u s e y o u r h a n d s

I have four more payments to make on Cleo, my Subaru, my shagginwagon. And I’ve dumped several grand into her this year. For a new clutch after sacrificing the old one to the cause of teaching myself to drive stick. For some belt thing so the car would go. For a new alternator just to say I Love You. And then tires, etc.

Admittedly, I knew the battery needed replacing. But who’d have thought that it would go dead yesterday, one of the coldest days so far this winter? If Jesus knew, he didn’t tell me. So, I call Triple A, renew my membership, and wait for the guy to come. He came. And then I stalled, knocking out the engine again. I stalled because I DO NOT DRIVE STICK WELL. I fully admit this. I crunch the gears, stall, and pop into neutral all the time. I taught myself how to drive, so what can you do?

Anyway, it stalls. I get jumpstarted again. And then I turn left. And the car stalls in the middle of the turn. I jump out and begin to push the car. Someone helps out. And then he helps jump the car. At a stop light a mile from home, it stalls again, just inside a tow zone. I push the car back out of the tow zone and walk home. In a thin coat.

At home, I cry, liberally apply lip balm, and hop onto the computer to alert work. Then I wait for BRIAN! Brian, boyfriend of the gods, comes home and with his boy Spidey sense, tells me that there’s an auto parts store a mere jog down the road. We bundle up, head out, pick up the battery, and tools.

Note: batteries are heavy! And carrying them on the bus made me feel like a terrorist. I kept thinking that the bus was about to stop quickly, the battery would tumble to the floor, explode, and spray the unsuspecting passengers with disfiguring acid. But this paranoia was nothing compared to when Brian installed the battery in Cleo. I stood 10 feet back with 911 pre-dialed on the phone, just in case. No, not just in case. I was sure he would electrocute himself. I stood there, wincing, trying to remember CPR from my lifeguard training.

But nothing happened. The car turned right on. And then we went to Subway while on the phone listening to my brother Robby tell me about my other brother’s upcoming extradition to face federal drug charges. Ah, back to normal, safe in my car.

I am filled to the gills with psychopharmaceutica! Between the mood stabilizers, the antidepressants, the dopamine blockers, and the string of vitamins I ingest every day, the fine folks at Blue Cross/Blue Shield are eating up my paycheck with copayments.

But does this all control my choking depression? Yes and no. This and that. Blue or red.

Oh my God. I just realized that I’m sort of dressed like Jo from “Facts of Life” today. I’ve got this powder blue v-neck on, with a striped men’s oxford underneath. with.the.tails.out, dogg! I save myself from total ’80s dykiness as I’ve paired these with bad-ass pants from target and four-inch boots. Actually, more than Jo, I’m just apeing some Bryn Mawr scholarship student.

When you hear a diner conversation start with “A year ago, Rosh Hashanah…” it might turn out bad, but it will be compelling. And you will finish all your pancakes.

Let’s revise that whole “dish ran away with the spoon” thing to say “the scarlet paint ran away with my box of checks.”

During Friday’s wine tasting, the drunken din was just too much for my sober ears and I had to check out for awhile. When I descended again, full of overdue Sex in the City tapes, the crowd was smaller but no less rowdy. And then the hookah. And then the headache.

This will not be at all interesting to you, but mainly for my reference. This is my week’s to-do list:

1) Finish painting dining room
2) Order box of checks
3) Um….
4) Do prelim garden planning
5) Re-caulk bathroom
6) Etc.

I love snaking clogged drains. If you need your drain snaked, I’m your gal.

Wow. It’s been one hard week. I’ve been terribly, hideously depressed for the first time in a long time. So sad that doing anything at all is just too much. But my ears have begun to pop and I think I’m asending. The surface will break soon.

Last night, we watched a Jell-O pudding commercial with a mother and a son. The son in no way resembles the mother. Not a bit. So as they happily stirred and chilled pudding, I imagined a few ways they could enjoy it later:

1) Snatch ‘n’ Grab

Mom: Your real mommy is dead. I’m your mommy now.
“Son”: Can you take me back to the mall now?
Mom: No, I’m your mommy now.
“Son”: (tears begin to fall)
Mom: And your name is now “Andy.” Eat your pudding.

2) You’re Adopted

Mom: Here, enjoy this bowl of Jell-O brand pudding.
Son: Chocolate!
Mom: Funny thing about chocolate, son, is that it’s sort of like your skin color. And see how Mommy’s skin is like her pudding.
Son: Your pudding is vanilla.
Mom: That’s right. I’m vanilla and you’re chocolate.
Son: We’re both yummy!
Mom: (clutching son with tears glistening) That’s right, baby. It doesn’t matter if we’re not the same; we’re both delicious!

3) Move over, Old Baby

Son: Pudding!
Mom: Here’s a spoon!
Son: Mmmm! Thanks, Mom!
Mom: You’re welcome! Hey, what would you think if a baby joined you, me, and Dad?
Son: No, I think things are fine the way they are.
Mom: Babies are great!
Son: No, this pudding is great!
Mom: Pudding is like babies! They are both good.
Son: Pudding is made out of babies? WHAT?
Mom: Let’s start over….

Have they found Spalding Gray yet?