Saturday, September 29, 2012

Tire 46, Looks 35

Farmer H took T-Hoe to get an oil change this morning. That little dashboard reminder that he had 27% oil life remaining was making me concerned for his health. Can't have my T-Hoe croaking on the way to work. He was in need of a transfusion, by cracky!

Along with his body fluid rejuvenation, T-Hoe received the once-over from the automobile podiatrist. As you may recall, Farmer H allegedly took T-Hoe to The Devil's Playground of Misfit Tires over a month ago. He reported that he paid five dollars for a new valve stem. Yet he never asked for reimbursement. And when informed that the tire was still losing air like a disgruntled freshman sighing in disgust, Farmer H argued that he had that problem fixed, to the tune of eight dollars. And still did not request reimbursement. So I deduced that the whole scenario was a Farmer's fairy tale.

Farmer H left the Mansion at 7:00 this morning. I suspect he was feeding at the tavern breakfast buffet trough, since I know of no oil-and-tire shops open that early. His other mission was to obtain a haircut. He called at 9:30 to report that the oil and tire issues were solved, and that he was headed to the barber. Heh, heh. I crack myself up. Headed to the barber. Snort.

He returned to the Mansion at 11:30. Believe you me, Farmer H does not have two hours worth of hair. Anyhoo...I wasted no time in reuniting with my precious T-Hoe for a trip to obtain a 44 oz. Diet Coke. You know. Because Farmer H would never think to call and ask if he could pick one up for me.

As I backed out of the garage, it felt like T-Hoe put a foot wrong. Or like I ran over an errant cat. Subsequent inspection revealed no dents in the garage door frame, nor any furry feline pancakes. I consulted my dashboard informant. The bad-tire-gone-good was bloated with 46 pounds of air pressure. The recommended inflation is 35. A quick call to Farmer H, on his way to the bowling alley with The Pony, resulted in a call-screening shut-out. The Pony, my living, breathing informant, answered his own phone. He interrogated Farmer H. Should I let some air out? Negative. Go ahead and drive it to town. Farmer H would take care of it when he got home.

Which is how we got into this mess to begin with.

When you drive one car exclusively for four years, you know when something is off. T-Hoe listed like a drunken sailor trying to stagger across the Tacoma Narrows Bridge on November 7, 1940. I was sweaving worse than Farmer H on his most atrocious sweaving day. I felt like a toddler wearing one of his mother's high heels. Add to that the fear of imminent explosion. The driver of a nitroglycerin truck in the movie Wages of Fear could not have been more wary than I.

Note To Self: If you want something done right...don't ask Farmer H.


Sioux said...

Watch out. There is a rising number of staged vehicular accidents (89 this month alone in Missouri) where the husband is suspected of overinflating the wife's tire. It explodes, the wife goes in the hospital for a few days, and the husband eats out and calls out for pizza and eats Spam right out of the can--a kind of dangerous vacation for the arteries.

Hillbilly Mom said...

A dastardly plan, indeed! But you are overestimating the premeditating skills of Farmer H.

At noon Saturday, he said he would take care of T-Hoe's foot-bloating. Sunday at noon, I stopped in the driveway, adjacent to Farmer H, who was riding his Cub Cadet in the guise of mowing the front field. I told The Pony to let some of the now-48 pounds of air out of that tire.

Farmer H climbed off his Cub and made it look like he was going to deflate the problem. Instead, he watched The Pony squat down and outgas the tire. Which is now down to 37 pounds. Svelte, almost. It's an ongoing project. As is Farmer H.