Blogging is hard, and I remember now how much I suck at it. Until something sufficiently wacky and interesting happens, we resort to the dreaded bulleted list.
Bullet No. 1: I took my car to my mechanic to get my tire patched and plugged. He took one look at the pathetic, treadless slab of rubber I dragged in, had pity on me, and informed me that the tire was not worth the $15 I was about to put into it. I explained that I didn't have any money for a full set and just needed something to get me a drivable vehicle again. After inspecting my car and his used tire selection, he found two almost but not quite as bad used tires and discovered that my high quality rear tires could be rotated to the front while his used tires could work fine in the back, and then did it all for $30, cutting me a nice deal because "You've thrown a lot of business my way," which is a nice way of saying "Thank you for driving shitty death traps." So a big shout out and thank you to my friends at Ronan's in Richmond.
Bullet No. 2: I just walked to the VP down the block and purchased a Powerball ticket and a $3 bottle of clearanced wine (Gallo Family Vineyards Chardonnay). Convenience store professionals refer to this combo as "The Cry For Help."
Bullet No. 3: My other ancient car, the 1990 Plymouth Horizon, also has a flat tire from the alley debris from the idiot across the alley. Unfortunately, due to the advanced state of rust on the lugnuts, I am unable to change it myself. "But Andy," you say, "just loosen the lugnuts before you jack it up." Oh, I tried. It turns out, all evidence to the contrary, I am actually strong enough to lift the car off the ground and spin the tire before the lugnuts will loosen. On the plus side, this means I can probably carry the car to the mechanic with relative ease.
Bullet No. 4: If this clearanced wine is at all drinkable, every one of siblings is getting a bottle for Christmas.
Bullet No. 5: Blogger's examples of post labels, known as "tags" to people who actually speak Internet, are "scooters, vacation, fall." I'm going on record right now by saying that taking a scooter vacation in the fall would be a ton of fun. Unless by "fall" they mean "falling off the scooter." That would be less fun.
Bullet No. 6: Speaking of scooters, I went running the other day. I ran by a group of people congregating outside of a garage. One of them yelled, "There goes killer! Watch out, don't fall!" at me, I assume, as there were no other people on the street. I was utterly confused until I saw that he rode in on a scooter, and thus was probably intoxicated. I should refer him to the VP, or better yet, trade him a case of my clearance wine for his scooter.
Bullet No. 7: The VP also has Mad Dog 20/20 on clearance. Dad will be getting one of those.
Showing posts with label car problems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car problems. Show all posts
Friday, August 12, 2011
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
My Name is Andy
The past few weeks have been full of struggles. And minor catastrophes. And a couple major catastrophes. And setbacks. Oh Lordy, how there have been setbacks. Indeed, by any objective measure, this has been the most backsetting month of my life, with no end in sight. It has gotten to the point where after every soul-crushing setback, I wait for the other shoe to drop, which it invariably does, repeatedly, again and again and on and on, as if I'm being trod upon by a dancing 8-legged OctoGiant. Times are tough, as they say.
I won't bore you with all the gory details of the problems afflicting my normally idyllic existence, which are legion. Instead, it occurred to me today, while I was climbing through the backseat of my Nissan to manually unlatch the trunk from the inside so I could change the tire that had flattened after I ran over a piece of stray brick from my idiot neighbor's overflowing shed of garbage, that I have a simple, easily solvable case of Bad Karma, and, as such, need to find the source of the bad karma and address it. I have been racking my brain all evening in search of the origin of the malaise, my unforgivable sin that spawned a thousand tears. And while it may be simply a side effect from the mild concussion I suffered after I was able to unlatch the trunk only to not push the trunk door up far enough for the pneumatic device to catch and hold it causing it to fall back down upon my then extended head, but I think I've found the offending action.
Three weeks ago, on July 21, I was at CVS with very limited cash on hand buying some necessary supplies when the associate pointed out that they were running a charity to buy and send sunglasses to soldiers in Iraq. I politely declined to participate and silently went all Ebenezer Scrooge on the concept in my head. "I'm sorry, but did we suddenly slash our defense budget so much that the military is relying on me to pay an extra dollar for the cheapest possible sunglasses on top of the massive tax money they already receive? And even so, soldiers are compensated fairly, so shouldn't my charity dollars go to people who have little or nothing or lack the ability to provide for themselves? And also, soldiers chose to go to Iraq. Shouldn't they be prepared to deal with the sun?" I left the store feeling absolutely no guilt or remorse about the affair, forgetting that I had once decided as a rule to never refuse help when it was asked of me and I was able to pitch in.
What I didn't realize is that somewhere in Iraq, a soldier who sends most of his money home to provide for his sickly mother, his pregnant wife, and his adorable two year old was unable to purchase sunglasses from the PX and, while patrolling the desert, eyes dried and scratching from the sand and the heat, shook his fist at the sky and cursed the man responsible for his unfortunate situation.
And so tomorrow, between tire repairs and work, I must venture forth on a noble quest to win a stay from the onslaught of karmic retribution coming my way. If CVS is no longer participating in the charity, I have no idea how to make amends. If the three seasons of My Name is Earl I watched are any indication, wacky hijinx and unforeseen complications will arise. But I remain resolute. Sunglasses for the masses, says I.
I won't bore you with all the gory details of the problems afflicting my normally idyllic existence, which are legion. Instead, it occurred to me today, while I was climbing through the backseat of my Nissan to manually unlatch the trunk from the inside so I could change the tire that had flattened after I ran over a piece of stray brick from my idiot neighbor's overflowing shed of garbage, that I have a simple, easily solvable case of Bad Karma, and, as such, need to find the source of the bad karma and address it. I have been racking my brain all evening in search of the origin of the malaise, my unforgivable sin that spawned a thousand tears. And while it may be simply a side effect from the mild concussion I suffered after I was able to unlatch the trunk only to not push the trunk door up far enough for the pneumatic device to catch and hold it causing it to fall back down upon my then extended head, but I think I've found the offending action.
Three weeks ago, on July 21, I was at CVS with very limited cash on hand buying some necessary supplies when the associate pointed out that they were running a charity to buy and send sunglasses to soldiers in Iraq. I politely declined to participate and silently went all Ebenezer Scrooge on the concept in my head. "I'm sorry, but did we suddenly slash our defense budget so much that the military is relying on me to pay an extra dollar for the cheapest possible sunglasses on top of the massive tax money they already receive? And even so, soldiers are compensated fairly, so shouldn't my charity dollars go to people who have little or nothing or lack the ability to provide for themselves? And also, soldiers chose to go to Iraq. Shouldn't they be prepared to deal with the sun?" I left the store feeling absolutely no guilt or remorse about the affair, forgetting that I had once decided as a rule to never refuse help when it was asked of me and I was able to pitch in.
What I didn't realize is that somewhere in Iraq, a soldier who sends most of his money home to provide for his sickly mother, his pregnant wife, and his adorable two year old was unable to purchase sunglasses from the PX and, while patrolling the desert, eyes dried and scratching from the sand and the heat, shook his fist at the sky and cursed the man responsible for his unfortunate situation.
And so tomorrow, between tire repairs and work, I must venture forth on a noble quest to win a stay from the onslaught of karmic retribution coming my way. If CVS is no longer participating in the charity, I have no idea how to make amends. If the three seasons of My Name is Earl I watched are any indication, wacky hijinx and unforeseen complications will arise. But I remain resolute. Sunglasses for the masses, says I.
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