Woman: “Honey?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Can I ask you a question?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Would you do something for me?”

Man: “What?”

Woman: “Do you see that bowl on the table?”

Man: “Yes.”

Woman: “Can you reach it?”

Man: “Yes.”

Woman: “Would you bring it to me?”

Man: “OK.”

* * *

Man: “Bring that bowl to me from the table.”

Woman: “Is that an order?”

Man: “Will you bring me that bowl on the table?”

Woman: “How about a please?”

Man: “Will you please bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “What bowl?”

Man: “The one on the table.”

Woman: “This one?”

Man: “Yes. Please bring me that bowl.”

Woman: “I can get you a clean one from the cabinet.”

Man: “I just need that bowl. Will you please bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “You don’t want this one, it had milk in it.”

Man: “I need that bowl now. Can you just bring me that bowl?”

Woman: “OK, but let me wash it out first.”

Man: “It’s fine as it is. Just bring it to me!”

Woman: “Don’t raise your voice to me!”

Man: <sigh> “Please bring me that bowl.”

Woman: “OK. See, you could have just asked politely from the beginning.”

Bullgrit

I’m sure it breaks my momma’s heart to think that her sweet, eldest son cusses. But I do. Not in front of my children, where I mumble incoherently under my breath, or I use non-sense syllables like Joe Pesci in Home Alone. And usually not on this blog, where I type slower than I talk and so can pre-emptively edit what I say.

But with my friends, when relaxed, I cuss fluently. Now, I don’t just let vulgarities fly for the h— of it, or just for s—- and giggles. I don’t throw the f-bomb around intentionally. The words just kind of roll off my tongue.

I think I cuss more than my gaming buddies. Maybe I cuss more on game nights with my friends because I have to hold it in all the other days and nights of the week. None of the other guys have children, so they can probably get their Fs and Ps and MFGDSOBPs out of their systems.

But me, I’m cramping from holding in all my MGFULDPSs all week. They have to come out when they can or I might get clogged up. And I definitely don’t want to get my A all clogged up with S because the GD words F up my A and E with I, O, U and sometimes Y.

Bullgrit

Continued from last post.

Side note: A couple of years ago, my mom told me she was going to cancel her home phone. She’d use just her cell phone from then on. So I deleted her land line number from my cell phone directory. I’ve since only called her cell phone. But she never actually canceled her land line.

On this Thanksgiving morning, when I called her cell phone, she didn’t answer. Her phone was back in her bedroom, out of hearing range.

Now, I don’t tell any of the above as a complaint, but merely to complete the scene of me trying to effect a change of tires in a gravel parking lot on a cold November morning.

After failing to get her on her cell phone, I thought for a moment and remembered her home phone number. I thought myself rather intelligent to remember the number after having not so much as looked at it in at least two years, and not having dialed it directly in years more than that. (Who dials directly when we have speed dial?)

I dialed her home phone number, but got a sleepy man on the line. “Sorry, wrong number,” I explained. Dammit.

I waited a few minutes sitting in the van, out of the cold breeze. After a couple minutes, my mom called me back on her cell phone. I explained that I needed her to come out to me so I could use her car jack. “OK,” she said, “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I waited a couple more minutes, and then on a lark, I went back to the trunk of the van to fiddle with the stuck jack again.

I tried several times to turn the screw on the jack, and finally it moved. I managed to turn it far enough that I could get the jack out of its sleeve. I immediately called my mom back and told her not to come to me.

I took the jack and commenced to lifting up the van. The short jack handle combined with cold hands made raising the van frustratingly difficult — I scraped my knuckles on the gravel a few times. Ow, crap. Ow, shit. Ow, mutha’ fuckin’ shit.

Anyway, to make an already long story not longer, I got the flat tire off and the spare tire on. The interior of the van was a wreck with family junk strewn everywhere, but I just closed all the doors and drove off. My cussing died down within the hour.

The next day, I got the tire replaced (two, actually, as it was about time anyway).

Moral of this story? I don’t know.

Revelation from this story? I can cuss. (My mom will probably send me an email chastising me for my language in these recent posts.)

Facepalm moment from this story? I remembered my mom’s home phone number correctly, but I used the wrong area code. <sigh>

Bullgrit

Thanksgiving morning I was driving our minivan out to pick up some breakfast from the only fast food restaurant open that morning (Bojangles). Turning onto a section of the main road in my hometown, I felt a strange rumble in the ride. At first I thought it was a bad section of the road, but after a few seconds, I realized it wasn’t the road.

I pulled off the street and into a gravel parking lot. I got out, walked around the van looking at the tires, and found the front passenger side completely flat. Well hell.

The morning was cold, and I was in just a long-sleeve t-shirt with no coat. This was not going to be fun. Changing a tire in the cold, in a gravel parking lot. Yeah, it had “blog whine” written all over it.

We had just driven into town the night before, so our travel junk was still scattered about the inside of the van. The trunk area was full of two scooters (with helmets), a bag of books that had spilt its contents, a folded stroller (Why do we still have a stroller in the van?), and various other family van crap that just gets in my way all the freakin’ time.

I started pulling the junk out of the back of the van and moving it to the middle area so I could get to the spare tire. After clearing the back, I discovered that the spare tire is not in the back. Well where the hell is it?

I pulled the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment. Reading the relevant section, I found that the spare tire is under the floor in the middle of the van — where I had just moved all the back junk to. Son of a bitch!

I moved all the junk back and cleared out the middle of the van to get to the spare tire under the floor. After moving all the first junk, I then had to move the box of toys, the sundry other scattered debris that boys leave in their wake, and the extra floor mats (’cause we have messy children).

I opened the floor section and unscrewed the bolts holding things in place, and at last tugged and pulled the spare tire out of the car. But there was no jack or lug wrench. What the hell?

I went back to the owner’s manual. According to the book, the tools are kept secured in a secret compartment in the trunk area — where I had just moved everything back to after moving them out of the way at first. Oh for fuck’s sake!

I moved everything out of the trunk again, and found the secret tool compartment. I pulled out the lug wrench, but then I couldn’t get out the jack. It was in its slot very tight; it wouldn’t even budge or wiggle. I checked the owner’s manual. I’m supposed to turn the jack screw to loosen it (contract it) in its position.

I stuck the back end of the lug wrench into the jack screw to turn it, but in its position, I could only turn it a quarter turn — not enough to loosen it. I tried turning the screw with my fingers, but it was too tight (or my hands were too cold). Damn this whole mess straight to hell!

I thought for a moment and figured, OK, I can call my mom to bring out her car. I can use her car’s jack to raise up this van and put on my spare tire.

To be continued . . .

Bullgrit