I wonder who manufactures those ubiquitous orange barrels that mark hiway construction… and what dirt they have on some highway official somewhere, to have gotten such a massive contract for placement?

{{Mutters to self, “Why can’t I ever have any good blackmail information?”}} LOL

I can barely make it out my driveway (sometimes not even that, when I get stopped before exiting onto the street, by an irritated-looking, lime-green-vest-wearing worker-bee who has to be using some kind of drugs [perhaps lots of them] to stand out there in the blazing sun with nothing but a little reversible STOP/SLOW sign for protection from the over-amphetamined semi-truck drivers who are barreling down our country road to avoid the interstate hiway weigh station two towns down, because they have been driving for 72 hours and haven’t updated their log book) before coming across those damnable orange barrels.

I gather from the correspondence I have with folks around the country that this is not just a Mazoorah phenomenon, that orange barrels proliferate across the continent, despite the rampant, well-known corruption of the Missouri Department of Transportation.

I admit, they need repair. We have horrible roads. Worst in the nation.

{{Redneck cheer goes up, “Woo-hoo! We’re numbah one!”}}

But why, oh why do they increase proportionally to the amount of time/number of errands I have to run on any given day? {{Riddle me THAT, Michio Kaku, world-famous theoretical physicist LOL}}

As I am sure you have gathered from this lengthy prologue, yesterday I had LOTS to do and little time to do it.

So naturally, {{cue drumroll}} there were a plethora of orange barrels and green-vested drug-abusers between me and destiny (or at least destination LOL)

Detours, delays and day-glo daredevils who sprinted across the freeway directly in front of me to retrieve an errant orange cone, (love child of two orange barrels who found one another on a dark and stormy night) which was flailing about in the wind, causing drivers to swerve around it, all conspired to make the journey harrowing and blog-worthy.

It took me 30 minutes just to get through town, which is something, since the town is only slightly larger than a postage stamp, and has the locals’ hackles up because the city is installing a {{gasp!}} stoplight.

Installation has dragged on for months (probably subcontracted by the same company that has the goods on all public officials), adding to the frustration, as the trucks of various electrical and signal-installation companies block one or both lanes of the road.

At last, I made it to the final stop, Walmart.

There was some country music singer making a personal appearance and his large bus outside was blaring out honky-tonk tunes at ear-splitting decibels.

A crowd of gawkers was blocking the entry, as he was signing autographs just inside the door, occasionally gracing the crowd with an impromptu overture, sung without benefit of instrumental accompaniment, or studio enhancement, which made his less-than-perfect voice sound rather tinny.

Threading my way through the fandom lair, huffing and puffing from sprinting across the parking lot to make up time lost to road delays, and limping at having slightly twisted my ankle in said sprint, my own hackles were at maximum altitude, when I felt something go “sproing!” just above my left breast.

I have not experiences breast sproing in quite some time, and paused momentarily, befuddled by this development.

The river of acappella aficionados carried me unwillingly down the aisle, until I stumbled off to the side to discover the source of the sproing.

My brassiere strap had broken.

It was now disengaged from the cup, and was dangling jauntily down my back, as gravity tugged mightily at left-breast-yearning-to-be-free.

I decided to continue my Quest for Completion, and kept on shoppin’.

I did so somewhat Napoleon-icly, holding left arm across chest, to disguise the bared nipple and flopping bra cup under my T-shirt.

By the time I reached the checkout, I was sweating, my ears were nearly bleeding from the country-music assault-on-sanity, I was limping worse, and was hunched over from holding arm in nipple-shielding position.

{{ I ain’t no Janet Jackson LOL }}

I looked like Quasimodo on a bad day.

By the time I got to my house, I was asylum material, crazed from the heat and hardship of the day.

Me and my flopping breast made it inside to collapse onto the waterbed in front of the blessed air conditioner, to recoup and rejoice return to home sweet home.

Categories: Humor, cars

The time comes in all of our lives when we must face one of life’s greatest terrors. The DMV.

Yes, it’s been a month plus a couple of days since we acquired the pumpkin PT, and the big black magic marker date on the temporary license sticker screamed the news that it was expired to the entire world (including the police officers who are now directing traffic in front of the seriously overcrowded high school that Daughter attends).

I’m a pretty ballsy broad, but I don’t have it in me to flaunt myself like Brittney Spears, shoving my surplus in people’s faces (especially cops).

So the DMV trip had to be made.

Fall is a popular festival season here in Missouri, and while I love autumn I am not feeling real festive when I have to pay hundreds of dollars in sales taxes and buy license plates. Unfortunately, there are times when worlds collide, and yesterday things went supernova.

I headed for the DMV. I noticed a lot of hot rods and model T’s on the road. I saw people carrying folding chairs and picnic baskets. I heard the PA system blaring, “Here’s To You, Mister Way Too Much Cologne Wearer Guy {{Cue Budweiser theme music}} “

I smelled kettle corn and and saw booths selling velvet paintings. Then I saw the true horror - floats lining up. Nothn’ will put the fear of God into you like a flatbed trailer decked out with eight miles of crepe paper and a dozen clowns (I don’t like clowns, they creep me out)

Plus they were all between me and the DMV.

I tried circling around the edge of town, to mount a frontal assault. Actually an assault on the back of the building, but saying I was about to mount an assault on the rear would only inspire uncontrolled giggling, so I won’t say that. *snicker*

Unfortunately, all of the streets for several blocks around City hall were barricaded, and were being patrolled by officials in shiny lime green vests, which looked clownish enough to raise my heart rate. Shiny-green-vest-guy approached my car as I inched up the street. With fear and loathing in my heart I cautiously rolled the window down. I explained that I needed to purchase license plates and waved the packet of paperwork in his direction, hoping it contained enough magical powers to dissuade him from slaughtering me with his clipboard.

The hex worked, and he told me I could go around the barricade to get to the DMV parking lot. Then he handed me a shiny green parking pass.

A pass that was good for 20 minutes. TWENTY MINUTES. Have you ever gotten in and out of a DMV in 20 minutes? I couldn’t do that if I was on fire.

Fortunately, the proud and the brave who made it into City Hall were few. The line was shorter than I’d ever seen, and foolishly, I became hopeful. Duh on me.

The dealership has assured me that all of the paperwork I would need was in the packet. It was not.

The clerk uttered the dreaded words, “Where’s your inspection?”

So I had to leave. Back past shiny-vest-guy, who requested his pass back. Back past the float-clowns (shudder) Back to the dealership to get a copy of the inspection.

Then…back to hell (Hell is filled with velvet paintings and a PA system screaming Budweiser commercials but there is no beer) Back to shiny-vest-guy who gave me another pass, but looked at me suspiciously. I’m reasonably sure he remembered me and will send a pack of float-clowns to murder me in some horrible clown-like way. Back inside the DMV, with the scent of bratwurst and the blast of bad country music violating all of my senses.

At last it was done! I snuck out of the parking lot and kept (yes KEPT,’cause I’m such an outlaw - lol) the temporary parking pass, because I knew that this would make it onto the blog.

Categories: Humor, cars

Call in the heavenly chorus! Get the trumpeters and….uh…somebody go help that angel with her wing caught in her harp, she must be related to Marti…

Yes my friends, a genuine, bonafide miracle has happened! By hook and crook, a fluke of fate, an alignment of the planets, or a combination of all of those things, Marti has a new-to-her automobile!

And it’s a beauty.

A 2003 pumpkin-color (of course) PT Cruiser. I heart my PT - LOL

Gotta take mom-in-law to doctor now - more later!

Categories: Humor, cars