Lowering the Bar— Joke

This week has been a mixed bag. The bag I reached into on Friday, hoping for the best, rendered me a flat tire. Every so often I just have to stare, so I did. Then I looked up to the sky and asked my beloved dead dogs in heaven how they could let this happen to me, and I forgave them. I faced the problem again. The weather was acceptable, cold as a witch’s tit, but otherwise pleasant. I felt myself slipping into an enjoyable catatonic state when I remembered it would be dark in a few hours, so I had to snap out of it.

I am old school, and until my divorce a decade ago, I delegated jobs like this to he who shall remain nameless. Left to my devices, I learned to do it all. I am my own handyman. You can do anything with the right tools. For all I’ve done, including insignificant auto-related fixes like jumping a car battery and repairing a trunk latch, never, in my long life, have I changed a tire. I called my kids. “New phone, who dis?” What’s the saying? Necessity is the mother of three adult children who are too busy for me. Yeah, that one. Today you may call me Necessity.

I pulled out my phone and searched for answers. As per said internet search, I learned the real purpose of the contraption in my trunk (that looks like a giant wine opener.) I used my entire 7.8 stone carcass to loosen the lug-nuts by standing on the tire-iron, holding on to the side mirror and bouncing. Listen to me using new words- “lug-nuts, tire-iron.” As someone who was told by her neurosurgeon not to lift over ten pounds, I can assure you my body weight did the work. This was simple physically and mentally, (if not emotionally because lately, I’m a struggling.) It was so easy, in fact, that I might just rotate my tires… or not. Bucket list item 308, change a tire — ✔️.

Moving on, I put the bicycle-wheel size spare tire on my automobile and called the nameless warehouse center where I purchased tires five years ago. I was notified the next available appointment was on Saturday at 3 pm. I arrived at 2:50 and at exactly 3:10, they acknowledged my existence.

The employee directed me, via an extended index finger, to the rear of the warehouse, advising me to take one of the guys to my car and have him tell me if the tire was salvageable. I went where he sent me, but the door was locked. A sign said, “WORK AREA, DO NOT ENTER, ALARM WILL SOUND.”

In a war between back spasms and fear of alarms, pain wins, so I tried to open the door. Locked, lucky for me because, considering the status of my hair day, I realized a flattering mugshot would have been an impossibility. Returning to the counter, I told my new friend I was going out front to find help because I couldn’t get in where his index finger sent me. He rolled his eyes and said yeah, you can’t go back there.

I stood there outside, six feet away from a group of men who ignored me. Taking two steps forward, I achieved my goal, which was to confirm that I was not invisible. Someone yelled at me, “Ma’m, you can’t be back here!” (Ma’m?) I took 2 steps back. The young guy who yelled at me came forward and was actually very nice. It was hard to tell with his mask on, but I think he was an old friend of my son’s. I didn’t ask. There was a giant nail in my tire, which I would have seen had I looked, but the tire exceeded my spine’s weight limit. No fix for me. My five-year tire warranty expired on November 7. (Ahahahahaha, my life!) Okay, so I returned to wait in line, this time to order new tires. Thirty minutes later, my back was aflame.

I made it back to my original guy, who, as I stepped forward, went on break. No big deal. My roof is leaking, so this is nothing. A new, fresh guy looked up my tires and quoted me a great price- “a sale that ends today.” I agreed to buy the tires and pulled out my credit card. “Oh, hmm, (click click click,) sorry.—hmm, (click click click.) There are none in stock, and the tire manufacturer has none available either.” He told to call back on Monday because many humans have weekends off. Fine. In the vast scope of life, this is nothing.

Before I left, I pulled my car up to the garage and waited. A new Guido came out and grunted at me in question. I jumped out of my car and asked him to please have a look at my spare and tell me if it had enough air for me to drive until my new tires arrive.

Guido: (grunt)”Which tire?” 
Me: “It’s this tiny one.”
Guido: “What’s your PSI?” 
I respond with, “…umm” 
Him: (Eye-roll) PSI?
Me: (I search frantically…in my purse{?}for a flashing neon label that says PSI.)
Guido: (opens the driver side door and look at the sticker, he turns to look down at me and says): “The next time someone asks you what your PSI is, tell them it’s 33.” 
Me: “Got it, 32.” (I had to.) 
He of course corrected me— loudly. 
My thought bubble: ‘Why are people assholes?’

He added air to my tire; I thanked him profusely and was on my way. The experience served as a reminder of why I have a problem with much of the male population. They need to belittle women to feel better about themselves. Tell me I’m wrong.

Also, Colin Firth, call me.

I arrived at home and told my 87-year-old mother that if anyone ever asks her what my PSI is, to tell them it’s 33.

That’s the end of this story, and now it’s time for six old bar jokes to lift our spirits. These are groaners, but they’re on the list and I intend to share them all in the coming weeks.

• A horse walks into a bar. Bartender says, “why the long face?”
• A termite walked into the same bar and asks, “Is the bar tender here?”
• A skeleton walks into a bar and orders a pint of Guinness and a mop.
• A priest, a nun, and a rabbi walk into a bar. The bartender says, “What is this? Some kind of joke?!”
• A priest, a minister and a rabbit walk into the bar. The rabbit says, “I think I might be a typo.”
• Julius Caesar walks into a bar and says, “I’ll have a Martinus.” The bartender gives him a puzzled look and asks, “Don’t you mean a Martini?” “Look,” Caesar replies, “If I wanted a double, I’d have asked for it!”

Let’s have a great week, mkay? 🙃