Is a nasty thing. We'll start there. Sleep deprivation (in my mind) is a MORE than adequate justification for a range of crimes from simple bullying to outright manslaughter of an annoying spouse. Not that I have one of those. I digress.
Little has an amazing bladder for a two year old. Seriously, the kid could pee at least a half a gallon several times a day without batting an eye. For this supersized bladder, I have had to purchase the special (expensive) "nighttime" diapers. For a while this seemed to work. However, the problem is out of control now. He soaks his sheets and blankets on every nap time and every night. EVERY time. Talk about being the smelly kid. I'm changing the sheets twice a day have resorted to putting the fitted sheets from our bed onto his and using bath towels as blankets out of desperation.
Last night was no exception other than this time it was so bad that it woke him up. This is bad news for anyone who wants to get some sleep in our house. Or our neighborhood. He woke us and every living being in a 30 mile radius up at 2:30. We don't go to bed until midnight. It was 5 am before he finally decided that we could all sleep. We get up at 7:30 for school.
So I'm tired. And crabby. And tired.
After I drop big off at school, I'm followed home by some random person. I pull into my driveway thinking this is some nutter who is going to go ballistic over some imaginary driving offense I have committed against him (little does he know that he is playing with a sleep deprived crab-ass). It turns out that it's actually a nice little old man telling me that my tire is almost flat. Bah. I think I would have preferred the nutter.
I scrap my original plans of taking Little's 2 year photos this morning (whatever, it's only a month late) and take the car to get the tire fixed. Little's behavior is not that of someone who was up all hours of the night tormenting an entire neighborhood. In fact, he has even MORE energy than normal. Of course. Here is where it gets good.
I hear the guy call out "Angela" from behind the counter. That's me. Little goes streaking out into the showroom pinging himself off the tires hanging precariously on the wall.
Tire Guy: "Angela?"
Me (saving a wobbling tire from rolling across the showroom floor): "Yep"
TG: "With the Maxima"
Me (chasing little down as he runs across the path of an elderly man trying to get to the bathroom): "Yep"
I catch him and plop him on the counter.
TG: "That will be $77"
Me (holy freaking hell!!! The damn tire doesn't even cost that much brand new!! WTF!): "Ok" and I hand him my card >insert "you're a dumbass eye rolling smiley here"<.
He hands me the receipt to sign and I see "Oil change, alignment, rotation. . . " Hang on a minute! I didn't ask for any of this to be done!! They are taking advantage of me because I'm a woman. They are taking me to the cleaners because they don't think I'll know what is going on! What the hell!!! I hate mechanics. What greedy bastards!
I start from the top of the receipt to try to memorize this blatant gender discrimination for use in my tired crabby tirade that this guy is about to be subject to.
"Customer Name: Angela Cowell"
My name is Angela. But not Angela Cowell. As a matter of fact, I don't even drive a fucking Maxima. I drive a Lancer. Which we don't even call "the car" we call it "The Lancer". >insert the same smiley as above. . . again<
Let the self ass-kicking begin.
Me: "Oh my god. I am such an idiot. I'm really sorry, but this isn't my reciept. I'm just in here for a tire patch. I'm Angela *****, not Angela Cowell."
TG: "You don't drive a Maxima?"
Me: "Well, no."
TG: "Did I ask if it was the Maxima?"
Me: "Yes, yes you did and I said yes. I don't know what in the hell is wrong with me. I plead insanity from sleep deprivation."
TG (looking at me like I am the dumbest bitch to ever walk through that door): "Well, ummm. . . ok then. I'm going to have to get someone in here to refund this and try to print out a new receipt. I have no idea how to do this. We've never had someone pay someone else's bill before."
Me (desperately searching for a hole to crawl in and die): "No problem, I'm really really sorry, take your time. You can feel free to laugh your ass off at me when I leave. What an idiot."
Tire Guy cracks a smile and tries to take some of the blame because he can sense my humiliation but we both know that I had a true-blue, no Lady Clairol, au naturale- blond moment right here in the middle of a tire dealership. Except that I am not, in fact, a blond. Sigh.
In the end, Tire Guy is very helpful and nice about the whole thing. He gets my tire patched and hands me the keys with a smirk and says "Here's your Lancer key. It's that one. . . parked right out front." I deserved that.
Oh the shame.
Little has an amazing bladder for a two year old. Seriously, the kid could pee at least a half a gallon several times a day without batting an eye. For this supersized bladder, I have had to purchase the special (expensive) "nighttime" diapers. For a while this seemed to work. However, the problem is out of control now. He soaks his sheets and blankets on every nap time and every night. EVERY time. Talk about being the smelly kid. I'm changing the sheets twice a day have resorted to putting the fitted sheets from our bed onto his and using bath towels as blankets out of desperation.
Last night was no exception other than this time it was so bad that it woke him up. This is bad news for anyone who wants to get some sleep in our house. Or our neighborhood. He woke us and every living being in a 30 mile radius up at 2:30. We don't go to bed until midnight. It was 5 am before he finally decided that we could all sleep. We get up at 7:30 for school.
So I'm tired. And crabby. And tired.
After I drop big off at school, I'm followed home by some random person. I pull into my driveway thinking this is some nutter who is going to go ballistic over some imaginary driving offense I have committed against him (little does he know that he is playing with a sleep deprived crab-ass). It turns out that it's actually a nice little old man telling me that my tire is almost flat. Bah. I think I would have preferred the nutter.
I scrap my original plans of taking Little's 2 year photos this morning (whatever, it's only a month late) and take the car to get the tire fixed. Little's behavior is not that of someone who was up all hours of the night tormenting an entire neighborhood. In fact, he has even MORE energy than normal. Of course. Here is where it gets good.
I hear the guy call out "Angela" from behind the counter. That's me. Little goes streaking out into the showroom pinging himself off the tires hanging precariously on the wall.
Tire Guy: "Angela?"
Me (saving a wobbling tire from rolling across the showroom floor): "Yep"
TG: "With the Maxima"
Me (chasing little down as he runs across the path of an elderly man trying to get to the bathroom): "Yep"
I catch him and plop him on the counter.
TG: "That will be $77"
Me (holy freaking hell!!! The damn tire doesn't even cost that much brand new!! WTF!): "Ok" and I hand him my card >insert "you're a dumbass eye rolling smiley here"<.
He hands me the receipt to sign and I see "Oil change, alignment, rotation. . . " Hang on a minute! I didn't ask for any of this to be done!! They are taking advantage of me because I'm a woman. They are taking me to the cleaners because they don't think I'll know what is going on! What the hell!!! I hate mechanics. What greedy bastards!
I start from the top of the receipt to try to memorize this blatant gender discrimination for use in my tired crabby tirade that this guy is about to be subject to.
"Customer Name: Angela Cowell"
My name is Angela. But not Angela Cowell. As a matter of fact, I don't even drive a fucking Maxima. I drive a Lancer. Which we don't even call "the car" we call it "The Lancer". >insert the same smiley as above. . . again<
Let the self ass-kicking begin.
Me: "Oh my god. I am such an idiot. I'm really sorry, but this isn't my reciept. I'm just in here for a tire patch. I'm Angela *****, not Angela Cowell."
TG: "You don't drive a Maxima?"
Me: "Well, no."
TG: "Did I ask if it was the Maxima?"
Me: "Yes, yes you did and I said yes. I don't know what in the hell is wrong with me. I plead insanity from sleep deprivation."
TG (looking at me like I am the dumbest bitch to ever walk through that door): "Well, ummm. . . ok then. I'm going to have to get someone in here to refund this and try to print out a new receipt. I have no idea how to do this. We've never had someone pay someone else's bill before."
Me (desperately searching for a hole to crawl in and die): "No problem, I'm really really sorry, take your time. You can feel free to laugh your ass off at me when I leave. What an idiot."
Tire Guy cracks a smile and tries to take some of the blame because he can sense my humiliation but we both know that I had a true-blue, no Lady Clairol, au naturale- blond moment right here in the middle of a tire dealership. Except that I am not, in fact, a blond. Sigh.
In the end, Tire Guy is very helpful and nice about the whole thing. He gets my tire patched and hands me the keys with a smirk and says "Here's your Lancer key. It's that one. . . parked right out front." I deserved that.
Oh the shame.
5 comments:
oh Angela!!! Hilarious!!! Sorry about the long day at the fix it shop, but in your defense, you were trying to save Little life when he asked who you were!! Hugs girl!! And sleepy vibes for Little tonight!
Boof!!! How did I not know you had a blog over here! Ack! You have been added of course to my blog roll. Sorry chicka! And thanks for reading!
thanks girl. No one really lnows except a few. I suck and apparently only know how to vent.
Bwah, ha, ha, ha. Angela you are too funny. I would totally do that.
LOL! Too funny! I wonder in your sleep deprived state you heard Maxson when the man said Maxima? Hope you all caught up on sleep.
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