"If a hooker comes by, just say no."
I'm so grumpy tonight I might make a baby cry just by looking at it. That's a bad kind of grumpy.
I'm trying to make it better with a latte and some rice pudding, but so far it's not working. Maybe blogging will help. Well, that and loud music in my ears on some headphones with skulls plastered on them. Done and done.
Guess what? I had to buy a car this weekend.
Well, "had to" may be a tad strong. Probably more like "decided it would be best to." I've been thinking about trading in Vanzilla for awhile now. She's a good bucket of bolts, but she's showing her age. Things just keep going wrong, and some of those things are scary. Fires brought on by the brakes seizing, for example ( that was a fun day). Or the fact that we were all stranded an hour outside of town Friday evening - that would be Geekster and me with three worried kids and two dogs on our way to see Geekster's ailing grandma for the weekend.
That little kerfuffle resulted in me having to call a friend to come and get the kids, dogs and I and bring us home while Geekster spent the night with the van at one of scuzziest motels I've ever seen.
Oh, wait - hang on. Geekster didn't spend the night with the van at the motel. Ew, gross. Get your twisted mind out of the gutter. He's not weird like you, sicko. He's not automobile-sex-fetish weird, I can assure you. Last I checked, I had some junk in my trunk but I have yet to make the cover of Auto Trader.
Anyway, that motel was the kind of place bachelors go to die. No lie, dudes. Guys in stained wife beater shirts and days' worth of stubble hibachi-ing the shit out dinner with Achey Breaky Heart blasting from the pick-up truck out front and a string of laundry hanging unceremoniously from the room windows. Beer cans stacked outside, a little bit of yelling... I half expected the cast of Cops to show up.
As such, I gave Geekster two rules:
1. Don't get murdered, please, and,
2. If a hooker comes by, just say no. (In truth, this was primarily based on budgetary issues: no happy endings with the van needing repairs in the morning, ok?)
The long and short of this story is that by the time Geekster came home on Saturday, I had decided I needed a new ride. So we went out and found me one. Instant gratification: that's how I roll.
I bought one of these babies. Yes, the Olympic model - the one the athletes and people who get rich off of the athletes were given to drive around the Olympic village in Vancouver last year. Sexy, right? I figure that I'll probably get skinny through osmosis just being behind the wheel. And it's a hybrid, which makes me instantly eco-friendly. Cyclists will give me a thumbs up as they come up beside my car. Birds will flutter around me and tweet merrily before shitting on the Escalade behind me. Roadkill will rise from the dead just to bow as I quietly drive past. People everywhere will say "There goes that Maven - she's so hot right now."
Or something like that.
Anyway, I'm waiting for the paperwork to go through, making it all official and stuff. This is a huge step down from my van in some ways - space-wise and seating-wise - but it's a dead sexy car with room for all of us and some decent fuel savings. And it's new. And, most importantly, I'm pretty sure the brakes won't catch on fire anytime soon. Besides which, I have six years of bumper-to-bumper warranty and an anti-rust thingy being put in. I may get buried in this car.
In truth, this what is known as a "mild hybrid," meaning that it uses its battery pack less than some other hybrid cars. But I like to measure all environmental efforts on a scale of 0 to 10 rabbit deaths. To demonstrate, I show you this exquisitely drawn example:
So if, for example, a Hummer's fuel emissions are the equivalent slaughtering ten baby bunnies as it drives by, and my old van is the equivalent of around 5, and an electric car quietly rolls over 1 as the driver sheds a tear into her organically fair traded coffee, I'd like to imagine I'm only snapping 2 baby bunny necks with my new car. And that makes me feel like I can sleep better at night.
And, in the end, isn't life all about how well I sleep at night? Your day, my day, all geared toward my emotional well being, just the way it should be.
For the next couple of days until my new baby is ready I am pretty much vehicle-less, which is an impressive 0 on my heartwarming eco-scale. No rabbits were harmed in me staying home and watching reruns of Glee. But I'm still a moody biatch because - get this for timing - Geekster's grandma was admitted to the hospital the same night the van broke down. His parents are out of town and family friends are visiting with her right now, but it's beyond frustrating that we can't be there like we had planned. Hopefully my ride will make her driveway debut by Tuesday, and as soon as she's here Geekster will be driving to Peterborough to see his Nana. He has his own car that can make the trip, but we need to make sure I can get the kids to school and myself to work while he's gone. Like I said, the Universe has remarkable timing sometimes.
So I should be over-the-moon excited and instead I'm just kind of worried and feeling guilty, which sucks. Writing it out helped a little, and I think I've realized there isn't a whole lot I can do right now. Life is what it is.
Technically, according to the mechanic who looked at it, I can drive my van if absolutely necessary, but not above 80km/h. This is not only because the caliper is partially seized on the back brake, but also because my car will time travel and I will end up having to help my dysfunctional parents fall in love at the Under the Sea dance by playing guitar before my arm disappears.
And if my arm disappears I'll be really grumpy.
PS: I'm trying to come up with a great name for my car. She's sexy, so give me your best exotic dancer name. That's right: I'm going to name her after a stripper. My friend's car is already named Candy and I'm not going to Single White Female her ride, so let's come up with something different. Then I'm only partially a copycat. Here's a picture. Picture her with tassels on the headlights:
I'm trying to make it better with a latte and some rice pudding, but so far it's not working. Maybe blogging will help. Well, that and loud music in my ears on some headphones with skulls plastered on them. Done and done.
Guess what? I had to buy a car this weekend.
Well, "had to" may be a tad strong. Probably more like "decided it would be best to." I've been thinking about trading in Vanzilla for awhile now. She's a good bucket of bolts, but she's showing her age. Things just keep going wrong, and some of those things are scary. Fires brought on by the brakes seizing, for example ( that was a fun day). Or the fact that we were all stranded an hour outside of town Friday evening - that would be Geekster and me with three worried kids and two dogs on our way to see Geekster's ailing grandma for the weekend.
That little kerfuffle resulted in me having to call a friend to come and get the kids, dogs and I and bring us home while Geekster spent the night with the van at one of scuzziest motels I've ever seen.
Oh, wait - hang on. Geekster didn't spend the night with the van at the motel. Ew, gross. Get your twisted mind out of the gutter. He's not weird like you, sicko. He's not automobile-sex-fetish weird, I can assure you. Last I checked, I had some junk in my trunk but I have yet to make the cover of Auto Trader.
Anyway, that motel was the kind of place bachelors go to die. No lie, dudes. Guys in stained wife beater shirts and days' worth of stubble hibachi-ing the shit out dinner with Achey Breaky Heart blasting from the pick-up truck out front and a string of laundry hanging unceremoniously from the room windows. Beer cans stacked outside, a little bit of yelling... I half expected the cast of Cops to show up.
As such, I gave Geekster two rules:
1. Don't get murdered, please, and,
2. If a hooker comes by, just say no. (In truth, this was primarily based on budgetary issues: no happy endings with the van needing repairs in the morning, ok?)
The long and short of this story is that by the time Geekster came home on Saturday, I had decided I needed a new ride. So we went out and found me one. Instant gratification: that's how I roll.
I bought one of these babies. Yes, the Olympic model - the one the athletes and people who get rich off of the athletes were given to drive around the Olympic village in Vancouver last year. Sexy, right? I figure that I'll probably get skinny through osmosis just being behind the wheel. And it's a hybrid, which makes me instantly eco-friendly. Cyclists will give me a thumbs up as they come up beside my car. Birds will flutter around me and tweet merrily before shitting on the Escalade behind me. Roadkill will rise from the dead just to bow as I quietly drive past. People everywhere will say "There goes that Maven - she's so hot right now."
Or something like that.
Anyway, I'm waiting for the paperwork to go through, making it all official and stuff. This is a huge step down from my van in some ways - space-wise and seating-wise - but it's a dead sexy car with room for all of us and some decent fuel savings. And it's new. And, most importantly, I'm pretty sure the brakes won't catch on fire anytime soon. Besides which, I have six years of bumper-to-bumper warranty and an anti-rust thingy being put in. I may get buried in this car.
In truth, this what is known as a "mild hybrid," meaning that it uses its battery pack less than some other hybrid cars. But I like to measure all environmental efforts on a scale of 0 to 10 rabbit deaths. To demonstrate, I show you this exquisitely drawn example:
So if, for example, a Hummer's fuel emissions are the equivalent slaughtering ten baby bunnies as it drives by, and my old van is the equivalent of around 5, and an electric car quietly rolls over 1 as the driver sheds a tear into her organically fair traded coffee, I'd like to imagine I'm only snapping 2 baby bunny necks with my new car. And that makes me feel like I can sleep better at night.
And, in the end, isn't life all about how well I sleep at night? Your day, my day, all geared toward my emotional well being, just the way it should be.
For the next couple of days until my new baby is ready I am pretty much vehicle-less, which is an impressive 0 on my heartwarming eco-scale. No rabbits were harmed in me staying home and watching reruns of Glee. But I'm still a moody biatch because - get this for timing - Geekster's grandma was admitted to the hospital the same night the van broke down. His parents are out of town and family friends are visiting with her right now, but it's beyond frustrating that we can't be there like we had planned. Hopefully my ride will make her driveway debut by Tuesday, and as soon as she's here Geekster will be driving to Peterborough to see his Nana. He has his own car that can make the trip, but we need to make sure I can get the kids to school and myself to work while he's gone. Like I said, the Universe has remarkable timing sometimes.
So I should be over-the-moon excited and instead I'm just kind of worried and feeling guilty, which sucks. Writing it out helped a little, and I think I've realized there isn't a whole lot I can do right now. Life is what it is.
Technically, according to the mechanic who looked at it, I can drive my van if absolutely necessary, but not above 80km/h. This is not only because the caliper is partially seized on the back brake, but also because my car will time travel and I will end up having to help my dysfunctional parents fall in love at the Under the Sea dance by playing guitar before my arm disappears.
And if my arm disappears I'll be really grumpy.
PS: I'm trying to come up with a great name for my car. She's sexy, so give me your best exotic dancer name. That's right: I'm going to name her after a stripper. My friend's car is already named Candy and I'm not going to Single White Female her ride, so let's come up with something different. Then I'm only partially a copycat. Here's a picture. Picture her with tassels on the headlights: