Da-da-do-diddy-do-da, "Hello. What is going on?"
"Hey, Tracy! Do you have an airpump thingy like at 7-11?"
"Yesss. Why?""Can you bring it over?"
"Uuuuh, no it weighs like 600 pounds."
"I have a very flat tire, and I need to air it up! I am in a hurry! I need to get to work!"
"Fix a Flat?"
"No! I did that already this week! It is reallyreally flat. The rubber is all folded over" (see pic above...)
"Oooohkay. So, change your tire."
"That will take too long!" (I am thinking he doesn't know how to do this...) "Can you help so it will go faster?"
"Suuuure. I know you have issues with car repairs. What-goes-where is confusing for you." (Moron.)
Tracy, Goddess of all things Mechanical, to the rescue. I cannot count how many tires I have changed, in heels and a miniskirt, no less. I even changed a master cylinder on the side of the highway in Dallas during rush hour. I like brakes. I think back to high school, and I was smart to buy that '69 Chevelle. I had to learn how to work on cars and pronto. Or walk.
I changed his damn tire. He went to work. I came home and smoked a cigarette. I don't view this as a failure. The universe aligned against my wishes to be smoke-free and sent my ex-moron. In reality, it was a resounding success. I only smoked one ciggy, and I didn't shoot him, either.
Yea me!
