two dolla

so i almost killed my grandma

One of the best things about my cousin having a blog, aside from pictures and stories of the best second-cousin in the world, is that I get to read stories about myself that I might not necessarily remember, because I was either A) too young or B) don’t have the memory she has.

Today was one of my favorite stories. It’s one of those things that I think I may remember, but I also think it could be because the story gets told on a regular basis. I can’t say my love for all things flaming has faded, but I will say I’m more careful about whose head I may cover in a sweet ball of fire.

From the cousin today: I’ve got to interject right here, because I want to tell you my all-time favorite camping story, but it doesn’t fit anywhere else in my story so I’m going to drop it here. We were on a big family camping trip. My granny had this bouffant hairdo – how she got hair that big in the great outdoors, I have no idea. The Cuz (that’s me) was a wee one who was probably too young to be given a marshmallow on a sharp stick and instructions to stick the whole rig into the campfire, but what the hell did we know? When she pulled that black, flaming marshmallow from the fire, she went looking for someone to remove it for her and plop! The whole mass of flaming goo landed in Granny’s ‘do. I think Jesus’ love was the only thing that protected my granny from the potentially lethal combination of fire and half a jar of Dippity Do.

I really miss our family camping trips that involved my arthritic grandma’s hair catching on fire due to wreckless fire-handling abilities. At least I didn’t try touching the hot marshmallow myself, right?

i have rough life

This is the shirt I have on today. It’s the only math equation that I’ve ever truly enjoyed. I finally broke down and bought this one and this one from ThinkGeek. I’d been eyeing them forever, and decided I need some more t-shirts anyway. Right.
I’m pretty sure my car needs a new serpentine belt and possibly my brakes should be bled. Of co urse, I didn’t figure that out on my own. That’s why I have manly man friends. Now just comes the part of me taking it into a shop and acting like I know what’s going on.

There are very, very few times in my life when I hate being a girl. One of those times is directly related to my uterus and/or ovaries. The other is when I have to have any type of mechanical work done to my car at all. Even during an oil change, I always think the 20-year-old mechanics are going to try to trick me into getting blinker fluid.

And then there’s the whole going without a car thing while the car’s in the shop, which I pretty much hate more than almost anything. Maybe it gives me a good excuse to go get a Nintendo DS Lite and sit in the waiting room while they make the necessary repairs to my still unnamed car.