Sure, I'm excited the old Dodge is running again. It makes Mr. Buffie happy and we share a love for horsepower. But seriously, I am ready to retire from Tool Bitch status for good.
When dad was here, he and Mr. B were under the car, fixing (sort of) a transmission fluid leak. And I make the big dumb mistake of wandering into the garage. One 'hey, hand me a 7/16 shallow socket' turns into a sweaty, mosquito-infested two hours of 'I need a rubber mallet' and 'can you find that wrench I just had,' 'you need to hold the light here for a second (or ten minutes).'
And in spite of my insistence that Tool Bitch was done with their greasy grossness, my protests were ignored. Instead the two of them gang up on me, threatening to make me eat thank-you-drive-thru for dinner and trying to imply that working on a car that hasn't been driven in four years is somehow a favor to me. No, no. I need no favors. I have three other vehicles I can drive, thanks.
I did eventually get a real dinner. But I smelled like old fuel and I wasn't too happy about it. Daddy's little gear head may like her internal combustion engines, but she's paid her dues being elbow-deep in cleaning solvent, with a wire brush, scrubbing gunk of all manner of sharp and awkward to hold objects when she could have been inside an air conditioned house happily playing Barbie with her Siamese cat.
I guess I'm always going to be Tool Bitch. It's time to accept my station in life on that front. But can I get a goo-proof suit and an air-filtration mask, both in pink please? I think I've earned it by now.
No comments:
Post a Comment