Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content.
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| Like The Queen Whatever happens to strike my fancy, but surely some sort of fiber content. |
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5 Comments:I feel your pain, dear, having had a 300,000+ mile Jeep that recently went through extensive rehab that lasted about 2 months long. (Seemed even longer though). (The engine is a real trooper, but everything else...well that is another story). Still, it is much better than having to cough up money for a new one.
Cars - never can trust 'em. Speakin' of which, I'm still NOT legal, and still need to get mine inspected, and the oil changed, and the interior lightbulb replaced.
Hon,
By I think I am going to go hug my car now...So sorry to hear of your woes, but you know the planets will align in time for you to heave a big sigh and get on the road to MDSW. It's meant to be. It sure is, Jane - last night I was coming home late from taking a friend to the airport in Richmond when an idiot pulled out in front of me and when I moved over into the passing lane he pulled in front of me again! Only a road-hugging set of tires prevented a sad accident. Whew! Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom] Wednesday, April 26, 2006 I hate it that things wear out. I’m from the school of "If you take care of things, they last forever." I’ve always owned things that last forever. In 35 years together, we have bought only 2 pieces of furniture because everything we have was bought new 100 years ago by Aunt T and her husband, or came from cousin Kate Pitts, of Linden, or belonged to B.J.Saunders or came from Greenway, with Uncle Edward’s signature and the year 1822 scrawled on it. Not that I’m an antique hound, but if I already have a table, why should I buy another one. And since Grandma was the only member of her family to marry and have children, as each ancestor passed on to that greater beyond, she had a house of furniture to get rid of. Most of ours came from Judge Blakey’s house, but there were bits and pieces from them all. I don’t mind using up makeup or tooth paste or soap. I expect to eat my food, but if I spend $$$$$ on a car and I take care of it, I expect it to last forever. Yesterday I had a sharp lesson in the futility of expecting machines to meet my expectations. My car needs it’s annual inspection and first off, the garage within walking distance from work is going out of business on Saturday (?!) so I had to drive to an away garage and leave my car. Then it turns out the brake cylinder is leaking and the little plastic shield on the headlight is cracked (I cracked it against the truck - but we need not dwell on that slight moment of not taking care of things.) Who knew cracks in headlight shields will flunk a car’s inspection? I’d have fixed it months ago if I’d known that. Now we have 4 days to find a new one or order one from a dealer because in Tappahannock, a Nissan Sentra is still a foreign car! So. Rats. And so, I need a ride back to the garage after work. I stop by my friend M’s shop and sure she’ll take me. She had to stop by the library anyway. And while there her son who is my grass cutting darling (What will I do when he goes off to college next year?) calls and asks that if she sees me would she tell me that his mower is broken and he needs to make a part and he swears he’ll be by tomorrow. That’s two machines that let the world down. But we are not done with disappointment. Oh no. There is more proof of the transiency of life ahead, for when M comes to get me, and we start up her truck, the brake pedal goes all the way to the floor in a soft whoosh. So now there are more opportunities to be frustrated with our limited, but hubris filled, technology as all the cell phones refuse to talk to each other and of course, nothing disappoints more than expectations dashed by promised-filled engineering. Eventually sons with tools show up and drive well taken care of, but still not lasting forever, machines to the garage where they are swapped around. I take M home, instead of her taking me, and at her house, the safe, plugged in, hard wired telephone allows me to warn BD that dinner will be a trifle late. The lassitude with which BD absorbed the news that our only reliable mode of cheap-ish transportation will require at least 2 days of ferreting about for parts would soothe a victim of a major weather disaster, but bode ill for fretful me, who needs a car that is legal 10 days from now. Of course, I need a legal vehicle all the time, but I can drive the truck around town. I don’t want to take it to Maryland the weekend after next. Besides the abysmal mileage it gets, I don’t want to bring home any loot in an open vehicle and there’s not much room in the cab. And here is where 35 years of marriage stand one in good stead. I want to nag about this. BD is just waiting for the first nag so he can unleash all his own frustration about Cars That Wear Out even if You Take Care Of Them. Instead, he’s put his frustration into the If I Don’t Think About It, It’s Not Real zone. And I am tapping my toe, aching to say "So, look, what are you going to do about the car?" And I know better. But the words keep trying to leak out of my mouth. And sooner or later April 30 will come around and if one of us hasn’t puked up the magic words by then, a different sort of dialogue will ensue. And all this would be eliminated if only that maxim about things lasting forever were true - or maybe, if cars were really things, instead of the devil in disguise. Bah. posted by Bess | 7:22 AM |
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