I once had a crush on a guy named Allen once. He was gorgeous. This was not just some little, “Oh, he’s kinda cute!” crush, it was big. Huge, even. A Grand Passion. A serious, karmic, I-light-up-whenever-he-walks-in-the-room-and I-think-I-want-to-have-his-babies-and-Gee,-I-kinda-thought-I-was-gay-and-now-I-have-to-rethink-my-sexuality kind of a crush.
It was, regrettably, never consumated, even though I had the permission of his girlfriend.
I don’t know if I have any Allen wrenches, though.
But you live in Allentown, so you must have Allen wrenches. Whole place is probably lousy with em. I bet you can’t even walk on the sidewalk without tripping on Allen wrenches in Allentown. 
Rue you kinda got it right about the bedroom. He did show me the bedroom and I said nice room. He didn’t tell me I couldn’t pee in it, but did proceed to give me some personal instruction on things that can be done in the bedroom. It was educational.
What kind of Allen wench doesn’t have an Allen wrench?
Like, hands-on educational?
I got a Allen wrench with my treadmill. It’s for adjusting the belt when it goes all askitter. It has been going askitter a bit more lately now that Mr. Anachi has been using it, too. I dunno if he’ll be using it tonite (the treadmill, not the Allen wrench) cause my Weatherbug says it’s a hunnert degrees out. That means that the garage, which is where the treadmill is, will probably be about a hunnert and five! :eek: Sometimes Fladuh isn’t the tropical paradise Uncle Walt told us it is.
Tupug
Owner of A Genuine Allen Wrench
I had a crush on a guy named Allen when I was in 7th grade (actually, he spelled it Alan, same difference), but he wasn’t interested at the time, so I decided to like his brother Eric. When I ran into Alan at our 20th reunion, I confessed that I had had a crush on him waaaaaaay back when we were kids. He hadn’t had a clue (figures, guys are so dense sometimes). But then he proceeded to get plastered and tried to “pick me up” all night (he had just recently been divorced, and I had gone stag–my husband’s band was playing somewhere that night). Boy was that uncomfortable!
I got lots and lots of allen wrenches and I’m a genuine Allen (well by marriage anyway). I have allen wrenches for the treadmill, for the roller blades, for former cheesy furniture, for all kinds of things. I just don’t know where they all come from. But, you know what? Whenever I actually NEED an allen wrench, I can’t find a single one. Then when I’m looking for other tools all I see are allen wrenches. Go figure…
I also have one of those bone-looking wrenches mentioned by our illustrious Rue. That thing is “da bomb”. I have found numerous uses for it, it’s not just for bicycles anymore!
Speaking of automatic doors, saturday I went grocery shopping at WalMart (they’re cheap and close). Their doors open from either side although one set is for entering and one set for exiting. I guess too many people walked into them. Either that or the corporation was anticipating the intelligence levels of some of the shoppers. I, myself, have never walked into a store door. I just walked into the bathroom door at home, which has never been automatic. (It was dark and I wasn’t fully awake-until after I hit it it anyway.)
I spent a large chunk of sunday evening inside my bedroom closet. Not just for fun either. Many storm cells swept through town and drug along a flock of funnel clouds with them. And about five hundred tons of rain. My closet is the only interior room in my basmentless house so I, and the cats, hung out in there for a while. It wasn’t a total waste of time though. I did get to sort through my wardrobe and chucked out three bags of stuff for Goodwill.
I, too, have a plethora of allen wrenches. We’ve also got scads of them at work. Very handy for adjusting the instrumentation. Which reminds me of something peculiar. There’s a large drawer at work just full of screwdrivers, all of the flathead variety. Thing is there aren’t any flathead screws in the lab that I’ve ever seen. Every durned one is phillips. That’s a government job for you.
I was at Target this weekend, too! I bought a really cute khaki bucket hat. That’s not why I was there, I just walked past the rack and really needed it. I am wearing it now, because it is this year’s official Summer Hat™. I have to make sure I think before I enter the Target, because they put the Enter doors on the left, which confuses silly ol’ American me.
I rented movies this weekend, the ones that I really wanna see and nobody else I know ever does. I saw The Cat’s Meow and Dangerous Beauty. Eddie Izzard was great. In the first movie, not the second.
I don’t have an inner 14-year-old boy. I do, however, have an inner 13-year-old girl who rolled her eyes at what a 14-year-old boy would find funny.
Very much so. Apparently he has developed a whole curriculum he wishes to teach me. Fortunately I yearn for knowledge. 
The bike that Santa rode to my house to give to me was a purple stingray. It did not have a bell, a horn or streamers, and I took the basket off immediately (none of those assessories was cool). What was cool was a “sissy” bar (although how anything with that name became cool I’ll never know). Sissy bars were sort of like roll bars in Jeeps, except these had no practical purpose because they were long and so would not have been in a position to protect you should the bike roll over. I suppose it could prevent the bike from rolling over, but only sideways and I think a bike would be more apt to roll end-over-end. In fact, I’ve been on a bike that flipped (I got tired of typing “roll”) end-over-end, and, although that particular bike did not have a sissy bar, I fail to see how having one could have helped.
I got the sissy bar when my father, on one of his visits up to see the family and spend money on us to make us love him(I loved him even when he didn’t spend money on me, but I was young) bought me a banana seat. I’m not going to explain what a banana seat is because if you don’t know, you’re too young (and you probably wouldn’t know what a “cherry-picker” bike was either even though they were even cooler that stingrays). Anyway, the banana seat was purple (to match my bike, natch) and had sparkles in it. Way cool. However, at some point, the sissy bar got bent and for some reason, the banana seat then failed to stay in position parallel to the ground, but rather sunk down (in the back only) to rest on the rear wheel fender. I was still able to ride the bike, but the front of the seat stuck up and, well, let’s just say it wasn’t cool.
Later I got a Schwinn (which was cool) three-speed (which was not cool and could never be cool–if Fonzie rode a three-speed neither it nor he would be cool). Finally I got a ten-speed, (again, cool) but it got stolen when I was a junior in high school and since then I have not owned a bike.
But still, I’m cool.
My inner 8 year-old girl is singing:
Magickly and Rue
Sitting in a tree
K-I-S-S-I-N-G
First came love,
Then came Marriage
Now they’re pushing
A baby carriage
because every 8 year-old knows that if a 13 year-old girl pays any attention to a 13 year-old boy, it must be love!
D’oh! Allentown!! :smack: I can’t believe I missed that.
It’s obvious I can’t post to the MMP and work at the same time; I guess I’ll just have to give up that work thing.
Still can neither confirm or deny the presence of Allen wrenches; I’ll have to go home and nose about a bit.
Well, rats, my post disappeared… Not that I had much to share.
swampy, you need to mosey over to this thread and share your decorating expertise!!
There you go again.
I simply do not understand what nefarious inpulse drives you women into trying to make the MMP threads all girly.
Stop it. Just stop it.
Yes, an excellent book–I just remembered that I never read the last story. I’ll have to read it tonight.
Ex, I believe that your predilection for seeing “girly” posts all over the place, even when no such gender specific posting is present, is a manifestation of a deep feeling of insecurity concerning your sexual identity. The post of mine that you quoted, for example, is a song sung by children of both genders in an attempt to embarass playmates also of both genders. Or the same gender for that matter. There is nothing intrinsically “girly” about the song. Instead, your own gender/sexual confusion has led you to find gender identifying words or actions in the most gender neutral of forums. For this same reason, I feel I must inform you that you have boy cooties and won’t be invited to my birthday party until you know how to act around girls! Ick! 
As for the rest of you, need I say that the song sung by both genders is not a Song Sung Blue, nor are the singers Forever Young, even if they stay Forever in Blue Jeans.
This post is for Ex and certified as being non-girly.
Speaking of work, I spent half my day today lubing up 1 ton chain motors, hauling them up into the ceiling, then hanging a crapload of speakers off of them. I need to get a structural engineer in tomorrow, though, as I’m not all that confident in the I-beams that I was rigging from. Nobody around here can remember who put them in, and all I can see is an I-beam sticking out of a plate on the wall with a bunch of bolts in it. Hopefully it will check out ok.
I also climbed up into the grid of the theatre (about 62 feet up) and helped out with some rigging work that was happening up there. Much sweating, grunting, cursing, and just getting dirty was involved. Oh, and I just had a double scotch (rocks) at a farewell party. (Scotch being a manly-type drink, I think)
I know return you to your regularly scheduled girly-type MMP.
Bah. You can get one for $2.08 from McMaster-Carr (search for item 6115A11) that not only tightens the valves, but also recuts the threads, if needed.
I’ve got several little plastic ones that are just the bit that turns the valve core (they come packaged with various air conditioner parts that use those valves), and a steel one that has a compartment in the handle for spare valve cores.
Just another fiend who’s crushed my hopes and dreams for a better future.
On the other hand you really can’t go wrong with a bucket full of innertubes.
On the subject of Krispy Kreme donuts, I would first like to complain about the inane way they chose to spell the name. Both those words in the real world are spelled (spelt? no, that can’t be right, spelt are a kind of little fish, aren’t they?) with a “C”, a perfectly acceptable letter. I blame this on Toy “R” Us (I’m sure someone knows how to make a backwards “R” on a basic keyboard and will be along to say “Don’t you mean Toys <insert backwards R here> Us? It’s simple to do, you just have to hold down the alt space supersize keys while standing on your tiptoes after depressing the F6 and the F3 keys at the same time but not the same hand. You’ll need to have downloaded Esrever Syek, but doesn’t everybody already have that?”) I’d like to find a way to blame it on Sesame Street as well, but I really don’t see the connection (that doesn’t mean there isn’t one).
Back to Krispy Kreme donuts. I have had one once. I was in New Orleans and had just eaten an order of Café Du Monde® Beignets and was meandering down the street seeing the sights, soaking up the local atmosphere, when lo and behold, I spied a Krispy Kreme shop. And the Hot light was lit. A dilemma. I had just eaten, moments earlier, about a pound of deep fat fried dough smothered in about two pounds of powdered sugar (melt in your mouth goodness, let me tell you. The best thing in New Orleans.) Even if I could physically eat another bite (and I think we all know that I could have), would I be able to appreciate the goodness that had been promised to me by the millions of articles and testimonials from thin celebrities? I thought not. But my time in New Orleans was limited. I knew that for the full flavor I had to have a donut fresh and hot, thus, I could not buy one and take it back to the hotel for later tasting, but when in my schedule could I arrange to be back to this place? A seasoned traveller, I did not panic. I had a few unscheduled hours the day I was to leave New Orleans. I had tentively planned on visiting a psychic of one sort or another–I’ve heard there’s strong magic in the delta–but decided that a chance to finally experience a fresh, hot Krispy Kreme was more important than a sneak peek at my future.
Two days later, I returned. I was in luck–the Fresh - HOT light was again glowing in the window and I eagerly waited in a miraculously short line for my turn to order the gooey taste-treat. This was it, my first taste of the donut that had swept the country, the fried dough with a hole that tempted vegetarians and serial dieters alike, the morsel of goodness that caused traffic jams in LA and riots in New York. I was about to eat a Krispy Kreme!
Perhaps my expectations had gotten a bit out of hand. Don’t get me wrong, it was good. Yes indeed, it was tasty. But, maybe a touch too sweet. A little heavy on the glaze, and though I understand that it’s propensity to melt in your mouth is one of its endearing qualities, I expected a wee bit more substance before the whole melting thing. It was more akin to cotton candy in that regards, it just disappeared–poof–when what I expected was to be reminded of really fine chocolate mousse–it disappears in your mouth, and then somehow overwhelms you with chocolate. i was not overwhelmed by the aftertaste of my Krispy Kreme.
All in all, I should have had another order of beignets. Them’s good eatin’.