At first it’s hard not having someone to kill the spiders. That part never gets easier but eventually one learns to get them with a broom or other long handled apparatus.
Changing lightbulbs, climbing ladders, navigating the garage, smoke alarms. The Single Ladies get used to it but are still pissed off every damn time. Garbage was never in my life plan.
On the other hand, there are some really fun things I do know how to do: change windshield wipers, change the air filters, take apart the pipes underneath the sink to get a piece of jewelry out.
Of course it’s a joke. Not that I’ve learned new skills. But the fact that the skills I’ve learned are guy stuff. And I still have to do the girl stuff, which I generally like. It’s like anything. I want to at least have a choice.
Example: Even when The Norwegian was amongst the living, I took my car to the car wash. I’m picky about my car. He saw cars as little more than transportation. He was a flawed human. Point being, I’m not totally immune to the guy stuff.
What brings the rant?
Driving home, in yesterday’s torrent of rain, an overlarge SUV next to me, with a male driver–I know because once recovered, at the light, twisting toward him full on, my eyes blazed holes into his soul and put a hex on his family for generations.
Rain is pelting. Streets are overflowing as they do during monsoon. I am slightly behind and to the right of SUV Driver Guy. There is clearly a massive flooded area ahead. I slow. He does not. Hits it at full speed, submerging my tiny car. I see nothing but water for a few seconds. I feel the car tilt leftward and spin just the slightest.
Panic. Followed by “Asshat,” and another moniker NSFW. We meet at the light, and that is where he receives the death stare. Of course, he’s nonplussed. He’s male.
Later in the day, the tire pressure light makes it presence known. Happens with change of temperature in Arizona. Which can come from being doused in freezing water minding one’s business tooling up Hayden. Information I also gleaned as a chick alone. Proud? Don’t be. I only know the essentials.
My car visits the dealer every six months. That is where tire things take place, including pressure checks. But Asshat decides to drown my little vehicle off schedule. Google, the real answer man, tells me to check the PSI with a tire gauge and cross check it with the recommended level printed on a sticker inside the door. I hate SUV Guy.
Do you own a tire gauge? Why yes, it’s next to my hatchet and chainsaw to the left of the toolbox. Target will surely have one, non? I get so lost in the books, coffee, cute holiday socks and bath bombs, I leave the store without a tire gauge. Greeted by the dashboard light, I curse SUV guy once more.
Guess we’re headed to an earlier than usual oil change and tire rotation, which includes a pressure check and any top off. Can’t get in ’til Saturday. Yes, it’s football season. I’ll take the waiting room featuring the SEC thank you. But will take my iPad just in case the holder of the remote is a Big Ten fan. Again, another guy.
Don’t they have light bulbs to change or ladders to climb? Pfft.
