Six More Pseudo-Shopping Days

December 19, 2005 at 12:23 pm (Rant Goodness, WTF)

Well, I can't say I was bored Saturday. I can say I was annoyed, angry, frozen, pissed-off, put-upon, had my time totally wasted, hungry, chilled to the bone, and ready to kill.

Honey and I had planned to go Xmas shopping Saturday. We'd planned it for a week, ever since we found out he had a reprieve from Hell (YOU work at a Meijer's during the Silly Season and tell me it's not Hell) scheduled for that day. Finally, I'd be able to get out of MY personal Hell and get the bits and pieces of shopping done that I hadn't been able to do with no car. Sure, I could have made someone ship me the stoopid stuff, like the chocolate-covered cherries I love this time of year and the cans of cashews, but it's ridiculous to pay shipping when there's places close by that have them cheap.

Saturday dawns, clear and cold, two days after piles of snow shit down from the sky. Honey decides he's not going anywhere, because he had trouble getting in the driveway due to his tires needing replacement. Beautiful–does that mean Honey's never going anywhere ever again (shudder)? Why, no of course not–he has to work Sunday. "And your tires are going to fucking GROW tread overnight? Just get the new tires you need and we'll go shopping afterward."

I'm a fucking moron. I really should know better than to think anything will be that easy these days.

Of course the tire shop is PACKED, which made for excellent people watching but really sucked the southbound end of a northbound, syphilitic donkey when it came to getting tires put on. (Remind me sometime to tell you how I know that men look absolutely ridiculous in green rubber clogs.) Anyhow, Honey gets the guy to admit there are tires for Baby, the store has them in stock, and that the people in their employ can be empowered to put them on the car. This takes approximately half an hour longer than it should, due to the jerk not believing that an automotive engineer actually knows what kind of tires his car TAKES, plus the obligatory ooh-ing and aah-ing over one of Detroit's finest hunks of sheet metal.

The male admiration dance done, we sit down to wait. Did I mention that the heat in Honey's car is out? Neither did he–I got a wee little bit cold during the 20 minute drive over in the teens-temperature weather. By a "wee little bit" I mean I froze my fat ass off! Good DOG it was cold out there! By the time we arrived at the tire shop I'd talked myself out of the Caribou run I was going to ask for and decided hot coffee at the tire shop would only suck taste-wise, but it was hot and we wouldn't have to wait for it.

Wrong again, Serra. They had run OUT of coffee in the cute little stainless steel air pot they usually serve it in. Not only that, but it seemed to take three of the little dillholes to help the bleached blonde with the fake tits pick out tires, leaving zero to go make any more. They weren't dissuaded by her husband being on the cell phone talking to her at the time either. It took one of them half an hour to tear his eyes away from her false mammary glands to make coffee, and that was because SHE wanted some! Aw, fuck you running, bitch. I bet the heat in YOUR kinderschnoozenvagen works!

TWO hours later, these morons finally admit they're too dumb to pour piss from a boot with the directions written on the heel. They come out and tell Honey that they just can't get one of the lug nuts to budge and they have no equipment to make it budge. You heard me right–a place that does nothing but tires has no equipment that will let them remove a stubborn lug nut. Nice. They suggest we take it down the road to Tuffy's, where they're competent and have more than a tire mounter and an air wrench for tools.

We arrive at Tuffy's less than an hour before both Dipshit Tire and Tuffy's close. The nice man inside (no sarcasm here, folks–this guy was truly nice, if acting a little like an artist in the process of painting the next Mona Lisa) has Honey cough up Baby's keys and sets to work. Just before closing, we get the bad news.

The guys at Dipshit Tire weren't quite as incompetent, stupid and weak as we'd thought, because OTHER incompetent, stupid weaklings had managed to cross-thread that lug nut. Yep–picture someone screwing the lid onto your favorite pickles crooked, only they used an impact wrench so it was tighter than a virgin's ass. Turns out that Spunkass Tire, the folks who put the last tire on, fucked it over so that no one else could possibly work on it. What they failed to realize is that they won't be able to work on it easily either.

We're told that tire is not coming off today, and it's not coming off at all short of a torch job to sever the bolt the nut screws onto, which will need to be followed by putting a new bolt on. This job will be lengthy and expensive. Honey thanks the man, who very nicely cut the usual fee in half as he'd only put labor into the car at that point, gave us his card, and we trundled off into the night.

At 5 pm on Saturday, here's what I'd accomplished:

SEVERAL rounds of muttering about asswipes who were programmed to say "We only do tires"
FOUR hours of sitting in colder than necessary places
TOO many choruses of "You will NOT point and giggle" to myself
Two visits to places where not a single thing was sold for holiday gifting or frolicing but were packed with folk whose destiny was to piss me off
THREE searches of my purse for quarters to purchase junk food to tide me over until the nightmare ended.
ONE blurt of "You're fucking kidding me!" in an appropriate but not necessarily welcome point in the conversation at Tuffy's.

While we were waiting at Tuffy's, I resigned myself to no shopping being done. I was tired. I hurt like I'd been beat with a tire iron. I was shivering even in a heavy leather coat. Dog-damnit, I hadn't had a decent cup of coffee all day! Stick a fork in the bitch, I was DONE. In between apologies for the total lack of shopping glee, I talked Honey into a stop at Big Boy (best Country Fried Steak I can get here) once we left Tuffy's, then MAYBE, IF I fucking felt like it, we'd hit Hel*Mouth.

Turns out that's what we did–I resisted the urge to drink my dinner (Livingston County has a new smoking law, but it doesn't apply to places with bars, so Big Boy has a bar), pigged out on deep fried meat, potatoes and some of the best coleslaw I don't make myself, and went to Hel*Mouth before going home. On reaching home I decided that throwing my still-frozen ass in bed, covering it with every blanket we could find, supplying me liberally with hot chocolate and good movies was the best plan I could come up with.

Next year, screw it–if I can't buy it online, I'm not giving it.

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