How a Law Student Broke My Car

WARNING!  It’s a long post.

 

So a few weeks ago, one of my best friends from High School, who is now in her final year of Law School, decided that she needed to escape snowy Minnesota for her Spring Break and visit me here in Louisiana. She, of course, asked me if she could visit and if she did visit, if she would have a couch to crash on. Naturally, since I’m ridiculously Minnesotan, I went and bought a bed for her to sleep on, cleaned my house like crazy, and made sure that our first batch of beer would be ready for her visit.

Because she’s a law student, and a Law Student without booze is no Law Student at all.

Law School Lightweight

Law School Lightweight

So I had to drive about three and a half hours to Dallas to pick her up, because flying to Dallas is less than half of flying to Shreveport, and then we went back to Shreveport to drink and do other fun and wonderful things. Like drink. She helped me with my stocking job, we discovered Chili’s had a buy one get one free for Margaritas after five, so we had a lot of Margaritas one night…

Then we went to a Winery to sample some wines and bought a bunch of wine. Which was also delicious.

And I learned how to make a Pomegranate Martini.

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel.  What now, bitches?

Even with the Flamed Orange Peel. What now, bitches?

Between the drinking, gambling, board games and watching Veronica Mars, I have to say that her visit was much needed on both ends. Alex got to get to know another one of my very close friends, we had way more fun than should be allowed two girls in their twenties, and she discovered how much of a nervous fucking wreck I am half the time.

It was awesome.

So at the end of the seven day trip, I drove her back to Dallas, she gave me a hug, and we parted ways. And it was awesome.

So as I’m driving out of Dallas, I disillusion myself into thinking that I know my way around Dallas. Keep going east and I’ll find Shreveport. Those are basically the directions.

So I call my mom and talk to her as I’m driving out of Dallas. And miss the exit I needed to take to get to Shreveport.

So when I’m about a half hour south of Dallas, I realize that I went the wrong way. Great.

I hung up with my mom and found directions. Google Maps, you seriously need to work on your shit. I understand Texas is rural, but you got me even more lost. I almost had to use Apple Maps.

As I was driving towards Shreveport, I figured that everything was going well. It was insanely hot and sunny out, my car is usually dependable so I totally and completely ignore the check engine light, as well as the temp of the engine.

When I get to the town of Canton, Texas, I pull into Taco Bell to cheat on my diet and get a couple of burritos. Because I was starving from driving for seven hours with no food.

As I grab the bag from the lady in the drive through, my hood starts to smoke. A lot.

Panicking, I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car, only looking at the engine to realize that it’s far more overheating than it should. I take a drink of my coke and step outside… Only to realize that it’s really, really hot out. And that the engine coolant in my car was almost boiling and shooting out everywhere.

And nobody stopped to help me.

Come on Texas, you all pride yourselves on southern hospitality and when you see a woman with Alaska plates looking at her engine and pacing and very obviously distressed, you don’t just eat your tacos and stare awkwardly. (Hint hint, creepy old dude in the Dodge Durango).

I look at the horizon and realize that the sun is setting alarmingly fast. I finally do what I’ve been dreading.

I call Alex.

Alex is usually ridiculously warm and loving in situations of pure horror on my end, which is why I hate calling him. He’s the perfect, idyllic husband in instances of the car breaking down, the house breaking, the toilet flooding, you name it. He always comes to my rescue, he hugs me and tells me it’s going to be okay, and he calls a mechanic because he’s even more clueless than I am when the car breaks down. And I almost hate it because one of these days, I’m positive he’s going to do what my parents do when I break something: WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO NOW?! YOU ARE GROUNDED FOREVER AND YOU ARE NEVER DRIVING AGAIN FOR AS LONG AS YOU LIVE, WHICH WON’T BE LONG BECAUSE WE’RE GOING TO GUT YOU LIKE A FISH!*

So he calls our insurance, who tell us that they’re sending a tow truck to tow the truck to a little repair shop.

I wait twenty minutes and talk to my friend Marissa, who informs me that because I have a uterus, I have no rights. Because, you know, Texas.

The tow arrives, and the guy sees the plug dangling from the front of my car. It’s for an engine block heater to keep the engine block from freezing solid in ridiculously cold weather. Like in Alaska.

“Is your car a diesel?” he asks me, totally and completely confused by the plug. I explain it to him and he just looks more confused.

“So, Alaska, they must get really cold, like forty degrees.”

I give him a blank stare and agree with him, just wanting my car to get fixed.

He takes me to the mechanic and I forget that it is a Sunday and NOTHING is open on a Sunday in the south.

Naturally.

I was planning on just sitting in my car, charging my phone via my car, and he informs me that he can’t just “leave me” in my car while my husband is making the hour and a half drive to rescue me (to which Alex hadn’t even left yet).

“People get kidnapped and murdered all the time. And a woman should never be left alone in a rural area.” The man’s wife was with him and she told me that they would drop me off at a café or something nearby where Alex could pick me up.

They dropped me off at Denny’s, where I drank my weight in coffee, charging my phone with a charger the manager let me use, and called my mom to tell her that I was stranded in the middle of nowhere in Texas. By myself.

She basically called me a dodo and talked to me for a while. I called my Grandma and told her about my troubles and told me that she’s so glad she’s not me. She’s british and she can’t understand southern accents, nor can anyone ever understand her. She would have been screwed.

After about an hour in Denny’s, Alex walked in and ordered enough food to feed an army (Or air force, ba-dum-ksh). I ordered food, feeling frustrated. I decided that when I got home, I was drinking my weight in beer. After I finished my homework.

I also told my friend that it was her fault my car broke down. She felt bad, and I get to rub it in her face for the rest of her life.

I found out later that my radiator basically exploded.** And since I had a foreign car in “God’s country,” it cost me $500 to fix. Apparently it was also President Obama’s fault too, because, you know, everything bad that happens is because of Obamacare.

*So I keep misrepresenting my parents. Both my mother and my father are very high strung and nervous wrecks when it comes to random situations.  And they tend to think the worst, which I can totally understand since I do too, but it has caused me to be terrified of telling Alex anything bad that happens.  Like when I flooded our toilet in Alaska by pouring hot wax into the toilet.

**The radiator broke, causing engine coolant to go EVERYWHERE and it looked like it had exploded.  I think it just decided to say FUCK YOU.

Ever have your car break down, leaving you stranded somewhere where you’d rather never visit again for the rest of your life? Is your car an evil little bastard like mine? Tell me in the comments!

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

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I Think My Husband Is Trying To Tell Me Something

So I came home to this today.

Not even exaggerated.

Not even exaggerated.

This is my office desk. Underneath the note, Tupperware, dirty dishes, empty bottles and box of vitamins, is my laptop. Alex knows that the first thing I do when I get home is go on my laptop.

These were all of the dirty dishes in my office.

And my mess from breakfast.

Here’s what the note says.

Naturally, it isn't "Clean your fucking mess." that's far too easy.

Naturally, it isn’t “Clean your fucking mess.” that’s far too easy.

In case you can’t read that, it says “Hi! I’m a subtle clue to a complex riddle. ‘Clean your ____ing mess.’ Take your time, it’s a doozy.”

So, naturally, I put all of the garbage, the entire pile, into the kitchen, as I always do, and got on my laptop to explore the internet. Because that’s what he’s expecting, and I would never disappoint my husband by surprising him.

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

How I bought A Cookbook For A Gay Man

Back in February, I attended an absolutely beautiful gay wedding, but the day before I flew out, I had to buy a cookbook with Louisiana recipes in it for a friend of mine.

And I was looking for a wedding gift at Books-A-Million, but had no luck. Anyway, this is the story of how I totally and completely weirded out two innocent bystanders.

The day was a warm and sunny Louisiana day. Meaning it was way too hot and my hair was curly from the horrible humidity. Not going to lie, I’m pretty sure I used an entire tube of chaffing cream for my chub rub.

So I walked into the Books-A-Million and got a coffee, talked to the fabulously gay barista there then went over to the cook books in the “Local Cuisine” section looking for a Louisiana cookbook.

And there were none that I could find.

I began to panic a little, then decided that I needed to talk to the two gentlemen manning the customer service station.

I was surprised to see two huge jocks manning the counter. One of them had a soccer shirt on, and the other one was obviously in high school or fresh out of high school. They were good southern boys, smiling at me and saying, “How can I help you, ma’am?”

I walked up, and in a full Minnesota accent, began to tell them of my woes. “Hi there, I’m going to a gay wedding this weekend and I need a Louisiana cook book for the grooms.”

They both looked befuddled, so I went on to explain. “You know, a gay wedding. Not gay as in weird or happy, gay as in tips touching.” To which I proceeded to touch my two index fingers together, as if they were penises.

They both looked at me. “You know… tips touching… two guys?”

Finally one of them cleared their throat and said, “Uh, ma’am, what kind of book? We didn’t hear what you had said.”

That made a little more sense.

“A local cookbook.”

They looked like they were going to fight over who was going to help the crazy gay lady, but finally one of the guys led the way and found me an Emeril’s cookbook. Perfect.

“Thank you for helping me!” I told him.

“No problem… Have fun at that… Wedding?”

“Yes. A gay wedding.”

The guy walked away shaking his head.

I win at the internet.

Has anyone else totally and completely misunderstood what someone meant when they said “What?”  I want to know!

 

Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

 

Louisiana Cooking: Delicious or Deadly?

I have mentioned before several times, I am from Minnesota. Hell, it’s the entire basis for this blog. How I get really confused and end up in horribly awkward situations because I’m so horribly Minnesotan. To me, a delicious home cooked meal is lefse and potato dumplings smothered in butter and salt. Everything is pretty white in color, bland in taste, and absolutely fucking amazing.

However, Louisiana is known internationally for its flavorful cooking. And I will admit, when I can get over the horrible searing of my mouth, it’ll probably be amazing.

Of course, I have to be an idiot and try out my own Cajun cooking.

There’s this seasoning that is the base of all Louisiana cooking. It’s called Tony Chachere’s Everything Seasoning.

This shit is dangerous

This shit is dangerous

 

When you go to a restaurant in Louisiana and ask for salt, they’ll hand you a can of this. It’s an extremely spicy seasoning blend that is pretty freaking amazing. I have two separate cans of it, which goes against everything my cooking stands for. However, my first can of it has lasted me three years and I’m not even half way through it. A typical Cajun family will go through one can a week. I can use a very light sprinkle, while everyone else drowns their food in it.

My work had pot luck recently, and I was very excited for it considering everyone was making really southern food. They made greens, jambalaya, dirty rice, and the works. I also had no idea that “greens” in Louisiana is collard greens boiled in bacon fat, making it about ¾ bacon and ¼ actual greens. Naturally, drowned in creole seasoning.

The food was amazing.

And my mouth was dying.

I was chugging water and soda trying to get rid of the burning sensation in my mouth. My eyes were watering and I was trying anything to get rid of the burn. My manager then informed me that they hardly used any seasoning in their food and that it was bland.

I was so confused. My brain couldn’t comprehend this. It was so blasted with flavor I felt like my mouth was dying.

So today I decided to make Beef and Beer chili. I decided to put a Cajun spin on it and add this seasoning, but I grabbed my can of “More Spice” creole seasoning, which means it’s about half cayenne pepper.

And I pour it in. Like a Cajun would.

Probably about 4 tablespoons of this stuff.

And my house smells amazing from this. It smells spicy, but I’m thinking “It’s a big pot of chili, I’ll be fine.”

So I taste it.

And I immediately spit it out.

It’s been two hours and my mouth is still burning. It’s so spicy. I’m dying.

So I texted my manager who is really cool about me texting him my horrible culinary experiences because he usually ends up laughing at how northern I am.

He’s laughing his ass off. While I’m dying.

Thank you Tony Chachere’s, for killing my mouth. And for making Louisiana think I’m a wimp.

Spoiler: He Didn’t Donate Kitchen Wares

So I’ve been working as a donation attendant at a certain thrift store, which strangely enough, I freaking love. It’s a really nifty job because I get to sort through people’s stuff that they may or may not have wanted to donate.

And we get some really weird stuff. For realz.

I’m pretty sure this counts as weird

But there was one day that was particularly interesting to say the least.

I was in the donation area of the outside of the building, catching some sun. Enjoying the absolutely horrifically hot weather. When a guy drove up, his wife in the car, and he practically shoves this HUGE box into my arms.

“Thank you for your donation sir,” I said to him, muffled from behind the box.

“We just got out of the military and we don’t need our kitchenware anymore, so I figure you guys can use it,” he said, giving me a wolfish grin and walking back to his car, where his lovely wife was playing on her smartphone.

I thought nothing of this. Very normal. The box was a big plastic bin with the lid and it was marked “KITCHENWARE” so I figured that there was nothing fishy about it.

So I brought it to where we sort the donations and handed it off to a volunteer that was working that day. He took it, anxious for something to do, and I began to walk off when I heard him call out to me.

“Uh, Ms. Leah? I think you need to see this.”

I walk over and I realize that this man did not donate a box full of kitchenware.

He donated a box full of sex toys.

And I don’t mean a little box with two or three things. I mean, he donated a huge tote of sex toys.

And it had everything you could and could not imagine

Our box was way bigger than this

 

The box that was donated to us had costumes, whips, dildos, vibrators, different sexy games, lingerie… basically anything and everything you could imagine.

Me and the volunteer just stared at the box for a few minutes, unsure of what to do next.

Finally, I decide it would be a good idea to tell my manager.

While he was in the room with two very prude women.

Who were also managers.

As you can imagine, the results were hysterical. Too funny for words. To say the least, the entire situation was horribly awkward.

 

So to date, that is the best donation story I’ve got from working at a thrift store for six weeks.