Girassol

They're sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone

I live in a historic house that predates the Civil War.  It's charming and quaint, sure.  It's also old enough that certain modern conveniences, like air conditioning, are out of the question.  The house is not built for it.  Not even for a window unit, as the electrical wiring won't support it.  So during the dog days of a Pennsylvania summer (90°and 69% humidity at lunchtime yesterday), I pull out the fans and sweat it out. I also live downtown on a street that gets enough traffic to send a good coating of dust through my windows daily.  The front wall of my house is right on the sidewalk, and with the windows open it is downright loud most of the time. I've gotten quite good at tuning out the dust, heat, and noise, and going about my business. 

Sometimes, though, things happen out on the street that I would never be aware of if I didn't live in this old house with the windows open, and it feels like the universe has just sent me a treat.  Like this morning.  I'm sitting at my desk, checking my e-mail, when I become aware that the traffic outside has stopped at the red light, and I can hear loud music blasting from someone's car.  Normally it's rap with the bass turned up so loudly that my windows rattle, or Nickelback.  The people in my traffic are exceedingly fond of Nickelback.  But this morning?  Billy Joel.  Specifically, the song "Piano Man."  Accompanied by some driver who is singing along with reckless abandon.  In a Jetta, with the windows down.  He's sitting at a red light, singing a Billy Joel song with his head thrown back and his eyes closed.  Singing badly.

You know the saying, "Work like you don't need the money, love like you've never been hurt, and dance like no one's watching."  I'm going to add to it, "Sing like no one is listening."  Because that just made my whole morning.  Jetta Dude, we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feelin' alright.

The Devil Went Down to PA

Satan is apparently a registered driver in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.  Be on the lookout.  He drives a green Dodge Caravan.

My Own Private Idaho

Last weekend I drove up to Pocatello, Idaho to visit some friends and attend the blessing of their new baby.  The drive up there is very scenic and because there is pretty much nothing in southern Idaho you can drive 90 mph and not even worry about getting pulled over.  The bad part of there being pretty much nothing in southern Idaho is that about 2 and a half hours into the trip, my CD player overheated and I had to find something on the radio.  For my listening pleasure, southern Idaho offered me A) static at multiple frequencies, B) three or four stations of beer-drinkin', dog-howlin' country, or C) "Baby Got Back" featuring the posterior-obsessed Sir Mix-a-Lot. 

Surely you can guess what I chose, and people, let me tell you that is one dirty song.  The last time I heard it I was probably in ninth grade in a gymnasium full of squealing pubescents and even if I had been able to hear dear Sir's lyrics, I wouldn't have quite gotten the drift when he said, "Well I'm long, and I'm strong, and I'm down to get the friction on."

I soon realized I was going to have to amuse myself in some other way, so I started watching for interesting license plates again.  This being the Book of Mormon belt, I was not surprised to see a car with Utah plates that said, "JERICHO" or a minivan with Idaho plates spelling out "PRAYERS."  I tried really hard to get a picture, but that's not so advisable at 90 mph when there is the possibility that an elk will jump out onto the Interstate and mangle you at any second. 

I like to play this little game with myself where I try to guess what kind of person will be driving each car and if their face will match up with their bumper stickers or license plates or whatever.  When I saw the "PRAYERS" minivan I was imagining a middle-aged, sweet-looking lady with puffy hair, or perhaps a cute little balding grandpa.  Well, I am probably going to Hell for the thought I had when I saw the driver, which was "Honey, you're gonna need a lot more than prayers if you're going to go driving around with a femullet like that."

(NOTE: For a thoroughly enlightening education on femullets, click here.)

Welcome to Utah

Good, but not as good as the time I drove to work behind a Jeep with Utah plates spelling out "FETCHER."  Oh, how I was kicking myself for leaving my camera at home that morning!

I'm so disappointed...

...because I always try to make sure I have a martini with me when I ride the bus.

A Chubby Girl Begins Her Sojourn Into the World of Blogging

Ever since last summer's first official meeting of the Chubby Girl Brigade when everyone was talking about their blogs and asking me when I was going to get a blog, and I was feeling left out since I didn't have a blog and therefore had nothing to contribute to the conversation aside from expressing concern that I had a lesbian haircut, I've been thinking about getting a blog.  Well, today is the day.

Why today?  Because my car is cursed and broken and I can't go anywhere until it gets fixed.  Clearly, the best thing I can be doing with my time tonight while clostered in my apartment is starting a blog.

Allow me to share the Saga of the Corolla for your amusement.  It's been a great little car and has never given me a problem at all, until two Sundays ago when I headed outside to go to Church and discovered that I had a flat tire.  Normally this would be an inconvenient discovery, but on this particular morning the inconvenience was compounded by the fact that Church started in five minutes and my roommates were already there.  Plus, it was raining.  Naturally, the one day of the year that it rains in Utah is the day I get a flat tire.  I called my roommates' cell phones to let them know what was going on and one of them came to rescue me from the certain death and destruction that would befall me if I missed Church.

The next day, I took the dear little car over to Devil*Mart, where I originally bought the tires, and they needed to replace the tire because apparently I had run over a nail with the old one.  I had them go ahead and rotate the tires since it was free and I was due for a rotation anyway.  When this was complete, they told me that I had bent the rim on the flat tire from driving around on it the night before I noticed it was flat, and also that all the lug nuts on the car were stripped.  (Thank you, ex-boyfriend, for your overzealousness with the torque gun when you replaced my brake pads last summer.)

So, I decided to go over to Pep Boys to see about replacing the stripped lug nuts.  I asked the guy behind the service counter if someone could do that for me, and he suggested that I ask for a free brake inspection since that would require them to remove all the lug nuts anyway, and then I could just casually add, "Oh yeah, and can you replace the lug nuts?" once they were off the car.  That way I wouldn't be charged anything for the labor.  Since I absolutely adore free things and had been noticing a slight squealing in my brakes anyway, this sounded like a great idea to me!

Of course, there is no such thing as "free" when dealing with mechanics.  "Sure, we'll check your brakes for free," they say.  "Oh, what the [swear word] is that?  Holy [swear word], it looks like your transmission is draggin' on the ground and is gonna explode any minute!  And there is a nest of ferrets livin' under your hood and danged if they didn't eat up all your spark plugs!  Lady, you are lucky you came in here when you did!  That'll cost you fourteen million dollars and your firstborn child for that transmission and them spark plugs.  And your brakes suck too, by the way."

Turns out I needed new rear brakes, which would cost me $138.  Of course, they wanted to fix them RIGHT THEN, because it was just too dangerous to be driving around on bad brakes like that.  I informed Mr. Pep Boys that it was even more dangerous for me to be spending money I didn't have, and that the brakes would just have to wait.  Oh yeah, and the lug nuts didn't get replaced either.

So while I'm mustering up the courage to pay for new brakes, I go out to my car yesterday afternoon and IT WON'T START.  It's done this a couple of times lately, on cold mornings, where the radio and dashboard lights turn on, but the engine just clicks.  When I try again, it has always started right up so I assumed it was just a cold weather thing... until yesterday. I tested out the wipers and they were running slower than normal which, I've been told, is a sign that the battery is dead.  Curiously enough, my roommate has the exact same car as I have -- a '99 Corolla -- and about a month ago her car did the exact same thing.  She got a new battery and the problem was solved, so I planned to do the same thing. 

We went outside to see if we could jump start the car so I could drive it over to Pep Boys to get a new battery, but first I had to try and push it out of its space while she steered it to a more open location.  Evidently I am not strong enough to push a car alone, because at the moment I yelled, "I AM pushing, it's just not moving!", a guy came out of absolutely nowhere and helped me push the car across the street.  He then ran inside the building to grab a neighbor who, it turns out, is a mechanic.  He tried to give us a jump and my car was not responding at all, so he started banging on something under the hood with what turned out to be a tympani mallet that he apparently keeps in his car for such occasions.  Wouldn't you know, that tympani mallet did the trick and knocked the starter into place and the car started right up!

I was lucky to find out that the battery is fine, but unlucky to find out that the starter needs to be replaced, which is more expensive than a battery.  I was lucky to find out that Neighbor Mechanic Boy will replace the starter AND fix the brakes for less than I would pay at a shop!  Unluckily, this means that until he can fix it on Monday afternoon, I will be taking the bus.

Either that, or cloistering myself at home and writing in my brand new blog.


Here with me are the Chubby Bloggers who piqued my interest in this whole blogging thing: Eric D. Snider, Zannah, Susannah, and Miss Laura Llew.  I'm the one with the questionably lesbionic hair.