If anything, time is a woman. I mean, do men have a “time of the month”? No, they do not.
And if anyone says that men have a time of the month because they have to put up with a woman’s time of the month, then I will unleash the demons trapped under the stay-dry weave of every used maxi pad. Then, they’ll be sorry.
Also, every 12 months a new year is born. Who gives birth and renews time? Women.
But I digress.
Anyway, some dude from an electric company was standing at my door when I got home from work tonight.
I was crabby at work because I was at work. Mike Pence was in my city today which fucked up traffic, so I was crabby in the car on my way home. I already thought I disliked Mike Pence as much as I could dislike Mike Pence until his presence fucked up my commute home.
Also, I knew that when I got home, Randy and I were going to have to figure out how to fix the washing machine.
You guys, we aren’t “fixing washing machine” people.
We are, “fuck it, we’ll go to the laundromat and then watch Netflix” people.
The electric company guy explained that we are not yet signed up on a program and that his company represented about 40% of the houses on the street. So, I guess he didn’t work for the electric company, but rather is running some sort of electric company protection racket or something.
That’s a lovely meter you have on the side of your house, Mrs. Combs. It would be a shame if something happened to it.
So, I signed some things and guess I’m in a program. Randy tried super hard to be an adult and ask the guy appropriate questions, but that didn’t really matter because I was signing as he was asking.
I do know this for sure, our gas rate won’t increase for the next three years.
Our electric rate, however, is variable by month. I am going to guess that the electric portion of our utility bill will be somewhere between 3 dollars and 7 billion dollars next month.
But that isn’t the point either.
The point is, I very nearly became an old woman tonight when Josh, the electric dude, was here.
After I electronically signed his tablet, he told me that, in the future, we had to be careful how we answered calls from his competitors.
His exact words were “You’re going to get a shit ton of calls from people wanting you to switch and if you verify any account information, then they can legally switch from our service to their service.”
I can honestly say, in all my adult years, I have never had anyone representing a company use vulgar words. And oddly enough, my inner old lady clutched her pearls. Did he just say “shit ton”? Oh, my.
I don’t have a problem with shit ton.
I regularly measure distance, time, and things with “shit ton” and “fuck ton”.
I think one must be careful and not overuse fuck ton. A shit ton handles most situations when one has to describe a large quantity of something. Fuck ton means, well, a fuck ton and should only be used as such. This is science. You can’t argue with science.
I was mildly taken aback when I heard Josh say “shit ton”.
I processed his words and quickly decided that I had prematurely clutched my pearls. Which I understand is something that happens with age and I should probably speak with my doctor.
I didn’t care if Josh said “shit ton” and I certainly had no interest in going down the “it’s not appropriate language” or “disrespectful” roads. Or any other road people could come up with when faced with an unexpected “shit ton” from a utility worker.
The point is, I very nearly became an old woman today, but then I didn’t. So fuck you, father time.
And if time is really a woman, then I apologize for the “fuck you”. Please don’t make my wrinkles come in. I’m not completely finished with being the tiniest bit vain.
Also, Randy fixed the washing machine. Well, he very nearly did. He got the load that was in a state of limbo to complete. The smell of mildew still hangs throughout the house.
Then, the washer stopped working again. We had to call professionals. We’re still waiting for the professionals to call back.
In the meantime, we did find a place close by that will do our laundry for us for 90 cents a pound.
I literally had to argue over every t-shirt that went out the door because Randy was worried about the weight of our laundry as if the one basket weighed the same as a full grown wart hog.
I only mentioned wart hog because the normal laundry mixed with mildew laundry smelled like I imagine a warthog smells. If it’s on fire.
Randy just needs to chill. It’s not like the laundry weighs a shit ton. He also says I don’t understand the new electric bill arrangement and that we are not paying protection money.
I don’t see how he knows, though, he didn’t sign the paperwork. Plus, Josh totally looked like he was capable of taking out a kneecap.