Alas, I Have No Jet Skis. Lockouts, Brewcakes and Biscuits? Yes.

Well. So, the car and I are still talking, but I no longer know what to say.

On Thursday, Marv from Imperial Auto called. I was overly optimistic in my worry about a potential transmission replacement. "Well," said Marv, "I think it may be time to begin letting go..." The laundry list included bad ball joints, off-kilter timing chain adversely affecting the camshaft, paper-thin rear brakes, ominous rattles and the likely need for a new catalytic converter. Amidst the overload of bad news, I swear he said a biscuit broke loose within the exhaust. I didn't bother to get further clarification on that one, due to the volume of woe. The volume did not, however, stop me from asking numerous theoretical questions. About how long did I potentially have before it was really "done"? About a month.

"Now, your ball joint on the left side is really bad. The one on the right is just bad."

Hmm. "So, if any of these things gave out while I was driving, would it cause me to have an accident?"

"Well, on the left hand side, it would cause you to veer into oncoming traffic." As usual, his delivery was upbeat.

"Sure."

"On the right hand side, you'd just go into the ditch."

"Right, okay!" As if, armed with this knowledge, I could do anything other than go questing for a new car. Points to me, for the pointless questions.

"Now. I'm not saying anything *bad* about your car. I'm not *criticizing* your car...But maybe you could...upgrade a little. Get something five, ten years newer.** Perhaps a Honda Civic or a Toyota Corolla! I just think there are other models out there that are less expensive to maintain." 

**I realized with a shock last week that my Saturn's 18 years old. But! it was a mechanic's first engine rebuild and so many of its internal parts were new(ish) when I bought it for a song six-some years ago! Not sure whether he replaced the exhaust biscuits.

I frowned and nodded at the cell phone. While it was super-sweet to put in that disclaimer about my car, I can see how it was needed, as another part of me felt quite protective. And who knows how many times he has delivered such news? My neighborhood friend laughed when I conveyed the conversation to him. "Hahaha, your car's in hospice!" This, coming from a hospice counselor...

So, now I'm spending more time on Craig's List than I ever have before. I have been receiving helpful tips from friends and family, and am sure something viable will come together. I am alternately lured in and dissuaded by random descriptions.

"motor runs but has engine noise i could put gear oil in it to make motor quiet but im not that kind of guy most likely it only needs rod bearings...firm on price possible trade for jet ski sit down or stand up"

***
Following an intensive work week, it was time to blow off some steam this weekend...But not before locking my keys in my moribund car, in the parking lot grocery store. Excellent! A  woman observed as I stood next to my car, glowering and shaking my head.

"You look like you locked yourself out!"

"I sure did! VERY happy about it!" The calm imparted by an afternoon yoga session seemed to have evaporated. This exceedingly nice stranger offered to drive me back to my house so I could get my spare key -- which was primo, until it became apparent the neighbors who had my spare house key were out. But still! Talk about random acts of kindness. I thanked her and trudged inside to tick items off my grocery list, while repeatedly feeling my pocket for keys, in the same way that one repeatedly thinks,"The blackout's okay, I'll just watch a movie...Oh." I came outside again and hopped onto my trunk, glancing at the storm clouds racing overhead and chatted with CG.The tow truck managed to beat the rain.

Got home later than expected, but early enough to roast a chicken and go out dancing: not too shabby. The weekend was a mixed affair, but worked out after all... Good people and good people watching last night; creepy individuals kept at bay by the mysterious filtering system of one's dancing group. This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain and met up with Ginger to sample the new brunch at Ypsi's Corner Brewery. Few things are better suited than brunch on a rainy Sunday, don't you agree? I wasn't entirely bowled over by their offerings, but I liked the flavors of their banana espresso-love-stout pancakes  ("brewcakes") and was pleasantly surprised by their version of a mimosa: oj + hard apple cider. I think I may actually like that mimosa better than the traditional! Springy, light, and smooth. And as always, I love the atmosphere there, which often trumps any other perceived deficiencies. It simply feels good to be there.

So. We eventually drove off (or Ginger drove us off, with him casting unnecessary slights at my poor car) and set our sights on the rest of our Sundays. Ginger has another night of dj'ing.

"...So I need to figure out the rest of what I'm going to play. I need to figure out what I'm going to wear~~"

"A cute little dress."

"Probably. And guyliner."

"Hah! I usually hate adding guy/man/gay to every thing to make it male, but I like that one.Yes."

"Mantyhose."

"Yes!...Have fun with that."

Maybe I'll cook, or sketch, or clean. Or maybe I'll lay on the couch and watch more Closer episodes. That also seems appropriate for a rainy Sunday. I do so like to do what's appropriate.

Have a fine week, All!
 

Gloater/Bemoaner, Hard Sells and Phoenixes

Hooooooooooooweee!! A calm weekend that wound up feeling like a whirlwind. Perhaps I missed out by not lazing and soaking up the leisure, as it were, but man! Many more of my little ducks are in a row. They'll probably become stragglers as the week progresses, alarm me by blithely toddling into rush hour and become suddenly, curiously deaf to my entreaties, but as it stands this Sunday evening, they are primly lined up. They seem well behaved and hopefully not willful. So. Did a bit of freelance, organized the framed prints for Gifts of Art, caught up with all family members and even had tea with a good neighbor-friend (a MONTH of walking pneumonia, people count your health blessings.). I made that Island Pork from Gourmet around lunchtime today and while it could have been spicier, the flavor was sooooo warm and robust. It would appear that someone licked the remaining sauce from the plate. 

Yesterday mid-day I got hella restless and decided to see what Ginger was up to. Happily, he was game for an outing and we dropped into Vault of Midnight for their 826 Michigan benefit Covers -- local artists redoing book covers from loved books. While that was in the basement, we started in the store proper, as Ginger is all about the comics/urban vinyl/graphic novels. It's more his thing than mine, but there's always enough visual stimuli for me there. Plus this time, there was a wind-up ice bat, which cracked me up. And suddenly, mixed into the music, the following chorus could be heard:

Mistadobalina Mr. Bob Dobalina
Mistadobalina Mr. Bob Dobalina
Mistadobalina Mr. Bob Dobalina

I sought out G; his head also whipped around: we nodded at eachother, mouthing the chorus. Hah! How funny ! And great! Who even did this? Um, Del the Funkee Homosapien, apparently. I would never have remembered this. Yet again, thanks, Google, you're my trivia(l) savior! In any case, I challenge you not to find it catchy. So that was a pip. And it turns out the larger mix, called The Hard Sell, was a collaboration between DJ Shadow (who I've liked in the past) and Cut Chemist. I may have to snag that, am getting bored with my music these days...

The benefit itself featured a nice collection of work, attended by a fair-to-middling crowd. It's possible (and hopeful, being a fundraiser) that it heated it up after we left. Poster designer extraordinaire Jeremy Wheeler, who's usually a party in a box, was only just arriving when we left. C. Jason Pasquale's reinterpretations of "To Kill a Mockingbird" and "Of Mice and Men" made me happy -- always love his cartooning and wit.


I was also drawn to a collage piece by Morgan Daniels, done on a rough slab of wood; her chosen book was Octavia Butler's Parable of the Sower. I must confess I haven't read that one, but I liked her statement about it and the quote she used from the book (from a religious text within the book, "In order to rise/From its own ashes/A phoenix/First/Must/Burn.") She wrote the quote on a couple strips of birch bark, which she then tacked to the painted surface. These strips deliver a spot of light within an otherwise dark surface. Simple cut-outs of (charcoal smudged) house forms reside at the lower edge of the picture, on top of splashes of dark red, alluding to fires within the book. Nicely done! I wound up picking this up. And special bonus -- it was her first art sale! So, she was excited. How lovely to be a part of that, it's so validating. It can be too validating, certainly. But still! 
   

Well, hmm. You can barely see it. Over to the left.

Well, that's not much better. Trust me, it's cool.

 After that, we were off to Corner Brewery, to donate some canned goods to FoodGathers/Free Masons and to taunt each other over the Othello board.

Smack talk, even in the packaging.

ice bat, at attention before the first play

The first game goes abysmally. From the get-go, he's beating me and as it progresses (if you can call it that), I don't understand how it has been so unrelentingly unfortunate. I damn myself at every play. He gets one corner, then two. Then all. Horrid. It's possible I'm a bigger gloater than he is -- and I'm also a bemoaner, when the chips are down. Noisy at either end, I guess. He's nice enough that he's tossing encouraging words my way: "It could turn on a dime! You know that!"

And then it does. Weirdly, I win.

Neither of us really understand how that happened. We re-match, and woohoo, I wrack up another victory. Perhaps it's the breakfast stout. Perhaps it's the ice bat. So hoppy, with his flipflops.


And so, that's that. Or mostly it. I was hit with an attack of crabbiness and WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN ANYWAY this afternoon, before I came to my senses enough to sit on my deck. I listened to the geese honking overhead on their trek South, random barking of our various neighborhood dogs and the hollow plunk of a plastic bat against a wiffle ball. How does this make it all better? But it does, somehow. Time outside is like a reset button. And so readily accessible.

Happy Sunday night and a fine good morning to All!