Emeffer.

After the long, drawn out, fiasco this past spring, summer, and fall with the restoration of Myty Wyty, our 1983 Chevy Suburban, I decided to finish the job my-own-self.

I was over it, over depending on other people to do things I should be able to do myself, over the money drain, over it.

I figured most of the heavy lifting had been done, excruciatingly painfully by the loser-restorer dudes so I should be able to finish it? Right?

Right.

To test my resolve, Myty Wyty immediately broke down. Twice. Forcing me into the pit of horrors under her hood, that greasy land of inaccessibility, skinned knuckles, and potty mouth.

I’m not quite sure why I have such a head case about automotive repair. I mean, honestly? I work with tools every day, so it’s not like they’re an ill-fitting foreign thing in my hands, something ungraspable. Hell, I changed out the inboard diesel engine in our sailboat years ago.

And yet.

Car repair kicks my ass. I dread it like sunburn. I hate it and feel that the motor and the tools and parts all sense my hatred and resent my lack of desire and ability so each foray is fraught with something akin to having teeth pulled.

So why do it?

Honestly? I don’t know. It’s a stupid man thing I’m guessin’

BTW UPDATE- my entrepreneurial elf shimmied up my leg and crawled up my back and whispered in my ear-ITS CHRISTMASTIME DUMBASS, SELL STUFF.

So I put together a fairly lame collection of t-shirts, a hat, and calendar mostly so he wouldn’t yell at me. To celebrate my lameness go to doggy gear and follow the link.

You’ll be sorry you did.

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