On one of the message boards I like to read, someone started a thread entitled “What’s Your Curse?” Many people posted that their curse was wearing white: neat eaters though they might be 98% of the time, whenever they wore anything white, somehow sauce, coffee, cola, catsup, etc. became magnetically attracted to their clothing. One poster’s variation on that theme was wearing anything expensive, with the likelihood of spillage increasing with the price tag of the garment.
Another poster’s curse, to which I could relate, was that no matter how she tried, she never managed to be anywhere on time, whether it was ridiculously early or woefully late. To paraphrase, if a trip normally took 20 minutes and she allowed 20 minutes, all sorts of construction, traffic jams and unforseen issues stretched it to nearly an hour. If, on the other hand, she allowed one hour for the same trip, she found herself at her destination more than half an hour early. This happened to me recently, when we were spectacularly early for Michelle’s birthday party, but neither of us dreamed that we could get from our house to Midtown on a Saturday night, find a place to which we’d never been, find parking and get inside in 20 minutes.
Those things happen to me only occasionally, however. My own personal curse is “turning the simple into the labyrinthine”. If I have something to do that elicits groans from everyone, we all agree that it’s going to be difficult and arduous and complex, why that’s no problem. I can manage, eventually, and it won’t even be all that bad. However, let me try (or need) to do something that 95% of the adult population does all the time, as a matter of routine, and it will turn into such a ridiculous farce that it strains belief. My favorite lament during these situations is, “It cannot be THIS difficult. Stupid people do this.”
I’ll give you an example. Suppose I need new tyres on the Hellmobile. Everyone’s tyres wear out, everyone has to get new tyres, right? I have it on good authority that most of the time, what happens to other people is that they go to the tyre store, have new tyres put on, pay money and leave. Ha! Not so for me! Despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that I currently drive one of the most popular (in terms of sales numbers) convertibles in America, I will have to call around five or six places before I find a tyre store with the appropriate size and brand in stock. Most of the calls I make will be answered by people who treat me as though I have asked for a gold-plated, hand-carved Byzantine sheep-trimmer with handles in the shape of a ferret instead of 205/60R16 radials, too, but that may be a different curse entirely. At any rate, when I finally find someone who works at a tyre store, agrees that they have heard of tyres, might perhaps have the form and type I wish to buy, and might perhaps feel up to selling them to me, the following sort of events will ensue:
I arrive at the tyre store on time for my appointment and wait in a small, stuffy room with a handful of people that I am amazed can afford tyres, much less a car to place them upon, based upon their evident inability to afford soap and running water. I wait. And wait and wait. After enough time has passed for a grove of rubber trees to exude enough latex to produce four brand-new tyres, I will eventually be summoned by a gap-toothed, condescending Greasy Dude In Charge.
GDIC: I’m sorry, miss, but we seem to have run into a little bit of a problem with your car.
Me: *sigh* What kind of problem?
GDIC: Way-ull, Festus he was puttin’ them tyres on like you wanted but the air gun jammed and it’s done stripped off a lug nut. It’s ruint. The lug nut, not the air gun. Air gun's okay.
Me: Oh. Okay, well, can you replace the bad lug nut?
GDIC: Naw. Way-ull, we might can, but you see, that there is a See-baring convertible.
Me: Yes, I know. So what? There’s a NAPA next door, I can see their Greasy Dude In Charge out taking a smoke break from here.
GDIC: Way-ull, you see, you can’t just put ANY old lug nut on a See-baring. You gotta put gen-u-wine Chrysler lug nuts. NAPA don’t carry ‘em.
Me: [finding this hard to believe] Okay, well, there’s a Chrysler dealer 2 miles down the street, why don’t you get one from them?
GDIC: Naw, see, they don’t carry ‘em in stock. It’s a special-order part. Gonna take about 12 weeks to get her in.
Me: How can it be a special-order part?!? It’s a freaking LUG NUT that goes on what’s been the most popular convertible in America for the last four or five years!
GDIC: Way-ull, see what happened was Daimler, that there’s a furrin company, they bought Chrysler.
Me: Yes, I’m aware.
GDIC: So you can’t get them lug nuts just anywhere, you got to special-order ‘em from the Daimler out in Stuttgart and they make ‘em to order to fit your particular vehicle. Gotta place the order, then they gotta fabricate your lug nut, then it’s gotta get shipped here from Germany, gonna take about 12 weeks. No, no, nope, gotta clear customs, too. Eh, car’ll be ready in 16, 18 weeks. Give or take. Lessen there’s a storm.
Me: [close to losing it] Why in the hell would you have to special-order a FREAKING LUG NUT, that goes on an American car whose American parent company was acquired in 1998 by what was by that time a BRITISH company, from STUTTGART GERMANY?
GDIC: [smirking] Way-ull, it’s all on account of Gottlieb Daimler. He started that company a long time ago which you prolly didn't know, and they still make most of them parts in his home town. It’s a tribute, like.
Me: [losing it] AAAAGH! Gottlieb Daimler wasn’t from Stuttgart! He was from Schorndorf-Wurttemberg and you are obviously trying to take advantage of me because you think I’m a typical woman who knows nothing about cars but you’re wrong, I know LOTS about cars, enough to know you’re full of CRAP, you do not NEITHER have to special order a handmade lug nut from Stuttgart Freaking Germany for a 2004 Sebring! Here, take this money for the tyres, give me my damn car and I will FIX. IT. MYSELF.
[Time passes. Phone calls are made. Internet research is done. Experts are consulted.]
Me: Hello, Boss? I can’t come to the office because my car’s not driveable...oh, nothing, I just bought new tyres and they have to special order my lug nuts from Stuttgart and...yes, I know...16 weeks...unless there’s a storm...
So - what's YOUR curse?
Another poster’s curse, to which I could relate, was that no matter how she tried, she never managed to be anywhere on time, whether it was ridiculously early or woefully late. To paraphrase, if a trip normally took 20 minutes and she allowed 20 minutes, all sorts of construction, traffic jams and unforseen issues stretched it to nearly an hour. If, on the other hand, she allowed one hour for the same trip, she found herself at her destination more than half an hour early. This happened to me recently, when we were spectacularly early for Michelle’s birthday party, but neither of us dreamed that we could get from our house to Midtown on a Saturday night, find a place to which we’d never been, find parking and get inside in 20 minutes.
Those things happen to me only occasionally, however. My own personal curse is “turning the simple into the labyrinthine”. If I have something to do that elicits groans from everyone, we all agree that it’s going to be difficult and arduous and complex, why that’s no problem. I can manage, eventually, and it won’t even be all that bad. However, let me try (or need) to do something that 95% of the adult population does all the time, as a matter of routine, and it will turn into such a ridiculous farce that it strains belief. My favorite lament during these situations is, “It cannot be THIS difficult. Stupid people do this.”
I’ll give you an example. Suppose I need new tyres on the Hellmobile. Everyone’s tyres wear out, everyone has to get new tyres, right? I have it on good authority that most of the time, what happens to other people is that they go to the tyre store, have new tyres put on, pay money and leave. Ha! Not so for me! Despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that I currently drive one of the most popular (in terms of sales numbers) convertibles in America, I will have to call around five or six places before I find a tyre store with the appropriate size and brand in stock. Most of the calls I make will be answered by people who treat me as though I have asked for a gold-plated, hand-carved Byzantine sheep-trimmer with handles in the shape of a ferret instead of 205/60R16 radials, too, but that may be a different curse entirely. At any rate, when I finally find someone who works at a tyre store, agrees that they have heard of tyres, might perhaps have the form and type I wish to buy, and might perhaps feel up to selling them to me, the following sort of events will ensue:
I arrive at the tyre store on time for my appointment and wait in a small, stuffy room with a handful of people that I am amazed can afford tyres, much less a car to place them upon, based upon their evident inability to afford soap and running water. I wait. And wait and wait. After enough time has passed for a grove of rubber trees to exude enough latex to produce four brand-new tyres, I will eventually be summoned by a gap-toothed, condescending Greasy Dude In Charge.
GDIC: I’m sorry, miss, but we seem to have run into a little bit of a problem with your car.
Me: *sigh* What kind of problem?
GDIC: Way-ull, Festus he was puttin’ them tyres on like you wanted but the air gun jammed and it’s done stripped off a lug nut. It’s ruint. The lug nut, not the air gun. Air gun's okay.
Me: Oh. Okay, well, can you replace the bad lug nut?
GDIC: Naw. Way-ull, we might can, but you see, that there is a See-baring convertible.
Me: Yes, I know. So what? There’s a NAPA next door, I can see their Greasy Dude In Charge out taking a smoke break from here.
GDIC: Way-ull, you see, you can’t just put ANY old lug nut on a See-baring. You gotta put gen-u-wine Chrysler lug nuts. NAPA don’t carry ‘em.
Me: [finding this hard to believe] Okay, well, there’s a Chrysler dealer 2 miles down the street, why don’t you get one from them?
GDIC: Naw, see, they don’t carry ‘em in stock. It’s a special-order part. Gonna take about 12 weeks to get her in.
Me: How can it be a special-order part?!? It’s a freaking LUG NUT that goes on what’s been the most popular convertible in America for the last four or five years!
GDIC: Way-ull, see what happened was Daimler, that there’s a furrin company, they bought Chrysler.
Me: Yes, I’m aware.
GDIC: So you can’t get them lug nuts just anywhere, you got to special-order ‘em from the Daimler out in Stuttgart and they make ‘em to order to fit your particular vehicle. Gotta place the order, then they gotta fabricate your lug nut, then it’s gotta get shipped here from Germany, gonna take about 12 weeks. No, no, nope, gotta clear customs, too. Eh, car’ll be ready in 16, 18 weeks. Give or take. Lessen there’s a storm.
Me: [close to losing it] Why in the hell would you have to special-order a FREAKING LUG NUT, that goes on an American car whose American parent company was acquired in 1998 by what was by that time a BRITISH company, from STUTTGART GERMANY?
GDIC: [smirking] Way-ull, it’s all on account of Gottlieb Daimler. He started that company a long time ago which you prolly didn't know, and they still make most of them parts in his home town. It’s a tribute, like.
Me: [losing it] AAAAGH! Gottlieb Daimler wasn’t from Stuttgart! He was from Schorndorf-Wurttemberg and you are obviously trying to take advantage of me because you think I’m a typical woman who knows nothing about cars but you’re wrong, I know LOTS about cars, enough to know you’re full of CRAP, you do not NEITHER have to special order a handmade lug nut from Stuttgart Freaking Germany for a 2004 Sebring! Here, take this money for the tyres, give me my damn car and I will FIX. IT. MYSELF.
[Time passes. Phone calls are made. Internet research is done. Experts are consulted.]
Me: Hello, Boss? I can’t come to the office because my car’s not driveable...oh, nothing, I just bought new tyres and they have to special order my lug nuts from Stuttgart and...yes, I know...16 weeks...unless there’s a storm...
So - what's YOUR curse?
1 Comments:
That was a hilarious post! I laughed out loud reading it, though not without feeling sorry for you. :-) I think I've been cursed not to own an umbrella or a pair of sunglasses for more than a couple of weeks - less if they were expensive or a nice gift from someone I like. But it may be just connected to one of my more minor but persistent flaws: I lose things and then I can't ever find them. Mark can sometimes find my stuff over the phone (i.e., "have you looked in your car?" - Yes! Two times! - "in the CD console?" - Oh. Thanks!). But without help, my lost stuff stays lost forever.
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