| Digital Doorway Network |
| Local Area Directory Information |
| Grain Valley, Missouri |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| HUMOR FROM THE PUMPKIN PATCH By Marti Lawrence Articles published in The Examiner Newspaper Mechanical mayhem never ceases to follow columnist Scientists and engineers will tell you that mechanical devices and machines can’t think or feel. Nonsense. I know they can, and they all know (and hate)…me. |
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |  |
| Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved Site Design by Digital Doorway |
| I don’t know why. I am so nice to them. I clean them, oil them, maintain them, and tell them how handsome they are. Then they turn on me like rabid wolves. Husband, on the other hand, can do no wrong. His daily commute exceeds 100 miles, yet his car never fails him. He could easily circle the globe and not have a breakdown. I am lucky to get to the grocery story without mishap. So I request assistance from Magic-Mechanic-Man, and the gremlins double-cross me by behaving perfectly for him. “What do you mean, the dash lights don’t work?” Naturally, they glow like sunshine for him. “But it starts OK now, hon”, is what I hear after I’ve developed carpal tunnel syndrome from turning the key with nary a spark. Last week’s wacky wiper incident was mild in comparison to most of my carriage quandaries. Vehicles don’t simply break down on me, they break apart. Entire sections become so intolerant of my presence, they struggle free, choosing to fling themselves to the pavement rather than remain near me. I don’t just get flat tires; I have wheels fall off. Mufflers don’t just become noisy, they become disengaged. My children understand the geography of our area not by landmarks, but by towing incidents. “Oh, that’s where the transmission dropped out of the blue van”. “You know sis, over there where the bumper fell off”. She responds, “Which car?” I have sent many tow operators on long, happy vacations from the profits earned through assisting me. I have a frequent tow-er card. It’s almost full. Again. Of course it isn’t only automotive mechanical devices that loathe me, it is pretty much anything that has moving parts. Household appliances, power tools, lawn and garden equipment! A lawnmower is responsible for my amputated finger. Now don’t give me that look….no, I did NOT stick my hand into the whirring blades. I WAS foolish enough not to check the yard for debris, I admit. And letting the grass get six inches high was NOT my smartest move. But I was only 21 years old, and thought since I’d already walked with Death several times, only to have him run ahead, then turn around, laugh, and wave goodbye - that I was indestructible. So fire up the mower I did, and take off at a brisk clip. Until a piece of telephone wire curled up towards the handle as I ran over it. It looked vicious, like a cobra rising to the charmer’s flute, and no sooner had I spotted it than it struck! The opposite end suddenly caught on the blades, whipping the near end onto the handle. Slicing clean though my index finger like butter. The oddest thing was that it didn’t hurt (at first). I was shocked, and extraordinarily stunned to look down and see, lying in the newly cut blades of grass….my finger. I lived in hospital student housing (I had agreed to mow for rent reduction), so a fleet-footed nursing student quickly plunked the finger and my hand into a bucket of cold water, and transported all of us to the hospital. I knew the Emergency Room attendant, from a shared class. He smiled and waved, calling out my name. He spied the bucket under my arm, which I had my hand inside, and he jokingly said, ”What’s up with you?” At this point I was STILL not in a lot of pain (shock is a wondrous thing), so I smiled broadly, and said brightly, “I cut my finger off!” in pretty much the same tone I would announce a new haircut. He snickered, and dismissed me with, “Oh you women! Least little thing, you go on so…probably just a paper cut….” About this time I pulled my hand out of the bucket. A spurt of blood hit him square in the chest, ten feet away. He stopped smiling. I think he stopped breathing for a moment. I went surgical (again). Remarkably, the finger was reattached (somewhat shorter and a little crooked, but hey, I ain’t complainin’.) The scar is a great conversation piece, one of the dozens I sport. I never lack for topics at parties, but I do wait until dinner is digested. Gather ‘round folks, and hear the Tales of the Incredible Injured Woman! Just don’t ask me to be a designated driver, because by now all of the parked cars have gossiped about me, and we won’t make it out of the driveway. |
