done. Maybe I should paint them green. Green is a nice color for kitchens.

Where was I? The phone rang and the husband informed me the princess had strep. She was indeed very ill. That’s just fabulous. As I contemplated this new development, I set my bare foot in the spilled bath salts. Oh, yeah. Clean up the salts.

The timer went off and I couldn’t remember why I’d set it. Was there something in the oven? Butter cookies.

My husband loves butter cookies. He’d eat his weight in them every day, if I could bake that much. I would have to hide them if I wanted any left for Christmas presents. I had yet to wrap things and the daughter would be home soon.

So, I wrapped. Still working furiously, I had paper and ribbons strung across the living room floor. When she got home, she found a pile of packages covered in pretty paper. I told her she could decorate them with all the ribbons and trinkets from the wrapping box and turned her loose.

The husband returned to town to fetch meds and toilet paper. Antibiotics have an adverse effect on the digestive tract. I also asked him to get yogurt. It’s essential while taking antibiotics.

The day ended, the child tucked in and the next day was a mess. Not a surface in the main part of the house was clear. There were still cookies to bake, soaps to make, gifts to finish and a kid who was up in the night with an ear ache.

Ear pain is the worst. The poor kid has dealt with this since she was three months old. There is nothing more crazed in the world than a mother with a sick kid. When she’s in pain, I’d kill to have her healthy again.

Another dose of meds and a glance at the abandoned vacuum cleaner and I tried to remember what I was doing. The husband complained of throat pain. I demanded he see a doctor immediately. He told me to . . . Never mind.

Focus. Christmas gifts. Cookies? Tinsel is shiny.

The day sped by. It was a day when I cursed the Mayans. If the end of their calendar had meant the end of the world at midnight on the 21st, I wouldn’t be struggling to finish crap up. The Mayans were an interesting people. So much technology, so much violence. I wonder what they would think of our modern Christmas rituals.

The cookies are burning. I don’t even remember putting then in the oven.

There was a loud crash at the back of the house. I didn’t bother to find out what it was. It didn’t matter. I still had to clean up bath salts.

Cookie sheets loaded with balls of raw dough were shoved in the oven. Melted soap had to be poured into molds.

The kid was screaming again. The pain was unbearable. Her regular doctor could get her in right away. Get dressed. Now!

The strep was drug resistant. They put her on something stronger and recommended complete bed rest. Well, duh. It was Christmas Eve and Christmas with the family was just canceled. While driving to the pharmacy, I made all the calls needed to inform family, blew up at my sister who didn’t want to help get the gifts to my mother’s—after all the hard work—and got the kid home. The concern now was her infected eardrum rupturing. It did, later that night. It’s the first time it’s ever happened.

Christmas Eve. I’m in a panic. There are things to finish. My brother-in-law generously offered to pick up the gifts for my mother’s party. I suspect it was because I blew up at my sister, then called my mother to tell her I would bring the things myself , then my mother probably called my sister to tell her to cooperate and now the entire family is angry at me. I don’t care at this point. I’m still walking in spilled bath salts. I grabbed a broom.

The broom lay forgotten on the floor while I boxed, bagged, wrapped and tagged. It was all done when the man arrived. He didn’t look very happy. I’m sorry for that. Truly I am, but I shoved the thought to the side while tending the child’s pain. I put a pot of soup on, tripped over the broom and skinned a toe on the bath salts.

The husband announced he was hungry. The kid wanted to unwrap gifts. The sausage we were supposed to share with the in-laws for Christmas Eve dinner needed to be cooked. Forgetting completely about the soup, I started a loaf of bread to go with the spaghetti I was now planning.

The lights on the tree are pretty. It would be nice if I could enjoy it. I sat down to gaze at it. The kid announced she was hungry. I had to feed her because she was losing weight from lack of appetite. I just put a tray in her lap when the husband returned with some of her favorite soup from her favorite restaurant. Excellent timing.

I was done. Finally. After stubbing my toe on the broom in a pile of bath salts, I cursed and began packing all my supplies. The husband complained about the mess on the floor, but didn’t bother to help clean it up. Instead, he made a bee line for the piles of cookies I’d failed to hide.

The sun was shining on the melting ice outside the window. Shiny. The cat ran through the room and skidded on the salts. I finally remembered to clean them up, finished packing the supplies, put the centerpiece in place and headed for the living room.

“Can we unwrap presents yet?”

The child was finished with her lunch, patiently holding the tray with its uneaten remnants of food. Dropping a handful of tissue paper, I took the tray and tried to find a clear surface in the kitchen to set it on. It was a mess. The cat found something to bat across the floor and right underfoot. The dog chased after the cat. I tripped and knocked over a jar of bath salts.

To occupy the kid, I let her open a gift. It was a sketch kit, complete with everything a sickly child needed to occupy her hands. She was overjoyed.

I stepped in bath salts while carrying empty tea things to the kitchen and went in search of the broom. I found something that needed to be wrapped and went back to the piles of crap in the living room. Ribbons and bows and tape and paper—all over the floor. Decorating gifts is a creative talent of mine. I enjoy it. I don’t use those cheap ribbons available only at holiday time. I go to fabric stores and buy the good stuff. I use lace and ornaments and candy canes.

The husband growled about gritty salt under his feet.

I abandoned the living room mess and went in search of the broom. The kid wanted water.

The sausage was burning.

The dog was chasing the cat.

The stockings were hung with great care.

The last batch of cookies were disappearing down my husband’s gullet.

I forgot what I was going to write about. Christmas rituals? Insanity. Ooo, that golden ornament is shiny. Nice.

Adventures at the Farm & Home

Or

Even the best laid plans can take you down that primrose path.

It was a day unlike most others.  The air was sweet with spring fragrance, the sun warm on my face.  The mood was light as a summer breeze.  It was a glorious day meant for enjoyment.

I had the afternoon off.  I was to pick up the princess from school and take her with me to the dentist for our usual checkups and cleanings.  After that, the day was ours to use as we saw fit.  I had such plans . . .

We were done at the dentist office by one.  Time for goofing off and . . . Shopping!

For those who don’t know me, I hate to shop.  Yeah, I know.  How un-womanly of me, but I seriously hate it.  However, there are times in life when one needs things.  The need of the day was to find some cost-effective way to corral our dog without fencing and without digging. 

Ah, I have it!  A wireless animal containment unit.  That’s right, a transmitter that sends out a signal and a receiver that accepts the signal.  That’s what we need, so let’s go get it. 

It’s humane, only lets off a tiny charge no stronger than the zap you get from running your shoes over the carpeting and then grabbing the doorknob when someone pounds ferociously on your front door.  I don’t know about anyone else, but it hurts when you grab that dang doorknob.  Always makes me squeal. 

But, hey, the little Bichon mutt is smart.  She’ll figure it out quickly enough and it’s better than wanting to kill her because Princess didn’t walk her and she crapped on the carpeting again.  This way, the pup can go out whenever she needs to without waiting for said princess to find her shoes, look for the leash she mislaid, get sidetracked when she sees something shiny and then go searching for the proper cleaning products when the dog can no longer keep her little legs crossed.  It’s just the ticket, right?

First stop was the farmer’s friend, our neighborhood Farm & Home Supply store.  They had just what I was looking for, but it was pricey, so I decided to shop around a bit.  Next was the store with the giant red “R” on the front of it.  I never did like that place.  The staff is rude, the place always smells like the inside of a barn and it’s hard to find what you want or need.  And they wanted an extra $30.00 for the same product (probably to pay for all the red paint for the sign out front).

Wal-Mart was right next door, so I decided to try there.  I hate shopping, as I already stated, so Wal-Mart is like a trip through hell.  Man, I despise that place. 

Anyway, I dragged the poor princess through the enormous Super Wal-Mart, seeking out the intended item, but it was nowhere to be found.  Finally, I spied one of those blue vests that tells you, “Hi, I’m *insert name here* and I don’t give a &%^$ what you need.  Chances are I don’t know what it is anyway.”

As luck would have it, this rather astute young blue vest was quite intelligent and willing to help.  He knew exactly what I wanted, and was very enthusiastic when he told me it was discontinued.  Ah, well, back to the F&H.

My second trip to the F&H was successful.  I snagged the containment unit from the shelf while Princess whined about not wanting to put a “vicious, cruel, mean shock collar” on her doggy.  “Sorry, kid.  It’s either this or we dig a hole in the back yard for the mutt’s carcass.”  She agreed to give it a try. 

So, armed with the new and expensive kit, we pulled out of our parking place and—oh, darn.  We still need groceries.  Crapola.  The nearest grocery store is the dread Super Wal-Mart.  Back to Wal-Mart, drag a tired Princess through the store again, choose food, make escape. 

Only two more stops and we can go home.  Stop number one: sweet treats for everyone.  Stop number two:  fountain sodas for everyone. 

The princess continued to point out the dangers of putting a shock collar on her sweet doggy, while I continued to press the point that someone had better finish the potty training of same.  It was a stalemate by the time we got home.  Neither side won.

It was after three when we pulled in the drive.  My day of lazy goofing off was growing short and I still hadn’t had a chance to do anything I wanted, so may as well set up the perimeter and start training the dog.  Following the instructions, one must first set up the transmitter—positioned within the house so as to get the best angle on the area outside where the dog will be able to roam—then set out the marking flags.

Per the instructions, I began to walk the perimeter, staking the flags wherever the alarm on the collar beeped.  Not so difficult, right?  Yeah, as long as you don’t touch the metal posts on the collar.

Static charge, my backside.  Apparently, I had the thing set to the highest setting and when I got zapped, the collar went flying.  I screeched, the husband (watching from a safe distance) laughed until I wanted to punch him and the neighbor kids watched with much curiosity.  Good thing they weren’t dumb enough to approach.

The perimeter seemed too small, so I moved the transmitter and set it on high.  Then I began the arduous task of re-staking the flags.  Since you have to hold the collar at the level the dog’s neck would normally be at, and since the dog is a tiny Bichon, by the time I finished I felt like Quasimodo.  When I straightened my back, there was a distinct snap, crackle and pop.  But it was done and I had only shocked myself two more times.  Too bad I forgot to adjust it to a lower setting.  *this is where to insert the rolling eyes icon*

Okay, time to put the collar on the dog.  She took one zap and learned quite quickly not to go beyond the flags.  I knew she would be a quick study. 

Oh, crap.  I forgot to reduce the charge.  Now guilt-ridden, I walked the miserable little fluff ball back to the house and removed the collar.  At this point, the indicator light on the thing stopped working.  I had no idea what setting it was on and I wasn’t about to test it myself.  Hey, I’m a quick study too.

Sigh.

Trip number three to the F&H was a little annoying.  I live outside town, so it’s not a quick jaunt to the corner store.  By now it was almost five.  Another sigh.

The people at the F&H were very accommodating.  When I asked to exchange it for a smaller collar—one that would better fit my little dog—they had no problem.  When I read the package and asked questions, they answered them in a knowledgeable way.  They seemed to know what they were talking about. 

Acting is a fine art. 

The collar didn’t work with my system.  Trip number four to the F&H was anything but happy.  I had made up my mind that I wouldn’t yell or be in any way rude, but that was before I pulled into the same parking place I had used on all the previous visits.  There was a resounding pop.  I had no idea what the noise was, but I knew it meant trouble.  When I got out of my car, I heard that telltale hissing noise that could only mean one thing.

Sure enough, there was a bolt the size of my thumb sticking out of the right rear tire.

Breathe. 

Don’t scream.

Don’t kick the car.

Laughing maniacally, I walked into the store.  The young man at the counter saw me and cringed.  I handed him back the collar and pointed to a few items on the packaging. 

“You said this would work with my system,” said I.

“This is for a wire fence system,” said he.

“Well, duh,” said I.

“Okay, I see the problem,” said he.  “I think we can fix this.”

“Oh, I know you can,” and I started laughing evilly again. 

The boy looked scared.  Smart boy.

He came back with the proper unit, scanned it about eighteen times with the little scanner thingy (that’s a technical term) and refused to meet my eyes.  With the transaction finished, I said, “My tire picked up some of your hardware in your parking lot.  Do you think someone here could help me change it?”

“How do you know you picked it up here?”

That was the wrong question to ask.  He was met with my frostiest smile (not a pretty thing, I’m told) and I answered with, “I’ve made four trips to your little store, burned half a tank of gas, ruined a tire and lost a day.  How do you know I’m not a homicidal maniac?”  When he started to back away, I said, “Because I heard the thing pop when I ran it over.”

Seriously, that boy needs to grow a pair.

Without looking me in the eye, he said, “We’re not allowed to do that for people.  I’ll be happy to call you a tow truck.”

“I’m going to pay $80 because you people can’t clean up your parking lot?  I don’t think so.  Tell your manager I’ll be back to see him tomorrow for compensation for all the gas and the repair to my tire.”

Out the door I went.  If the manager’s smart, he won’t open tomorrow.  Me Irish temper got the best of me.  I tore into my car, pitching stuff from the back out into the parking lot, tearing out the cover panels and releasing the spare and jack.  It’s not your normal little donut spare, either.  It’s nearly full size and weighs about thirty pounds.  Just as I lifted it, some jerk in a pickup drove by, pointing his finger and laughing. 

I lifted the tire over my head and pitched it at his truck.  Good thing he gunned the engine or there would have been a nasty dent in his passenger door.  As it was, the spare clipped his back bumper as he sped off.  When he offered me an obscene gesture, I smiled and waved.  I was feeling better already. 

After a quick call to the house to tell the man what was up and that his take-out dinner would be late, he said he’d round up the kid and come help me.  But I was still angry and knew how long it would take for him to get there, so I decided to fix it myself.  We country girls are like that.

I had the jack set in place and was about to loosen the lugs when a very nice young woman, carrying her small child, went in search of her husband.  Steve and Amy (names changed to protect the kindly) were very helpful.  If not for Steve, I would never have been able to get the tire off.  The lug nuts were wrenched on so tight; he almost couldn’t get them loose.

Good ol’ Steve had me back together in nothing flat (pun intended because the spare was quite low).  I thanked them both profusely and wished them a happy evening then placed a call to the husband’s cell.  He was already pulling in the parking lot by that time, so he dropped the princess off with me and left. 

I was filthy, fed up, and the dog still had not been trained to the new system.  The day was wasted, my mood was destroyed the F&H was still standing.  Lucky, lucky F&H.