Last night, the Hubby asked me to hang out with him for a bit at our new business condo because he was nailing down a new floor on the second level. Basically, my job was to jump and stand on the plywood sheets until they shimmied into their correct spaces. Then, the Hubbs would nail down the sheets with his scary ass, big mutha, Stanley Bostitch framing nail gun.
Try saying that ten times fast.
Anyway, suddenly, the scary ass, big mutha, Stanley Bostitch framing nail gun? Well...It just stopped working!
Wanna see a grown man pitch a hissy?
Yeah. Me neither.
But I had no choice.
So, I walked over to him and said, "What's the matter?" He responded, "This stupid piece of shit keeps getting stuck! WTF?"
Then, like the big fat idiot that I am, I asked, "Is there anything I can do?" Much to my dismay, he answered, "Yes. I need you to go to Home Depot. Go to the power tool section and ask the guy that works there for pneumatic oil for a nail gun."
Oh my f*cking word. Home Depot. I hate f*cking Home Depot.
I would rather go to the gynecologist for my annual cooter / fun bags probe than go to Home Depot. THAT is how much I hate that wretched store.
But, I could see that Hubby needed my help. And he was working so hard. So, I bucked up, drove to Home Depot, and took one for the team.
The first thing that happened when I got there was Big Beula met me at the door to gruffly inform me that, "Home Depot will be closing in ten minutes and is there anything I can help you with or could I point you in the right direction?"
OK Big Bertha. I know you want to go home, but you need to step the frick back because I am not comfortable with manly bitches taking up my personal space.
Seriously. Ever notice that all the women who work in Homely Depot look like lumberjacks? Is wearing plaid flannel a job prerequisite? WTF?
Anyway, so I say to the Big-un, "I need pneumatic oil for a nail gun." And she looks at me like I have two heads because she doesn't know what the crap I am talking about. So, she calls Trevor over.
My Lord. I never knew how greasy teen aged boys could be.
Anyway, I tell Trevor that I need to buy some pneumatic oil RIGHT NOW or I will slit my wrists immediately. He giggles and leads me to the power tool section where I am introduced to Bruce.
So, again. For the THIRD f*cking time! I say, "I need some pneumatic oil for a nail gun." Finally, Bruce hands me a fat, plastic bottle. It reads: Pneumatic Oil For Power Tools.
Praise Jesus Christ in Heaven. They have finally seen the light!
Put the brakes on, Sally Costa.
Because, suddenly, I noticed that the fat, plastic bottle was...UM...really fat? And I wondered, "How in the hell is Hubby going to get this oil into that skinny, little gun handle?"
So, I say to ButchBruceBanjo, or whatever the frick his name was, "Oh. Do I need a...a...a?"
HELLO! SALLY, YOU MORON!
The word you're looking for is OILCAN!
But, all I could think to say in that senior moment was, "Don't I need one of those thingies? Like the one they used to lube up the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz?"
So, ButchBruceBanjo looks at me, smiles, and says...WAIT FOR IT...He says, "Thingy? Is that a technical term?"
So, I looked at him and said, "NO. IT'S NOT A TECHNICAL TERM! But, I know that you know what I mean! Now, point me in the right direction before I slit my wrists in this store and you and your crew will have to stay here all night while the police investigate and Servpro cleans up my blood."
I wanted to tell him to, "Go suck goat balls."
But, I didn't.
Because I'm a grown up.
And I have a mouth filter.