I'm sorry to announce that I am crabby. I wanted to throw a party; I have now written 300 posts. I wanted to write about baking cookies with my kids last night, life lessons with flour and eggs. (The kids learn fractions, I learn p a t i e n c e.) Instead I was a good citizen, good wifey and took my car for a vehicle emissions test.
I pulled up to the booth and immediately the young woman started asking me questions. I'm not even going to pretend I speak car. My husband speaks car to me all the time. I 'listen' but don't retain squat. Heck, I listen and it sounds like:
car car car, car car car, blahblahblah, what's for dinner? blahblahblah car car car, you are pretty and the best wife ever, carcarcarblahblahblah, blah blah, Buffy. (Okay, he never talks about Buffy which makes me weep.)
You get the picture. I only perk up when it pertains to me. So when Ms. Inspection asked me a reasonable question I didn't know the answer to, I sighed and made a guess. In a grander moment, I would have looked at the registration paperwork in my hands, but I had just walked and gabbed on a treadmill for an hour and I was beat. Sweaty me couldn't think straight. She took the paper from me and corrected me. Cheater! Forget what I said. She's Ms. Snide. Every question is the same: Awkward silence followed by me hemming and hawing and wishing Greg was doing all the car stuff. Finally she dismissed me to pull ahead while she laughed with her co-worker, clearly at my expense. Oh funny funny her.
Laugh now Ms. Car-Speaking Mean Girl. I'll be back, and next time, I'll have all the answers right. Next time, I'll bring Greg.
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