When I asked my Uncle, who lives in Australia and is thus impartial in all cases of advice giving, if I should let Randy back into my life - After breaking up with him like 3 times, after he told me to get an abortion, after he left me four months pregnant - his advice was this :
The universe will keep sending you the same lesson over and over again until you learn it. So what you have to figure out is this; is this a lesson about forgiveness, cause everyone screws up, or is this a lesson about not trusting fuckwits?
I knew what the answer was immediately, but I was feeling like a good Christian. I was feeling scared and guilty. I was hormonal. I have a million excuses.
But the point is, I made the wrong decision. Again.
When you fuck up the same lesson this many times, does the universe just stop trying to help you out?
Monday, November 17, 2008
Living in the Country
The left front wheel hub. Seems it was bad. I didn't want to pay $250 to fix it, especially since I am an unemployed stay-at-my-parent's-home Mom. So I drove it until it started sounding really bad and was probably starting to pose a safety risk.
I live an hour outside of Richmond - in the BFE direction, in the country. So I thought I'd take it to the good old country garage Martin&Dabney's aka Spanky's a few miles from our house.
When I walk in it looks more like a forgotten auto parts storage closet/ deep fryer.
Seriously. To my right is all dusty auto parts, on shelves, hanging on the walls, hanging from the ceiling. In front and to the right of me is a dirty counter with various redneck bumper stickers on it, behind the counter is a greasy menu board and an actual bank of deep friers. And one of those hot dog rolly machines. I wouldn't eat something from there if zombies had taken over the Earth and it was the last food left. All the way to my right is an office door with a little window in the wall. The door is open. There's no one up front, so I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go into the office or not. I stand by the window. A woman peers at me. Then a man leers at me. But I can't tell who works here and who doesn't so I wait a little longer to be acknowledged. Finally, an older, fat, balding white guy in glasses and suspenders says "How can I help ya, darlin'?"
He talks just like the one guy from King of the Hill, so you can really only catch one out of every three or four words, but I'm pretty sure that's what he said.
I tell him what I need. He goes out through the back glass door to the garage and bellows until a younger, perkier version of himself comes into the shop to give me an estimate.
On the shop door is a sign that reads
"Rates:
$60/hr
If you watch us $70/hr
If you give us advice $80/hr
If you help us $90/hr
If you worked on it before you brought it to us $110/hr"
I like the younger man. He's nice. He goes around the shop looking up parts and labor in various binders, turning the pages with his pinkies because his hands are all greasy. I follow him around because I don't know where I should stand or if I should follow him and converse.
Meanwhile, the man in suspenders is behind the counter dumping out the fry baskets. I know that I will leave smelling like fish sticks and fried chicken.
I finally get an estimate. I leave my keys. Next to the door, above the trash can is a sign that says "Please do not spit in the trash bin - Flo"
So quaint
I live an hour outside of Richmond - in the BFE direction, in the country. So I thought I'd take it to the good old country garage Martin&Dabney's aka Spanky's a few miles from our house.
When I walk in it looks more like a forgotten auto parts storage closet/ deep fryer.
Seriously. To my right is all dusty auto parts, on shelves, hanging on the walls, hanging from the ceiling. In front and to the right of me is a dirty counter with various redneck bumper stickers on it, behind the counter is a greasy menu board and an actual bank of deep friers. And one of those hot dog rolly machines. I wouldn't eat something from there if zombies had taken over the Earth and it was the last food left. All the way to my right is an office door with a little window in the wall. The door is open. There's no one up front, so I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go into the office or not. I stand by the window. A woman peers at me. Then a man leers at me. But I can't tell who works here and who doesn't so I wait a little longer to be acknowledged. Finally, an older, fat, balding white guy in glasses and suspenders says "How can I help ya, darlin'?"
He talks just like the one guy from King of the Hill, so you can really only catch one out of every three or four words, but I'm pretty sure that's what he said.
I tell him what I need. He goes out through the back glass door to the garage and bellows until a younger, perkier version of himself comes into the shop to give me an estimate.
On the shop door is a sign that reads
"Rates:
$60/hr
If you watch us $70/hr
If you give us advice $80/hr
If you help us $90/hr
If you worked on it before you brought it to us $110/hr"
I like the younger man. He's nice. He goes around the shop looking up parts and labor in various binders, turning the pages with his pinkies because his hands are all greasy. I follow him around because I don't know where I should stand or if I should follow him and converse.
Meanwhile, the man in suspenders is behind the counter dumping out the fry baskets. I know that I will leave smelling like fish sticks and fried chicken.
I finally get an estimate. I leave my keys. Next to the door, above the trash can is a sign that says "Please do not spit in the trash bin - Flo"
So quaint
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