meat, tires and life planners

A personal life planner would be awesome. Imagine someone making all your decisions for you, especially if they could magically know the outcomes of each possible decision.

Except that I don't really like being told what to do.

But still.

Honestly. I am so bored.

Do you know what would be awesome - besides the aforementioned life planner? A bonfire. But not by myself. I'd need my husband to stop working on that pile of scrap metal on the road he calls a truck and light something up. I could light it up too, but it would be more fun if he was around when it happened. One of these days one of you will show up with three logs and a lighter and we'll sit around the fire. How cool would that be? Imagine the invite:

You're invited to a Party!
Where: Tiffany's House
When: Friday night
Why?: Because she found some coolers, 
and she's bored, and needs her friends to entertain her.

Bring a lawn chair and a log. Two logs would be better 
and would earn you vast amounts of brownie points.

We had a giant log pile last summer, but it's gone. 

Come to think of it, you may want to bring a lighter too. We had Tennyson's birthday party last weekend, and we got all our friends and relatives sitting at the table, the birthday boy at the center of attention, and then it took us ten minutes to scrounge up a lighter. 

Speaking of killing nature, Tennyson asked about his meat yesterday at supper. He was sitting there, getting ready to savagely tie into his ribs, when he stopped, looked at his meat and asked "Mommy, did this used to be part of an animal?"
"Yep," I said.
"What kind?"
He looked at the meat again. "Did there used to be blood in here?" At this point he used his fork to lift one corner of the slab of meat on his plate, and I swear his lip curled up a little in a gaggy face. The kid hates blood.
"Yep," I said. 
"It's cooked off," said Steven, before I could add "Loads." 

I'm going to make any future therapists truly earn their money. Did you also know that Tennyson's absolute favorite supper is a hamburger?

"Hey," I continued. "You know those hamburgers you like so much?"
"Yeah," he said.
"They're made of ground up cow."

I'm not even kidding. 

That actually helped. At that point he wasn't going to be grossed out by the thought of munching on an animal. If ground up cow could make him a hamburger, there was no point in refusing an oinker. The kid was born to be a meat eater.

I almost feel a little guilty for not going outside and keeping Steven company while he tinkers, but I am so not interested in car stuff. Did I ever tell you that last summer I was at the Polo Park mall and one of my tires went flat? It's true. Stupid flat tire. I was pulling out of my parking spot and someone waved frantically at me and I locked my doors and opened my window a tiny bit and was informed that I had a flat tire.

It wasn't just a little we-can-probably-drive-it-to-a-gas-station low, it was pretty much sitting on the rim.

Once upon a time when I lived in Austin a friend of mine told me that he figured I should probably know a little bit about my car. All I really knew was that in a small town you could own and drive a car an entire year before getting your license and that it was okay to blow through stop signs because there were never any cops around anyway. Right. My friend. He was a little older, probably a tad wiser (but only about car stuff, because seriously, come on), and figured that one day when we had a little time I could bring my car over and we'd have a lesson in changing a tire, checking the oil, and . . . some other random stuff. I said sure. We'll totally do that. But not today.

Honestly, there are people to call for that sort of thing. 

Didn't mean I wasn't a little pissed one day when I drove home from Portage, got a flat miles from any town, tried to approach someone's highway-side house to borrow a phone only to be scared off by a giant barking dog, and walked miles before being picked up by a semi driver with a semi truck that was so full of crosses and other religious paraphernalia that it was more creepy than spiritual and I spent the twenty minute drive fearing spending seven years in a box under his bed if I didn't find a way to jump out of the moving semi. As it stood, I did get dropped off on the highway outside of town, and managed to walk the last mile in the sweltering heat to my house where I phoned my mom's boyfriend to drive me back to my car and change my tire.

See? We call people for these things.

I can honestly say I don't remember where this started. Let me scroll. Hang on.

Right, polo park, flat tire. I pulled the van back into the parking spot and called Steven. Can you believe that he didn't want to install a bunch of car seats into the car to drive to Winnipeg and change the tire? Me neither. He told me to read the manual. 

Steven is the only guy I know who has a manual for all the vehicles we own. I didn't even know you could go to the store and find a book for the exact make and model and year of vehicle. Apparently you can. He's so booky and cute. "What? I need to pull out the gas tank to get at that other part I need to change in the car? Hang on, let me get the book." 
"Steven," I said. "Maybe you should call your dad, or a friend, or someone just to have someone to bounce ideas off." I try to be really diplomatic about this stuff, but I'll admit, when he adjusts his glasses and opens the book I always worry, just a little. I really shouldn't, because he always gets it done.
Like I said. Booky. Cute. Kind of awesome. Scratch the "kind of."

"Change the tire," Steven says.
"Well what if I can't? Huh?" I retort.
Sigh (why people do all this sighing, I'll never know). "You can. You just have to loosen the nuts and pop the tire off and (some other random things I can't remember)..."
"Honestly Steven. You're really not coming?" I'm not even making this up. I know, it looks all silly when written out like this.
"It'll take me over an hour to get there."
"Depends how fast you drive."
"Change the tire."
"Can't I drive on the rim for just a block or two?" I wasn't really serious, but I thought I'd throw it out there.
"No." More sighing.
"There's a book in the glove box. Look it up. The special lug nut key is in there too."
"Fine. Do you think your dad would come? He lives way closer."
"You can do it."
"Fine. Whatever."

I hung up the phone, looked up the book, was somewhat melodramatic about our plight, and worried Jordan until I let her play games on my iphone. 

"Hey you know what Jordan?" I asked.
"Girls can do anything boys can do. We're going to change this tire."
"Daddy's not coming?" 
"No. We can do it."

We unscrewed the bolt to lower the spare, we found the jack, I found the key, I got all ready to loosen the first nut and it would not frigging budge. Not even a little. I may have even tried standing on the wrench. Nope.

"Alright Steven, the bolt is too tight. It won't budge."
"Well you might have to try really hard."
"Yeah, I hadn't thought of that. No really, I cannot get it to move."

I was more melodramatic,  and may have made a few smart-ass remarks about living in the van in the parking lot. I may have made Jordan cry, resulting in having to make her feel better.

I may  have called Steven's dad. He may have changed the tire. I may have been a little annoyed that in the end it was pure and simple wimpiness that prevented the tire change. 

The other day I told Jordan that when she got her first car she'd get to learn how to change a tire, check the oil, blah blah blah.

I totally could do it. It's really not that complicated. I just really don't feel like it, and having the stupid nuts not budge when I finally try doesn't help.

Just like I don't feel like sitting in the garage, or on the road, or wherever, watching someone else fix a truck.

Funny story: here I'm feeling all guilty about not keeping Steven company and he just called me from Sobey's wanting to know if I wanted dessert and let me know that he just visited his grandparents. If I think really hard about everything that was said to me in the last hour that I somewhat listened to, I do maybe remember something about him going . . . somewhere.


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