Bleaugh

If I've owed you an email for the last week, I'm really sorry. I've had what can only be described as the plague for the better part of four days, and it kicked me square in the ass. To wit: I slept probably 75% of the weekend away, and the times that I was awake I was hunched over a barf bucket. Talking makes me nauseated, and typing makes me dizzy. Awesome.

I'm at work, although I don't know why, because I still feel like I got hit by a freight train. More later, maybe....

Oh Kitty, my darling... 'tis far better to part*

(*With apologies to the Pogues)

Well, I did it. I finally sold my car, Kitty. And I had no idea it would be as traumatic as it was.

There’s something strangely romantic about one’s first car. I had driven Kitty, my little red Pontiac Sunbird, for well over a decade—some would say well past her prime. The thing is, I knew she was a mediocre car, but she got me where I needed to go (for the most part), and she did so with a surprising amount of fun. Her fastest days were behind her, but we could still hold our own on I-95 and were able to weave in and out of slower traffic with ease. That, and because she was an older car, I was less stressed to drive in the city, where dings and scrapes are the norm and anxiety over them is wasted energy. And sure, she had any number of creaks and squeaks, and driving her was sometimes a test of courage that I wasn’t always eager to take en route to the supermarket (she was known to be tempermental), but, dammit, she was mine, and I knew her better than I knew most people.

Most people, incidentally, were wary to ride in the passenger seat, including my own sister (except when it was convenient for her, of course). The last time she was in the car with me was last summer, when we took her dog to the vet for a checkup. As we drove through the streets of South Philadelphia, she commented on the weird “humming” sound emanating from the car. I turned down the stereo—sure enough, there was a weird, jet engine-like sound coming from under the hood. It had always been there, as far as I knew, but I hadn't really noticed it before, and apparently it wasn’t normal, at least in newer cars. It was just one of Kitty’s many quirks. Others included the inability to open the driver’s side door with a key (thanks to a would-be thief who tried to break in and busted the lock in the process--I suppose my faded Phillies cap in the backseat had a certain appeal), the rattle in the center column when she got up to about 70mph, and, of course, the Mystery of the Cooling System. Over the past decade, I spent probably two grand trying to figure out why the hell my “low coolant” light came on every few weeks. When it was clear that no one had any answers, I decided to do the logical thing: stop spending money on crappy mechanics and simply fill the coolant tank whenever the light went on. Problem solved.

Kitty’s time was coming up, though. The last time I took her to Philly—last weekend—I noticed that the oil pressure gauge was acting up. The longer I drove her, the lower the pressure fell. Not good. And then, for the first time ever, her “check gauges” light came on when the oil pressure dropped to the warning zone. Sigh. It was time. There’s only so much money that I can and should be spending on a sixteen-year-old car. I knew it was finally time to get a new set of wheels.

So on Saturday morning I took Kitty on her last drive. Our final stop was the VW dealership up the street from my apartment, where I’d been eyeballing the new Rabbits on display out front. I’d test-driven a cute little silver one earlier in the week, but by the time I’d gotten up there this weekend, it was gone. I told the salesman I wanted one with a sunroof, and the next thing I knew, I was signing a contract to buy a new red Rabbit. I took one last photo of Kitty before they transferred the tags:

I drove the Rabbit around a bit to get some miles on the engine, and then I went home and had a couple of glasses of chianti to dull the pain of missing Kitty. Godspeed, li’l car! We had a good run.

(An aside: “How did Kitty get her name?” you may ask. I can thank my former roommate Becki for that. When I brought Becki out to the street to meet my new car for the first time, we stood beside her, pondering appropriate names. I don’t remember if Becki suggested the name “Kitty” on her own or if we did it simultaneously, but somehow the name was blurted out and somehow it stuck. Another aside: Kitty was the girlfriend of Becki's car, Zippy. So there you go.)

Oof

For the grand total of zero people who still read this, I'm sorry. Seriously, if anyone is still actually checking this, I owe several of you emails (including a pathetically belated birthday wish to AddledWriter), and I'm really sorry for being such a slug. I've hit a bit of a rough patch in recent months that put me in a bit of a funk, and I'm still working to get a grip. Boo hoo hoo. I'll be fine, and it's no big deal in the grand scheme of things. It's also a drag that I no longer have the internet at home, so the only reason I'm able to log on now is because I'm hanging out late at work before my yoga class. (More on that later, maybe.)

Anyway, to lighten the mood, I encourage you to go check out cute bunnies. Whee!

'Tis the season for weird photos

So much for the care and feeding of my little blog. It took my being sick on Christmas Eve to sit in front of this keyboard and do something to keep this blog on life support. After all, with nothing else to do but stare at the tv and shove homemade cookies down my throat (the latter aren't really helping my current state of health affairs) whilst I convalesce is making me a little antsy and twitchy--never mind cross-eyed and bloated. So, anyway, being stuck at home has gotten me to tinkering with the computer and some of the goodies on it, including random pics from the past couple of months.

Here are some from the weekend I spent with PP and Becki in October at the Apple Harvest Festival in central Pennsylvania (I'd tell you the town if I remembered). The first is of Ye Olde Hay Mound. What made it "olde" is something of a mystery, but for some inexplicable reason, I found the notion of antiquating a hay mound hilarious. It doesn't take much, I guess:


The second one is of a booth at the festival where they were selling these unspeakably creepy planters made out of children's jeans. I actually thought of someone for whom I could buy one, but doing so would (1) encourage the seller to make more and (2) ruin a friendship. So I opted to spend my money on apple fritters, sweet potato fries with apple vinegar, and an apple smoothie.


(Note the shadow of your intrepid blogger at the bottom.)

This last one is the futon on which I slept at PP and Becki's place:


Now, normally a futon isn't something worthy of a photo, but note the strategically placed container of Lysol wipes. Here's the deal: one evening, some years ago, PP stayed overnight at Volgroth's house for one reason or another. As PP was preparing for bed, Volgroth came into the guest room with a wad of toilet paper. No one knows why (perhaps he would need it to dab his eyes while he cried himself to sleep?), and I think we're a bit too afraid of the answer to actually ask him. Anyway, as a result, every time I stay with PP and Becki, I, too, receive my own little wad of toilet paper, usually tucked neatly next to me under the blankets.

For some reason, on this trip, PP was inspired. Perhaps it was the scent of apples in the air or the rum and Cokes we all had after dinner. Whatever the reason, when I skipped downstairs to go to bed, I found the Lysol wipes waiting for me, tucked neatly next to the pillow. He has outdone even himself. I tell you, the Plaza could learn a thing or two about hospitality from PP.

To those who celebrate, Merry Christmas!

Oopsie

Looks like I let this poor little blog atrophy for over a month. Poor little guy. I promise to care for and feed it with deliciously crappy tidbits over the next couple of weeks as work dies down and I find that I'm actually able to take a break for lunch again. Whee!

Awwwww

I had a great weekend, heading home to Philadelphia for a couple of days with a long day trip to New York to visit Amy tucked in between (I'm still dreaming happy dreams about the pumpkin dumplings). But here's the best part: when I arrived on Saturday, not only did my sister's two dogs, Oscar and Lily, recognize my car when I pulled up to the house (I never thought they were that clever, but there you go), but Lily got herself in such an excited tailspin over Aunt PSK's arrival that she actually projectile vomited across the living room.

The thing is, Lily's reaction was rather charming and sweet--mostly because I didn't have to clean up the end result. Don't get me wrong: Oscar and Lily are a collective 150 lb pain in my ass, but I'm just saying that everyone deserves that kind of heartfelt welcome every once in a while.

Aren't they darling? Lily's the one on the left. Oscar, on the right, usually has his lip stuck on his tooth, so the fact that he looks semi-normal is something of a bonus.

Congratulations!

A big ol' shout-out to Addled Writer and the new Mr. Addled Writer--I was thrilled (and honored) to see you two get married, and I had a wonderful time at the wedding and reception! Kick-ass job with the music, btw--"Bust a Move" was inspired.

Big kisses from DC!