PSI, as in “pounds per square inch”.
In my original post about worm grunting, I learned that reader ptfan1 attempted to teach his daughter to worm grunt while living in Blountstown. Then I learned that my good friend Judith’s father taught her and both her sisters to worm grunt while living in Marianna. Apparently this is a rite of passage I somehow missed out on. Frankly, I never learned anything that could be called “useful”. I’m pretty good at applying nail polish, but I haven’t found that skill to be particularly transferable.
In real life, I’m a manager, and you know what that old saying is: “Those who can, do, those who can’t–manage”. One of my former employees gave me a card once for Boss’s day which asked, “How many bosses does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” The answer was something like three. One to write a memo documenting the malfunctioning light bulb, one to requisition the new light bulb, and a third to hunt down an employee to screw it in. Of the “How many…” jokes available, I like this one, which Fakesister will also appreciate: How many computer programmers does it take to screw in a light bulb? Answer: None. That’s a hardware problem.
Which brings me to Dilbert. Employee goes to the weird-haired boss and says, “If I don’t seem to hear what you’re saying, it’s because I lost my hearing aids.” Boss: “I didn’t realize you had a hearing problem.” Employee: “What? Eh? You can try to send me an email, but I have my spam filter set to ‘Taliban’.”
Which brings me to PSI. I guess you were wondering how I was going to tie all these seemingly disparate topics together, right? My guess is that by the end of this post you’ll still be wondering. But there really is a theme here.
So on Christmas Eve, I paid a visit to Jeff the Mechanic, another of my most favorite downtown people along with Officer Mike. The occasion for the visit was that the little icon thingie came on telling me I had low tire pressure in the baby Toyota. At first, I thought it was just because the weather had turned colder. (“Yes!” said Jeff the Mechanic. “You lose 2 PSI in cold weather!”) But then it warmed up and the icon was still on, and btw the icon is very curious. It looks exactly like this: (!) So after about 3 days of the icon being on, I decided I might have an actual problem. (That’s me: always swift to react at the first sign of danger. This is one of the first things they teach you in manager school. Prioritize, prioritize, prioritize. Make a to-do list, then label the items on the list A, B, or C. The stuff you don’t want to do goes into the D file. After a week, you’ll forget why it was there and it can be moved into the T file, for Trash. If, however, it continues to flash an icon at you or starts beeping or something, it will have to be upgraded to at least B status).
So I said to Jeff, the sign on the inside of the door says the tires should have 32 PSI. Nonsense! he said. Never pay attention to the sign on the door! Or to the owner’s manual! This car should have 35 PSI in the front and 32 in the back! So as he began checking (the left front tire had 29 PSI), he said in a casual and non-judgemental tone, “I guess you don’t do air pressure.” I said, “Are you kidding? The only thing I know how to do is check the oil–and I can also add oil–but that was in the Camaro. I don’t even know if this car has oil. Does it, you think?”
See? I am a one-woman stimulus package. Of course, Jeff did not charge me for this service, but I wouldn’t have blamed him if he had. After the air was checked and added to Jeff the Mechanic’s specifications, we had a brief chat about the hulking Nissan SUV he had just completed a $300 repair on. The part it needed was under warranty, but the owner said he would gladly pay $300 out of his own pocket rather than take it to the Nissan dealer. Jeff said this was not the first time he’d encountered this scenario. Also participating in the chat was the clerk from the “store” in this particular BP station, where you can buy beer, lottery tickets, and a dizzying array of candy bars. He said, “We think the local Nissan dealer has a torture chamber in the basement for their customers, with Dick Cheney in charge.” I started laughing so hard I thought I was going to have to call 911.
So here you have the essence of Fakename: can’t do anything useful, has brief encounters with relative strangers (real life tweets), and finds humor everywhere. Humor is like misery: if you look for it, you’ll find it. My way is a lot more fun.