Sunday, October 13, 2013

From the Heights of Machu Picchu

Hick gifted me with two big, bouncing, beautiful new tires for T-Hoe yesterday. Okay, so he didn't wrap them, they weren't a surprise, and I have to pay for them. It's the thought that counts.

I skipped out the door, unencumbered, off to town for a 44 oz. Diet Coke and a few groceries. Backroads was my oyster. As I backed out of the garage, something felt different. Almost as if I was encroaching on the steering wheel. Hm. Maybe I need to cut back on the gas station chicken. That thought flitted across my mind, but since I have not had any gas station chicken for over two weeks, I shoved that flittery thought to the very back of my gray matter, near the rear emergency exit.

Still. Something was different. I jounced up the driveway. Must be that Service Suspension System message that keeps popping up on T-Hoe's control center. Hick said he had it checked when he got the tires, and my air shocks are deflated. Along with my spirit when it comes to him and kitchen-counter onion disposal. Hick said we'll get the shocks over Thanksgiving break. That it's no big deal unless I plan to tow a heavy load. Looks like the stockpile of handbaskets for my proposed factory will just have to pile up in one place for a while.

I could not shake the feeling that I was listing forward. Like a toddler in his stepmother's stiletto heels. Like a puppy having his nose pressed down towards the carpet to acknowledge his indoor accident. Like a Soap Box Derby car at the starting line.

My princess butt detected something amiss. And it was not a pea. I felt like I was driving a monster truck. Over a line of cars that were being crushed under my giant tires. All I needed was a name. Not Bigfoot, Grave Digger, or Undertaker. Those were, as Elaine might say of her saved movie theater seats, TAKEN! But I could be Bigbutt. Or Nose Digger. Or Underwear Picker. I was happily planning my next career when I arrived on the outskirts of town.

As I clambered down from T-Hoe's command center, I glanced at my new tires. Surely not. The rear tires you don't know...perhaps...HUMONGOUS compared to the front tires. I lit up the invisible communication lines right away, firing off a text to Hick at the bowling alley a half mile away. "I think you got the wrong size tires!" He had mentioned, after all, that the shop didn't have the exact same tire as T-Hoe sported on the front from last year. But that he had purchased the same tire in a different brand. Hick, in a few short words, instructed me the equivalent of not allowing my granny panties to bunch up or give birth to a bovine, for he would investigate the incongruency when he arrived home.

Going up the driveway, just before I pushed the garage door opener to try and break its distance record, I checked the fancy gewgaw on T-Hoe's dashboard that tells how many pounds of pressure are in each tire. Front tires: 32 PSI. Rear tires: 42 PSI.

My membership card for Mystery, Inc. remains unrevoked.


  1. I don't want to let the air out of your tires, but you might need to invest in a tank of oxygen and a mask in case you get altitude sickness.

  2. Well, please don't mention Hick getting HIS panties in a wad, or he might hang them in the garage.

    Halloween doesn't have to be the only scary day of the year, after all...

  3. So the new tires ARE the wrong size?

  4. Leenie,
    I agree. That rarefied air is no friend of Val.

    You are so familiar with Hick's modus operandi that I suspect you might be one of those Partners in Crime woman mystery writers who murder people so they have a plot for their next novel. According to my mom, that is.

    Nope. Dodged that bullet. They are the right size, but seem so much bigger due to the exponential overinflation. T-Hoe needs an air-letting.

  5. maybe you need FOUR new tires, tellHick to go back and get you two more or you will wad your panties and toss them at him.

  6. So one could say Hick was the one who blew things all out of proportion, huh?

  7. Linda,
    FOUR new tires! Who do you think we are, the Rockefellers? Those big monster truck tires don't come cheap. I'm not giving up a year's worth of 44 oz. Diet Cokes and gas station chicken just so I can drive around on properly-inflated tires.

    Tossing my wadded panties at Hick would be like tossing a medicine ball at Don Knotts. Not because Hick is a dainty pantywaist, but because the vision in his good eye is not all that great. He would topple like a baby just learning to sit up when its brother pokes a finger in its chest to see that bobble head skew off-center and collapse the weaving tower of baby.

    Exactly. And he's made no move to let off any steam. I suppose it's up to me to release gaseous emissions.