And I paid for the privilege.

We went out tonight so I could show The Boy how to put air in the tires. A useful skill considering that every one of my tires has a slow leak.

As we pulled up to my regular gas station I saw that the air filler thingy was otherwise occupied. This sucked because this is the only station I have found that actually has free air. I kid you not, you have to pay for air now.

Oh, they do have one of those pay machines but if you ask them they will flip a switch and turn it on for you free of charge. This is good for me because of the aforementioned slow leaks, otherwise I would have to take out a second job to pay for air.

So, since that station was out of the question I decided for this outing I would go to one of the others and pay. It's 50 cents, The Boy needed to learn and I was interested in just how much air 50 cents buys you. In the interest of science, we pull into the Esso and are greeted by this.



The first thing I noticed was the hose. It is retractable. Interesting. I start to pull on it and it seems to be pulling back. I must have to pull it out all the way, like a vacuum cord? I try this. Nope, I have to hold it while The Boy puts the air in the tire otherwise it will yank him back off his feet. Exactly how do you get this done without a buddy?

We manage to get two tires to the correct psi and wrangle the hose around to the other side of the car. I am holding the hose while The Boy takes off the valve cap. Just as he applies the tip to the valve stem the air stops.

The Boy then lets go of his end of the hose. It starts to retract faster than I can grab it. So fast that it is literally burning my hands. I look up to see the nozzle coming at me at a pretty good clip. I have to tighten my grip on the hose, burning my hands further, to avoid having my head cracked open by the fucking thing.

WTF?

I have to fight with the hose, pay for fucking air and it doesn't even stay on long enough for all four tires? What a racket. I am at a slow burn as I enter the station. I tell The Boy it is to get rolaids for him, but I just have to voice my opinion to the attendant.

My hands stinging, I enter the station. "I can't believe I just paid 50 cents to fight with your fucking machine only to get cut off before I actually got air in all my tires."

"You had to fight with it?" He is maybe 16 and clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

"How else do you keep from getting dragged across the parking lot on your ass?"

"Uh, I just step on it." Not something they printed on the instructions. They were more concerned that I only put quarters in the machine. Not enough space to put actual helpful information on the signage.

"How much money did you feed it before you came up with that brilliant solution?"

Blank stare.

"Well, my solution is to never frequent this gas station again. Period."

What exactly have I done to deserve this?

I work. I come home. I go to work again.

I have long ago abandoned the bar scene. I don't trust myself not to snap the neck of some drunken Barbie doll for pouring her drink down my back. I don't drink (although I think after this morning I might just take it up) and don't have much patience for drunks if I am sober. Dilemma. So, aside from the biweekly booty call, I don't get out much. Which is fine, I enjoy just being at home, lounging around, surfing and watching tv. It really doesn't take much to make me happy.

I don't buy a lot for myself, I dress for coverage, that's it. The things I buy for myself are usually computer related. I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a shopper. Although I do try every so often, but standing in the entrance to Walmart makes my skin crawl, so I manage to get in and out pretty quickly.

Off topic for a second, my sister and I went to Walmart recently and she insisted on using the self-serve checkouts. They promise to be faster, do-it-yourself. After ten minutes of scanning the mini blinds over and over until the blasted machine finally recognized it, we were finally finished. "Oh ya, that was faster." I say, rolling my eyes.

As we make our way to the exit we are accosted by the store greeter. Most greeters look like carny folk and clearly this kid is ... mentally challenged? I think they put these people in this position because they think consumers will take shit from them for fear of not being politically correct. I am nothing if not a PC, equal opportunity bitch. Ok, I wouldn't kick a blind kid and blame it on the dog, but if you piss me off, I don't care if your a head in a jar, I am going to object to it. "Mind if I check your bag?" he says. My sister is secretly hoping some small, shiny object has captured my attention and I will not respond. Her hopes are dashed.

"If we say, yes would it make a difference?"

As he checks the contents of her bags against the receipt I go off. "Oh ya, this is soooo much quicker. Fight with the machine for ten minutes and then waste another ten minutes while they frisk us like shoplifters. I am so glad we didn't waste time making the cashier do the job for us."

As my sister repacks her bags, "They do the same thing at Cosco, Mamme."

"Thanks for the heads up."

Anyway, where was I? Oh ya, I don't drink, I don't go out partying and I don't spend money on myself. So why does The Boy think that I will take shit from him day in and day out? He wakes me at 7am this morning. "Make me some scrambled eggs?"

"Make em yourself."

"I don't know how!" Are you kidding me?

"It's scrambled eggs, not nuclear fusion. Fuck off somewhere!" He opens the curtains and lets the sun blast me in the face. I try to kick him and he grabs the post on the foot board of my bed and pulls. The bed crashes to the floor.

That is when I lost my mind. "Why is it that when you get mad, you smash my shit?"

I broke, started bawling. Remember its 7am and he has woken me from a dead sleep, not the most stable I have ever been. This totally takes The Boy by surprise. He then tries to fix the bed, with me in it, not an easy task. All the while I am ranting. Telling him how all I do is work and all he does is spend the money and bitch and complain about there not being enough for him. He doesn't like the house, he thinks the car is a piece of crap, he doesn't like the neighborhood, he wants to live in another town. On and on and on he bitches about how his life is so bad.

"How long do you suppose I will put up with this shit before I slit my own throat?" As I said, it doesn't take much to make me happy. Just a little peace and quiet, my things intact, that sort of thing. But faced with The Boy, breaking one of my only possessions? "Explain to me why I work to give you everything you want when you can't even manage to not break the few things I have for myself?"

I really can't wait for the empty nest.

How Much Is Your Blog Worth?

I ran across this cute little applet over at Dane Carlson's, by way of David Dairey's Creative Design, that "computes and displays your blog's worth using the same link to dollar ratio as the AOL-Weblogs Inc deal."

You can see my results over on the side bar. The trick, I guess, is to figure out how to get paid for your efforts.

If you find out, let me know.

By George! I think he's got it!

John Chow of John Chow dot Com has a clever thing going on. He has initiated a Review My Blog for a free linkback promotion.

His goal is to have his site ranked first on Google for a specific set of search words, specifically “make money online”. He is offering to link to your blog if you review his blog. Making sure that the anchor term "make money online" is in the text.

I think it is a neat idea. After four days he is on page 1 of Google.com for the term “make money online”.

So I guess it was a success. What will he think of next? I can't wait to see.