Monday, August 08, 2005

I can't believe I went the whole weekend without blogging!

What has gotten into me? My word.

Okay, I'm busier than a one-armed paper hanger but it's time for a break and where better to take a break than in my computer chair?
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Saturday morning was Sam's first karate test for a higher rank. Little Dragons, the class he was in before, just taught the basics and they didn't test for rank. They just got stripes when they completed a move. But Saturday he tested in front of a slew of parents and a bunch of black belts. He did awesome and now carries a new rank that I cannot pronounce but am insanely proud of just the same. He yawned through the entire test session and this made me add a new point to my Diva's Note to Self list - No slumber parties with Gram the night before a ranking test. I took pictures but really don't have time to take them from the camera and put them on the computer right now so that'll happen later.

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Saturday afternoon we didn't do much around here. I was borderline stir-crazy and really pretty much just paced the house like a freakin' caged tiger in heat. Not that I was horny or anything, I was just comparing the antsy feeling . . . aw, never mind. Maybe I was horny. No. No, I wasn't. I think I'd remember that. Anyway, by the time Mr. Diva got home I was fit to be tied and immediately started begging him to take me out, far far away from the house. He was tired and cranky and snapped at me and I really just wanted to shoot him, but the kids were there so I refrained. Mom picked up KD for her flumber party and that left me with the two bickerers. Yay. And a sleeping husband. Yay again. I wanted to cry I was so frustrated.

So I got on the phone and started calling around about my derby car. Well, all this time Mr. Diva and I were under the impression that my car was an Impala, but when I called about it on Saturday it has magically transformed itself into a Pontiac Grand Prix. Hmh. Too bad we got a GM trannie. (Transmission, not transsexual. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I just don't think that transsexuals make very good car parts.) So dammit. Then I called someone else about whether a GM trannie would fit on a Grand Prix.

Now, I'm trying really hard to learn about cars and how they work and such, but just saying "trannie" for transmission is about as cool as I get and actually has given me no real knowledge whatsoever. He said he thought the bolt pattern was different. Ah, right then I learned that transmissions have bolts in them. Who knew. So I called my dad who's step-grandson was there and the best advice I got out of those two was to Google the bolt patterns and see if they match up.

Ooh Googling! Something I can do! Something I'm good at! I set off to work my magic. But here again, is where actual knowledge would come in handy because everything was in numbers and measurements and it was Greek to me. I finally found a picture, but without actually having the car and trannie in my hands at the time did me no good because there were two possible GM bolt patterns. Ach. So by then I was frustrated with being stuck in my house on a Saturday night AND I didn't know if my car was going to be able to be Frankenstein'd together somehow.

When Mr. Diva finally woke up from his beauty nap I brought him up to speed on my newly acquired frustrations and he called one of his friends who is a car guru. He said if they pulled off the hogshead (poor piggy) they might be able to rig the thing together, but without seeing it he couldn't be sure. They made plans to go get the car Saturday morning and pull it to the shop. And then, in a moment of pure consideration, Mr. Diva asked me if I'd like to go. I was touched,l considering that last year I didn't spend any time at the shop with him while he worked on my car until it was time to paint. I was actually kind of looking forward to being with him while they worked.

Then Mom called and asked if we wanted to go to the beach on Sunday. Chandler's mom told us about this man-made lake with an actual sand beach and we'd talked about going, but no plans were ever made. Then at like 9:30 on Saturday night my family gets a hair up their butts to go. But Mr. Diva wouldn't change his plans with the car and the almighty Richie, so that meant that I was playing single mom and taking the kids to the beach without their father.

By 11:30 Saturday night I had everything packed and ready to be loaded for our beach excursion the next day. I was still antsy and pouty and Mr. Diva was tired of hearing me whine; so much so that he said he'd give me $20 to go to the casino for awhile if I wanted. Can you believe I declined? I was so frustrated with being stuck here, but by then my anxiety had given way to just a depressing kind of pissed off. So I went to bed. Then I got the boot too tight and I woke up during the night with a tingly foot and woke up the next morning with a bruised ankle, too. I was still pissed off when I got up and even though I tried to be all cheery and happy while I got the kids around, I just couldn't muster it up. I even begged Mr. Diva to go with, but he wouldn't. Said it was too hot. Well duh, that's why we're going to the lake, dipshit.

Sis was cranky when we got to Mom's and that never bodes well. But once she got in her van and I got in mine things were better. She slept the entire hour and a half drive and that made us all feel better. We found the place and paid our whole four dollars (I'm telling you, this place is GOLD) and then headed to the beach area. We unloaded, picked our picnic spot and then fixed lunch. The kids were so excited that between the five of them they ranged from wolfing their food down without chewing to whining and not wanting to eat period. Finally everyone had eaten the lunch requirement and it was time to slather everyone with SPF 4million. Around here I don't go higher than a 15 spf, but I opted for the 45 yesterday. Too bad Sis didn't. Dingbat got fried. So did Bub and he even put some on. I think they had defective sunscreen because they got nuclear burnt and I now have a savage freakin' tan. I look freakin' HOT, lemme tell ya.

Okay, let me clarify: I am probably not all that dark, but compared to my blinding white ass, belly and boobs, the rest of me looks like I am actually enough indian to carry a tribal card. So I'm happy.

We swam for two hours before taking a break. Had a snack and made the kids rest awhile, then went out and swam another hour and a half. We had sludgy sand fights and I can now say that any tartar that was on my teeth is now gone because the mouthful of sand that my oldest daughter provided me with, just ground any ooginess right off my tooth surfaces. I even swam out to the buoy. Okay, when I say "swam", I mean, I paddled while holding on for dear life to my one dollar bargain noodle from the Wal*Mart clearance aisle. The first time I felt a real live panic attack brewing, but I survived. I ended up going twice more, taking Sam both times. I still didn't like the thought of my feet being nowhere NEAR the bottom of the lake, but I am alive today to tell of my heroic tales, so I guess it's all good.

When we got home Mr. Diva gave me the bad news - the #42 Redneck Diva derby car will not be participating in the fair's demolition derby. I am so bummed it's not even funny. Not only does it need a transmission, it also was locked up and wouldn't move. They tried to hand-crank it and it wouldn't even do that. The distributor cap is gone. All four tires are flat, too. It would cost over the $75 that we had allotted for derby prep this year. Man, it sucks to be poor. I even had the perfect shade of pink picked out for the body. I wanted to cry last night when he told me.

I could throw together a Get Diva to the Derby fundraiser, but I'm not sure I'd get much repsonse. I guess I'll just pay admission and sit in the stands and cry silently while I watch everyone else knock themselves silly out there. I could always find a sponsor, too. But last year my sponsor never actually gave me any money. Just permission to put his business' name on my car. Hmh.

But if it's any consolation I HAVE A TAN. I am holding on to that with all that is in me.

4 comments:

~April~ said...

trannie......

that's just funny.

April

Anna said...

You would think, that if a car is THAT much of a clunker it would be PRIME for the derby. Who knew that there are LEVELS of clunk.

You learn sumthin' every day. My deepest sympathy.

I am sorry honey, but kudos on the tan! I am Puerto Rican and WHITE ASS - any tan is a victory... I feel your joy.

MrsCoach2U said...

Sorry about the car. It sucks to not have any money. Can't you drive Pauls motorcycle....I bet you won't get a rush like that more than once in a lifetime!

Redneck Diva said...

April-What's even funnier is that the guys at the shop would never think of a trannie being a transsexual. It's a transmission to them, plain and simple. In fact the first time one of the guys said trannie I know I snapped my head up and had a look of pure shock on my face. I couldn't figure out why we had to have a transsexual in the garage to make my car go.

Anna-My family is a mixture of indian and irish. It's obvious that the irish genes are heartier because I usually can't tan to save my life. I've discovered though, that I only tan on the odd years. Year before last I had such a good tan that I didn't have to wear makeup all summer. Last year I remained pasty white no matter what I did. Go figure.

Oh there are definitely levels of clunk. Body-wise this car is perfect because it's never been in a derby before. It's seriously prime, except for the lack of go power under the hood. Dammit.

Mrs.Coach-Ooh, now there's a thought - not only would it keep my reflexes in tip top condition by trying to preserve all of my limbs, but I'd get deep satisfaction in quite possibly smashing the motherfucking hell out of his bike.