Farrah, Michael, and I’m driving a rental car???

Today (which I guess, at this point is actually yesterday) was a crazy day. First, we heard the terrible news that Farrah Fawcett passed away. She died of cancer, so that one hit home for me. I can only hope that she’s in a place where she’s no longer suffering, and can wear her famed seventies hairstyle.

THEN, we heard that Michael Jackson went into cardiac arrest and subsequently died. This one was a complete surprise. Although when I think about all of the alterations that he made to his body, it’s not completely shocking. But it’s sad. Very sad. And we’ve lost a great talent. People liked talking about what a freak Michael had become and made jokes about his lifestyle, etc., but at the end of the day everyone has been entertained by him at some point, and each of us can cite a Michael Jackson song that has made us dance or smile.

Finally, as if this day weren’t bad enough, my car isn’t ready!!! WTF?! When I called yesterday, I was told that today would be the day. It wasn’t. All of a sudden there was some part that needed ordering. I was proud of myself. I refrained from asking when he knew the part was being ordered, and demanding when someone planned to inform me that my car would be ready a day later. But then it occurred to me that this guy couldn’t care less. All of my bitching would have fallen on deaf ears. (Not to mention ears that don’t comprehend English well enough to appreciate my well-placed sarcasm and insults).

So, I decided to rent a car.

I called Enterprise, and they picked me up to give me a lift to the rental car office.

As an aside, what is up with the car rental lingo? Why do they say things like “we’re gonna put you in a car today.” What, exactly, does that mean? No . . . you’re going to RENT a car to me. I plan to put MYSELF into the car. But I digress . . .

Of the cars available, I chose the Nissan. I’ve driven Nissans and had great experiences. Much better than the Hyundai, also available.

I should have known there was going to be a problem when I didn’t recognize the model name of the car. And honestly, I still can’t recall it. Is it the Versa, or something? Whatever. Regardless, this Nissan isn’t the Nissan that I know. My Altima had pickup. This car has none. My Altima had 4 cylinders. This car has a maximum of 2 cylinders, and about 2 guinea pigs.

I haven’t driven extremely far, but I’ve noticed that my typical driving antics will certainly not be tolerated in this vehicle. It’s hard to cut someone off if you can’t quickly zip past them.

The upside is that I know now what brakes are supposed to feel like. Oddly enough the brakes are phenomenal on what might be the least powerful car that I’ve ever driven. Turns out I’m not supposed to have to stomp on them (and say a prayer), as I’m forced to in the Ford. Who knew?

Let’s hope that tomorrow will be a better day. Everyone that we love and admire will remain in our presence, and my car (which I neither love nor admire) will be returned.

Transmission? I don’t need no stinkin’ transmission!

Sometimes life can be funny, but let me say that life was not funny this week. My car (which I refer to as “the dungheap on wheels”) was having some transmission slippage issues and leakage of an unknown substance.

I got a referral for a new mechanic, having made the decision to never again visit the dealer after the last time when I was convinced I was overcharged. [Also, let's just say that I didn't have the best behavior as I was leaving, and might have said something about how I like my mechanics with common sense. This was before I called back to inform the owner of the many reasons that they would never touch my car again. But all of that is seriously beside the point. The point is that I needed a more economic solution to what appears to be my growing problem.]

I took my car in, and was invited to stick around for an estimate. The entire time I was hoping that the leak was a minor thing, and with some tweaking and transmission fluid, I could go on my merry way.

Not so much.

Instead I was told that my gears were all a mess and that I would need a new transmission. He said it in a very nice way. I’m sure he would have rather said “Your shit is FUUUUUUCKED UP.” Because it is. And I wouldn’t have been mad at him. All of those years of driving a Ford Taurus like it’s a race car has finally caught up with me.

After getting hit with a $1200 bill, I had a quick telephone consultation with my father and a friend who’s a car nut. They determined that I wasn’t getting screwed, and that, yes, my transmission was probably a mess given my aggressive driving style.

So, I left my car there . . . and took the keys with me. Because I’m a freakin’ genius. If this were a movie about my life, I could imagine a close-up shot of my hand sticking the keys in my pocket, confirming for the audience that it was a bad move that would haunt me later.

I took the bus home, which was lovely (NOT), reached in my pocket for house key and discovered (cue dramatic music) my car keys!!! In denial, I somehow convinced myself that it wasn’t a big deal that my mechanic would be unable to start my car, and decided to honor my lunch plans — even though I wasn’t playing well with others. At all.

I had the presence of mind to clear my calendar for the week.

One of my fatal flaws is that when I’m in a bad mood, I’m just going to be in a bad mood. I’m inconsolable. Period. However . . . I typically do people a favor and stay away until I can have a reasonable conversation. And being forced to spend over $1,000 on a car that I don’t like is really enough to make me unreasonable as hell . . . and unnecessarily snappy. Therefore, although I love them dearly, I steered clear from my friends who fall into the following buckets:

1) Those who ask me a lot of questions. I know . . . it’s unfair because people are inclined to ask followup questions, but seriously? Sometimes I’m SO not in the mood and I’m ESPECIALLY not in the mood for . . .

2) Those who ask condescending “guy” questions, for example “Are you sure it’s your transmission?” “Can the transmission be rebuilt?” “Did you ask if that’s the best price?” By the way, the answer to ALL of those questions? STFU! FYI, that answer isn’t conducive to good friendships, so I stay away from those relentless question-askers.

3) Cheerer uppers. If anyone forms their lips to tell me to “look at the bright side,” I won’t be held responsible if I crack them in the head with a mallet. I know they mean well, but timing is everything. A knot in the head might make them think twice the next time. (Although, as much as I hate to admit it, I was VERY lucky that the transmission only started seriously acting up after June Jamboree, the Literacy Works charity event that was held this past Saturday. I was running around all day, picking up the godchildren, hauling shit around. Just one day earlier, and the catastrophe would have been exponential.)

But I digress . . .

So . . . went to lunch, which actually turned out better than I thought (thanks Michelle and DJ) . . . and then I got a call from the mechanic asking if I had taken my keys. Of course I had; they had been jingling in my pocket for the past hour. He asked if I could bring them soon because the car was inconveniently located. I told him that I would be there in 1.5 hours (secretly thinking that this guy was certainly no stranger to hotwiring cars, and if push came to shove, could easily hotwire mine and move it to the desired location. I wisely decided not to make that suggestion — especially since I want my car back within the month).

My mood worsened because the last thing I felt like doing was taking the bus BACK over there, and then BACK home in 85 degree weather. Fortunately, dad to the rescue. He met me at the train and gave me a lift. Thank God for good dads.

Anyhoo . . . here I sit, waiting for the car to be fixed, sad that I will have dispensed of a gripload of cash, and my car will still be the same dungheap that it was before — except now I’ll know that I won’t lose the transmission while doing 80 on Lake Shore Drive (which might give you a clue as to why I need a new tranny in the first place).

You guys missed my venomous rants didn’t you? I try not to disappoint.

The annual kitty cats

Every year, some stray cat thinks enough of me to deposit her kittens in her backyard. To be fair, I didn’t have kittens here last year, but the year before the resident cat whore whom I called “Mama,” just because she was probably the mother of most of the neighborhood strays, dropped off her last litter. She was a mangy thing, with skin issues and a dull coat, but I fed her because I felt badly for her, and in return, she gave me Bailey, my cat who’s extremely sweet, but a colossal pain in my butt. The year that he was born, I caught two of his brothers and took them to a shelter. He was having none of that, and opted instead to lobby to become my own personal pet. He won, and now lives here, spending most of his time in the guest bedroom. Why? Because Phoebe, my original cat (also a rescue) hates him. Tremendously.

So, today, I went outside under the pretense of doing some lunchtime weeding, and what do I see. A little face peering at me from beneath the porch. I notice that there are two other little faces with it. More kittens. Apparently a cat other than Mama has decided that my house was the place to be. Sigh.

No worries. I’m not bringing them in house. I would probably have a feline mutiny on my hands if I did. But now I feel compelled to find homes for these little cuties. Harder than you think.

If anyone’s interested, please drop me a note, and I’ll try to get pictures of the little buggers. I would imagine that they weigh about 2.5 pounds each. SO cute.

I swear, sometimes I wish I didn’t love animals. Or men. Life would be so much easier.

Bathroom renovation — the finale

I’m SO happy that today is the final step of the bathroom renovation. The funny thing is that it’s not for reasons that most people would think. Yes, I’m happy to have full use of my own bathroom (I’ve always hated the tightness of the guest bathroom), but largely because I HATE when people are in my bedroom/bathroom. It’s one of my quirkiest, weirdest traits — or maybe more people are like me and I don’t realize it.

VERY few people have been upstairs in my house, and that’s by design. There’s really no reason to be up there . . . unless you’re a special invited guest.

So, to have random workers up and down the stairs, violating my space, making a complete mess, and in the case of today, taking smoke breaks and bringing all of their smoker nastiness back in with them, is torturous, and this two hour shower door installation (happening as I type) cannot move fast enough. It really can’t. I’m already trying to figure out many candles and open windows will be required to fumigate my space once they’re gone.

And then after they’re done, I’ll find another project to tackle — but the good news is that the next one will either be outside, or downstairs.

Yes! I know . . .

It’s been forever since I’ve posted. SO
much has been going on, and I guess I’ve had bloggers block.

Since I’ve blogged, I’ve been laid off, started a bathroom renovation project, got a new job, and supervised the finishing of the bathroom. Some fun stuff. Some not at all. I’ve been doing some writing, but I recently made the decision to launch a new website, which will be a new home for this blog (which would mean that I actually have to write regularly — go figure), and also an outlet for the column formerly known as The Gina Spot. Actually, the column will always be known as The Gina Spot — it just won’t appear in RedEye as much — if at all. Seems that that column has been effectively phased out, although I do write a little blurb on Fridays called 3Sum, which isn’t as filthy as you think — three of us weigh on a weekly topic (get it? 3 Sum?).

All that said, I’m going to try to be a more regular contributor with the hope that people will still care to read it, but be on the lookout for a new site, which will contain more fun stuff.