Jokers Better Be Solar Powered

Yesterday I was reading the paper and I skimmed an article about electric cars. I read that the Nissan Leaf is all electric (sounds good), takes 8 hours to charge on a 240-volt circuit (great, I sleep eight hours) and goes up to 100 miles on a single charge. What?! 100 miles for 8 hours of sitting. How does that work? What if you don’t live within 20 miles of anything? What if you need to drive to Texas or somewhere really far away? I think I’ll stick to gas for a few more years.

Today I took Ol Black to get the oil changed and the guys at the oil change place told me that the valve cover gasket thing is leaking and needs to be replaced and the- “Hey, Boots! Come listen to what he’s saying!”
Apparently, something’s wrong and it needs to be fixed.
I was hoping things weren’t going to start falling apart but it looks like my luck has run out.
We left the oil change place with notations on what needed to be fixed and me with an ever-growing case of the Anxieties.
Is the end of Ol Black’s life approaching?
Should I be preparing for the final days?
We rode down to the Masda place so I could drool a little closer over this “Celestial Blue” five-door 6.
Boots and I don’t agree on what’s the best way to avoid the carsalesNazis.
Boots said we should drive Ol Black right up to the one we wanted to see, hop out, and jump right back in and drive away.
I thought, and this is what we did, parking on the side of the building and running to the car and running back would be the quickest, draw the least attention, and maybe keep Ol Black in the dark about what we were doing.
Boots thinks I’m an idiot I’m sure.
So we walk briskly, heads down, eyes averted so maybe we’ll magically become invisible and not look suspicious.
Oh! Boots took me in a pawn shop and I felt straight up like a criminal.
As far as the car……
$21,000 brand new.
That’s practically a year’s pay.
Is that how you’re supposed to do it- dedicate a year’s pay to whatever you need to buy?
What if you’re not married?
No way that would work.

D for Duuuuuumb!

Apparently the masses are getting restless for me to post something since I got a message today from my mother that said in not so many words, “When are you going to post something again?”
I apologize, I’ve been busy.
Work is crazy and my brain is tired.

Today I want to talk to you about something personal, something intimate.
Something that all of us at some point in time will have to deal with, unless we’re princesses who have people take care of this sort of thing for us.

I’m talking about getting your car worked on.
Your oil changed, some sort of something worked on, anything under the hood.

Is that not the wickedest (that’s not a word) feeling in the world?
Its like going to the doctor, “So, have you been eating healthy lately?”
“Yes,” but inside your head, “Not if you count that box of donuts yesterday.”

Its like those guys know, they know, that you don’t always stop before throwing it in drive, straight out of reverse.
They know that one time you bought the cheap gas when you’re supposed to only use premium.
They know for sure that you don’t get your oil changed right on the three thousand mile mark.
Getting your oil changed is fairly personal but, how do you feel when something major is wrong?

How do you explain (why do you feel like you have to?) your clutch going out and needing to be replaced to some guy you’ve never met before but, you’re supposed to trust him with a big piece of your personal property?
Cars are personal.
Getting your car worked on is intimate.
Are you with me?

Today I gave an old lady a ride home.
When I first saw her, I didn’t stop.
I was thinking about Target and the supper I was cooking when I got home, I wasn’t in the mood to stop and tell anybody that we weren’t having visitation tonight, to go across the road to the other funeral home.
While I waited to turn out in the road there was a long line of cars coming and I saw her waving her arms at me in my side mirrors.
I decided maybe this was more than somebody that read the wrong name in newspaper, threw her in reverse and got out.
She told me the story of her “accident.”

She was driving down the road and suddenly became blinded by the sun!
She ran off the road and struck a curb, bursting her tires!
She flapped over to the parking lot of the funeral home and was hunting somebody to borrow a phone from.

She called her husband from my phone, he didn’t answer.
I offered to give her a lift and cleaned the crap out of my front seat so she could get in.
We chatted about my job, our cars, and our husbands.
I took her home, she gave me five dollars and I left feeling good about myself.

I went to Target and fell in love.

Whoa, Moses!  Aren’t those cute!

Went home and cooked penne for supper.

The Bootshusband loved it.



Do you see that little piece that’s broken?

That little piece is fairly very important when it comes to driving a car.

Do you see that little sticker sign that says DEATH or SERIOUS INJURY?

They weren’t kidding.

That little piece, my friends, makes a whole lotta difference in your safety while operating a mohicular vehicle.

That little broken off piece is the difference between uncontrollably whopping yourself in the head like a maniac or casually pulling down the sun visor to shield your eyes.

That broken off piece is the difference between a goose egg on the forehead and not.

Geez Louise, how do I keep forgetting that thing is broke?!

Yesterday was a road trip for me.
I drove four hundred miles in twelve hours to go to a friend’s wedding and pick up my wedding invitations.

The trip’s events were dominated by Boots’ GPS which he made me take even though I insisted I didn’t need it because he insisted I did.

Before I left, I stopped at the local Target to buy a wedding bag and a wedding card for my wedding present.
I even color coordinated with the invitation and the wedding colors (blue and white.)
How nice.

I bought a big bag of Sour Patch Kids and a Dr. Pepper.
Junk food for the road, you know.

Got Boots’ GPS set for my destination and hit the interstate, being careful to watch for those state workers because it is Fourth of July weekend, of course.

I’m driving along, listening to my new radio, wearing my sweaty dress I’d had dry cleaned this past week, eating Sour Patch Kids until my tongue was slap raw.
I’m thinking about how cool it would be if GPS machines and radar detector beepers were all-in-one devices.
And maybe if it was combined with cell phone.

That GPS lady would come real handy telling you which way to turn to duck the police.
I look at my fingers on the steering wheel, admiring my engagement ring, and there is an ant on my arm!!
Crawling along like it belonged there!
I freaked out, crossed into the other lane (nobody was around, it’s ok) and got that one and another off my leg!
Where did those chomping critters come from?!

After that near disaster, fifty miles later, I’m off in La La Land thinking about Boots and wedding stuff and TURN RIGHT!!!
Scared the crap out of me.
I mean I jumped twice it startled me so bad!
Can’t that thing beep or something to let you know you’re fixin’ to get yelled at?
What if I’d had a bad heart?

Another 50 miles or so later, I’m so far out in the woods the radio stations don’t play new music anymore.
I passed by some blue and white balloons tied to a sign.

“Huh.
Wonder if that’s it?
Nah, probably not.
GPS lady says I’ve still got 15 miles to go.”

15 miles later, I’m obviously in the wrong place.
There is no church where I am.
I don’t know if it’s the bride’s fault or the GPS lady’s but I proceed to freak out since I’m lost and beginning to run short on time before the blessed event.

I make a call to a man I know lives in that general area and he gives me directions back to the church.
It was the balloons.
Shoulda just stopped and looked.
Genius.

Wedding went fine.
The bride was her most beautiful.
Flower girl wasn’t too cooperative, ring bearer was very aerobic, but it was nice.

Traveled on to my aunt’s house and picked up my (perfect!) invitations.
They look great.
Can’t wait to mail those bad boys out.

The whole road trip thing made me want to go to Texas.
Boots, when can we go back?

Driving My Oven……

I imagine that when you read the title of this post you pictured me in my little car with a major kitchen appliance strapped to the roof but, that’s not exactly what I meant.

Have you ever been so hot you thought you might would die?
You fantasized about your untimely demise and couldn’t wait for it to come just so you could get some blessed relief?

No?
Maybe that was just me.

Anyways, the story goes like this.
Sunday night I was on my way 80 miles south to see Boots get baptized at the church we’re getting married at.
(Boots rededicated his life to God in March and just now had the days in order with the preacher to be baptized.)
After I got about 8 miles into my little journey my air conditioner, in 90+ degree heat, decides that I don’t need it anymore and proceeds to warm me to at least 140 I bet, for the rest of the way.
Did you forget that none of the windows nor the sunroof has opening capabilities?

You wanna talk about hot–go back up to the stop of this post and start again.
I was that hot.

When I got to Boots’ house my nice new turqoise dress was soaked with sweat that eventually dried into salt stains when I finally cooled off.

After church I swapped my black beast with Boots’ macho manly cherry red truck and kept his nice air-conditioned ride until today while he worked on my air conditioner (it was the thermostat that gave out!) and surprise! gave me a new radio!

Now, I’m cruising in the tank with air-conditioning and tunes.
Thank ya, Boots!

The moral of the story is that junk cars provide lots of unexpected unwanted entertainment.