My Fit's Fit or Things You Should Not Run Over

So I'm a little slow (huge understatement) in getting a new post up.  I've been working on a bunch of different writing projects and right now, the thought of doing more revisions on either one makes me want to hurl--sorta the same way our dogs did yesterday after I gave them zucchini.  From the looks of what came back up, they weren't fans.  That or I gave them indigestion talking about writing.  That also could be why Jeremy's hiding out in the bedroom right now :P

But anyway, I decided that my most recent car experience deserved its own entry.  Let me just get the setting right.  It was a beautiful May day.  Flowers opened their delicate blooms and pollen saturated my nose.  Between the allergy meds, trying to finish spring semester classes, trying to get ready for summer classes, frantically pulling together a summer reading program for kids, getting in all the dental appointments I'd put off, and also having to write a conference paper--I was pretty irritable (that's an understatement.  I used a lot of four letter words frequently).

The Scenario

But I digress.  I was on my way home from the conference.  It really was a wonderful conference that I attended with several co-workers, but I'm not a morning person, and I'd had to get up at like 5 a.m.  It was now 5 p.m., and all I could envision was arriving home and the tasty beer that awaited me.  That's when disaster struck! (ba ba ba boom--great sound effects, huh?).

I was following this large, (really large as in dump truck size) truck, merrily making my way back home through the middle of nowhere Georgia.  Pleasant conversation flowed through the car as everyone relaxed, knowing they'd be home within an hour our so, the day done, the brain shut down.  Suddenly, there was an extremely large mechanical part stretched out across the road in front of me.  My eyes widened and I gasped in horror!  Okay, not really.  I stared at the thing and realized there was no option other than for me to run it over.  I did.  

This would not be a problem for most vehicles, but I, as you know, have a Honda Fit.  Fits do not have the highest ground clearance.  I quickly discovered, as my passengers and I bounced up into the air, along with every item in all eight of the Fit's cup holders (yes, I move a lot of empty cans around the cup holders), that a Fit does not fit over what turned out to be the drive shaft of the very large truck hauling a load of chicken poo in front of me.  In fact, along with the bouncing, the bottom of my car emitted many disturbing crunching, rending and other unwordable noises.  Needless to say, my heart was racing, and numerous four letter words (words that I've repeatedly tried to eliminate from my vocabulary with no obvious success) spewed from my mouth.

The Denial

I pulled over onto the first dirt road I found.  I and my passengers wandered around the car in a daze--or maybe that was just me.  Fluids gushed from underneath my car.  Pinkish looking fluids.  In my panic, I convinced myself it was only antifreeze--I'm ever the optimist when it comes to the most irrational things one could be optimistic about.  What to do?  We were like 10 to 15 miles, in both directions, from a town.  Call Jeremy!  So what if he's an hour away; he'll fix it!  So I call Jeremy and explain what happened.  He immediately assumes it's my fault (I will never shake that whole backing into my father-in-law's car thing).  I assure him that it definitely is not (which is validated in short order when the truck driver returns to the scene), and we proceed to try to determine what might be wrong with my car.

Me: I think it's just antifreeze.  It's a sort of pinkish color.  Yep, I'm sure it's antifreeze.

Jeremy:  What does it feel like?  That doesn't sound like antifreeze. Have you tried to start your car again?

Me: No.  I head back and turn the key, hearing the click, click, click sound a car makes when it's low on oil.  Oh crap.

Jeremy: Well?

Me: Meekly explaining the reality.

Jeremy:  Go check the fluid leaking out.

I walk back to the front of the car, lean down, and touch the liquid.

Me: It feels . . .  greasy.  It's not antifreeze, is it?

Jeremy: No, not antifreeze.  Have you looked under your car?

Me: No.

Jeremy: Why don't you look under your car.

In my head, I'm thinking, no don't make me do it!  I love my car; it's my baby!  I can't bear to think about my car in pain (or me without my car)!  I peer under the front, and it's like a massacre's occurred underneath.  There are torn pieces of metal, bent at odd angles, fluids dripping here and there, jagged bits hanging down like it'd been disemboweled.

Jeremy sighs once we've completed the all-inclusive, over-the-phone, car evaluation and tells me he's on his way.  We're over an hour from home, so I settle in for the wait.

The Graduation

That's when the fun begins.  Apparently, it was high school graduation night.  There was about an hour and a half to kill before the ceremony started.  My breakdown at the end of a dirt road soon became grand central station.  People stopped by to share their condolences, chat with neighbors on the way to graduation, reminisce. . .  This was all well and good, but all the local police officers were already engaged at the graduation!

Within about forty-five minutes, the party was over.  Everyone took off for the ceremony, leaving my passengers and I, once again, pacing around a dirt road.  On the plus side, one police officer had arrived on the scene.  On the down side, there was nothing he could do--he was a town cop and had to wait for the sheriff and state patrol to arrive.  So, all of us stood around, silently waiting. . . doo, doo, do, do, doo.

The Theory of Evolution

And then the driver of the truck in front of me comes back.  He admits that the drive shaft came out of his vehicle--the vehicle directly in front of me (so not my fault!).  He really was a very nice man, but I had no clue what he was talking about most of the time.  He kept talking about "apologists."  From what I surmised from the ensuing conversation that unfolded, they had something to do with negating the theory of evolution--or maybe it was the opposite and they supported evolution and were all wrong.  I admit, my mind was a bit fried, and all I really could ascertain was that the theory of evolution was wrong.  Yes, I admit we all mentioned we were coming home from a conference.  I admit the word theory was thrown out there.  But we are all English geeks.  Literary theory.  While I do know a fair bit of Darwinian theory, considering the angle of the conversation, I was fairly certain that would not earn me any brownie points.  So, for the next half hour, we all learned about creationism and the flaws in evolutionary theory.

The Conclusion

Enter State Patrol officer.  State Patrol officer spends like ten minutes on the scene, and then he's set.  Huh.  All that for. . . that?  But wait, still no tow truck.  The tow truck guys are. . .yep, at the graduation.  Over an hour and a half after this all starts, Jeremy pulls ups.  Five minutes later, the tow truck from the town ten miles away pulls up.  Sigh.  Just get me home to that beer.

The next day, I'm trying to sort everything out.  The car repair place told me my transmission had a huge hole in it.  The insurance company claims they have no police report and that my claim was closed--by me.  Huh?  I spent the next two days getting my claim reopened and a crash report--crash reports apparently are no longer free and only available from buycrash.com for $5--I did give a moment of silence over that one as I contemplated the irony.  Then I wait for the insurance adjustor who finds nearly $3,000 more wrong with my car.  Then I wait.  Need a part--won't come in til Monday.  Then I wait.  Everything's good, except the transmission isn't shifting like it should.  Then I wait.  One month later, I finally have my car back and am wondering what jacking it up would do to the gas mileage.

Kitchen Remodling 101

We’re finally getting around to our first, huge, project in our house—remodeling the kitchen. 

Right now, I have no kitchen.  There is no sink—the only sink in the house is upstairs in the bathroom.  There is no stove.  There’s a crappy table in my unheated hallway (it was 49 degrees in there this morning) that has the coffeepot, microwave, and various other kitchen items.  Also in my hallway is the refrigerator, though, at this point, I don’t really think it needs plugged in.  The bedroom is now functioning as the dining room, my office, and dog toy repository.  This morning as I made my way to my office area, I accidentally kicked a bone across the floor, tripped over a dog, and kicked an empty metal dog dish across the floor.  Jeremy grumbled and mumbled, but hey, he didn't need his alarm clock this morning.

So, here’s what I’ve learned over the past 2 weeks of having no kitchen.

1) When 2 people who keep really different hours are continually stuck in the same room, 1 of them (namely Jeremy) is going to get very grumpy. 

Okay, so I like to stay up very late.  I like lots of lights on.  Jeremy seems to think it’s time to sleep when the sun goes down.  Here’s pretty much how our conversation goes almost every night.

9 pm—Jeremy: you’re not going to be up all night again, are you?

Me: No, I shouldn’t be up very late at all. 

Now, here’s where the first problem comes in.  Jeremy thinks it’s already late at 9:30.  I think 1 or 2 am is very late.  I concede the difference of opinion in my head, and decide, without informing Jeremy, that 12-12:30 is what he must consider “late.”  I know that I will be up until at least 12-12:30, so therefore, I won’t be up very late.

11 pm—Jeremy: Are you going to shut the light off soon?

I gauge just how sleepy he sounds.  If he sounds really sleepy, I figure I don’t really have to provide much of an answer because he’ll be back to sleep soon.  If he sounds more awake than asleep, I’m going to have to placate.  Crap.  He sounds more awake.

Me: Yep, I’ll shut it off in a little bit.

This seems to make Jeremy happy.  This also makes me happy.  I know he thinks that a little bit is within the next 15-20 minutes.  I know that a little bit is whenever I decide to shut it off.  I also know that I am really pushing it if it’s still on in an hour, and he’s not sleeping soundly.  I’m really hoping he’s sleeping soundly by then because I’m still wide awake.

12 am—Jeremy: I will be so glad when the kitchen is finished, and you can move everything back out there. 

By now, Jeremy’s wide awake again and glaring at me. 

Jeremy: You are really messing up my sleep.  This cannot keep happening. 

Since he’s awake, Jeremy decides to get up and work on painting the cupboards and cupboard doors.  Off he goes.  Hmmm, I am suddenly feeling very sleepy.  So, in the middle of the night, he’s working on the kitchen, and I’m sleeping.  He seems to think that I am extremely disruptive, but really, if you look at it, I’m just prioritizing his time and making him more productive.  He’s actually finished painting half of the upper cupboards, which was supposed to me my project.  Hmmm, I think I need to keep him awake all next week, and then maybe I’ll completely get out of that project!

2) Chef Boyardee gets a little old after so many meals

I never really thought about just how little there was to eat if you only had a microwave in a freezing hallway to cook with.

Jeremy: Can you make me something to eat?  (This was after almost 2 weeks of no kitchen.)

Me: What?

Jeremy: What is there?

Me: Spaghetti Os?

Jeremy: Anything else?

Me: Burritos?

Jeremy: Do we have anything that doesn’t end in “o?”

Me: Pot pies?  But they have to be microwaved.

Jeremy: I hate pot pies in the microwave.  Could I have them on a real plate?

Me: No, there’s too many dirty dishes right now that I need to lug up to the bathroom.

Jeremy: What else is there?

Me:  Ravioli?

Jeremy sighs.  Is it the big ravioli or the mini ravioli?

Me: Mini ravioli.

Jeremy: I’ll take that.  Can I have steak tomorrow?

Me: Sure, but it’ll be on a paper plate.  With a plastic knife.  Or you can eat it with your hands.

Jeremy: I don’t care.  I want steak.

Me: With spaghetti o’s or ravioli?

3) Jeremy has to have some sort of noise going at all times.

In the summer, I love the portable air conditioner in the bedroom.  It’s one of the few rooms in the house that's cooler.  I don’t mind the noise the fan makes because it’s doing something—namely making it so I’m not sticking to the furniture.  Right now, I absolutely hate that fan.  Jeremy starts up just the fan part of the air conditioner every night; he says it helps him sleep because it drowns out the noise.  Unfortunately, the table where I work is now located right next to the fan, and the thing is loud as crap.

Jeremy:  blah, blah, whoooooosh, blah, whoosh, whoooosh, blah.

I’ve pretty much picked up about every third or fourth word he says from across the room.

Me: What?

Jeremy: whoosh, blah, whoooosh, whoosh.

Me: What?

Jeremy, louder: blah, blah, whoosh, whoosh, up late?

Crap, now I know what he’s asking.

Me: What?

Okay, so maybe the fan does, at times, have it’s advantages.

4) To Beverage or not to beverage

We were looking at new appliances.  One of the problems we have is that, since the house still has no central heat or air, only a few of the rooms have heaters or air conditioners.  The kitchen isn’t one of them.  This means that in the summer, the refrigerator fills up with beverages and stuff from the garden, leaving little room for anything else.  We decided that one of the investments we would make is in a little, under counter, beverage refrigerator.

Jeremy: So, we’ve decided on the one that has two drawers?

Me: Yes, that looks like the best one.

Jeremy: I think so too.  One drawer for me, one drawer for you.

Me: No, one drawer for soda, one drawer for everything else.

Jeremy: No, I get my own drawer.  I’m going to fill it with Mt. Dew and beer.

Me: But we should have one for soda, and then one for beer and wine.

Jeremy: No, I get my own drawer, and, since they have locks on them, I’m locking my drawer.

Me: But that’s not fair!

Jeremy: Yes it is.  You always drink all my beer.  Then, when I want a beer, there’s none left.  This way, I’ll always have a beer when I want one.

I really don’t have any way to dispute this fact.  I also do not like Jeremy’s idea of his and hers beverage drawers, mainly for the fact that I know that it’s imperative that I have access to all the beer.  I decide my best course of action, for now, is to say nothing and instead plot my takeover of his beverage drawer.

5) Jeremy lied

We’re sitting around our very empty kitchen, looking at the half painted cupboards.

Jeremy: I figure the floor should be done by the end of next week.  A couple weeks after that, the countertops should be measured, and then another week or so, and they’ll be in.  Then another couple of weeks after that, the appliances should arrive.

I know I’m not very good at math, but even I can add this one up.  2 weeks already done with no kitchen.  3 weeks before the floor and counters are in.  2 weeks before appliances/sink are in.

Me: Wait!  That’s a total of 7 weeks!  You said it would only be 5 weeks without a kitchen!  I thought that was bad enough!

Jeremy: I lied.  I figured it would be at least 7 weeks, but I figured it was best to give you the lesser amount of time.

Me: We have 5 more weeks of spaghetti os?  5 more weeks without a sink? 

Jeremy: Ummm, yes.  But think how nice it will look once everything is done.  Plus, you’ll finally have a dishwasher.

Me:  That means you have five more weeks of me stuck in the bedroom

Jeremy: Once the floor is done, I think I’m moving you back out here.  I need sleep.

6)  Protective surfaces

You are going to pick up the chairs when you slide them out, right?

Me: Yes.

Jeremy: Because you never do.

Me: I’ve never had to worry about it because the floor was so scruffy.

Jeremy: Well, now it’s going to be nicely finished, and I do not want you scratching it all up.

Me: I’ll pick up my chair.  I won’t scratch up the new floor.

Jeremy: Is this going to be like how you will use the handles on doors once they’re painted?

Me: No.  And I do use the handles on the doors.

Jeremy: Right.  So that’s why there are dirty, little fingerprints all around the door handle over there.

Me: Most of the time I use the door handles.

Jeremy: If most means never, then yes, you are right.  You’d better pick up some of those furniture pad things that go on chair legs.  Like 100 of them.

Me: Isn’t that overkill?

Jeremy: No.  Not around you. You're a clod.  Just like your dogs.    

I really can't argue with that.  I'm really not all that spacially aware, or, most of the time, aware.  It's how all sorts of dings and dents have gotten in various, odd places around the house--like the ceiling.

Jeremy: Did you check about how we can protect the floor around the dog water dish?  I don’t want water spots all over it either.

Me: Sort of.  There are a lot of forums where people posted the same problems.  There were mostly really bad solutions.

Jeremy: Like what?

Me: Immediately wiping up the floor every time the dog gets a drink, putting a cookie sheet under the bowl, putting tile under the bowl. . .   There was also a guy who taught his dog to sit after getting a drink, and he’d wipe her chin off every time.  There was another woman who taught her dog to rest his chin on a towel in front of the bowl after getting a drink.

Jeremy: Do that last one!

Me: Right.  I’ll get right on that one.  Until then, you can wipe their chins off after every drink.

2 weeks down, 5 more weeks to go.

Time to go stock up on beer.  On the plus side, I don't have to worry about the beverage fridge right now because I can just keep the beer in the hallway.  And I'm drinking it all myself!