theology&geometry

After five point five years of living in Memphis — including many months of owning a home here — I’ve finally decided to take the plunge and get Shelby County tags. I figure I may as well fritter away my tax dollars locally rather than in Hardin County, where they go to build jails that house former high school classmates of mine. At least in Shelby County my tax dollars can go to fund some ridiculous scandal that will hopefully keep my place of employ in business.

Hardin County tags used to be $37 or so a year, as opposed to Big Shelby’s $100+ pricetag, which also necessitates a vehicle inspection. Hardin County tags are now upwards of $80, so I figured that’s enough of an incentive to just go ahead get my Shelby on. My dread and overwhelming laziness, however, kept me from getting the inspection or the tags all year, even when the last day of June slipped off the calendar and suddenly my plates were hot hot hot, giving me reason to dodge cop cars in traffic like I had a kilo of something powdery in my trunk. I made it all the way across the state and back without ruffling the popo’s feathers, but Saturday morning all it took was a run to the bank and there I was, playing dumb and hoping the nice young officer man would just give me a warning. I was a whopping 17 days overdue. He smiled sweetly and handed me a mandatory court appearance ticket, and told me to drive safe. Well. I asked for it, didn’t I?

And that is how I ended up at the Washington Street inspection station Monday, reading bits of The Road (nothing like a scorched-earth story to pass the time while trying to worm your way in and out of a municipal office) in between tiny accelerator bursts to advance my place in line. When it was my turn I was nervous — like, first-date nervous! — and then it turned into testing anxiety as the stone-faced worker calmly and without pausing ordered me to put it in park, engage my emergency brake, put it in drive, give it gas, put it in park, disengage emergency brake, write down the first 12 decimal points of pi, open my door, turn on my headlights, turn on my left blinker, turn on my right blinker, whistle the “Tennessee Waltz,” put the brake on, turn on the high beams, turn on the low beams, close my door, pat my head and rub my belly, recite the Bill of Rights, take this paperwork, and have a wonderful day. I got my little printout saying I had passed and felt entitled to a celebration.

So I enjoyed the afternoon on the couch, spent.

Coffee makes me a better singer. Does it enhance all my non-talents? I will try painting something just as soon as I get my laundry out of the dryer.

So, it’s chilly again. Yay? Sunday night it was warm enough to put the top down on the Purple Pimpmobile. It was my first time riding in a convertible, much less driving one. I have to say, having no roof is extremely distractive (is that a word? I doubt it) to people (*cough*me*cough*) who have the attention span of cats and want to watch the trees and stars and buildings and ceilings of parking garages as they go whizzing by, making interesting patterns.

That got me to hankering for spring. Which is weird; I usually relish winter and all its long-sleeved glory. We haven’t really had but one or two cold snaps so far. I know more will come. They always do. But I’m getting used to opening my windows and listening to the traffic again. And wearing flip-flops.

So, I’m still not sure about the car (my dad is doing all the negotiating with the insurance people; he won’t even let me call them because “they will steamroll [me],” he says). I have gotten something like five separate calls to my cell from clinics wanting me to come in for free screenings (effing ambulance chasers) and a flyer in the mail from a doctor. I keep telling them I’ve been checked out, I’m fine, etc., but they keep calling. People really do love suing the shit out of other people. I’m just so glad I’m not on the other end of this equation.

I dread the moment when I have to buy a new car. My dad will find out that I’m in more debt than he thinks (he thinks I’ve just got the student load loan <---- hee hee, Freudian typo!; I wish) and I’m sure I’ll get yelled at just a little. That’s fine; I probably deserve it. Some of my debt is legit — accrued when I had expensive surgery in April — but some is pretty bogus — shopping related and left over from when I helped a friend get his busted-ass car out of the shop and didn’t get fully reimbursed. But, you know, these things happen. I’ll get it figured out eventually. Or not. Either way, I’m sure new and exciting bullshit will crop up for me to deal with instead. Wheee!

Happy hump day. Remind me to never blog while on caffeine ever again.

Cleaned out the car this morning. Kept apologizing to the car like it was pissed at me. What was left was mostly trash (I bagged up a lot of it but left it in the back seat) but a few things were worth keeping and I stuffed them into plastic bags and went on my melancholy way.

Sadly, the West Street Thugs tape that has been stuck in my tape player since, oh, 2004 did not make it out alive, er, at all.

Dad talked to the insurance adjustor and found out they’re just moving the car to a more secure lot that doesn’t charge for storage. (I am 26 and ashamed of my reliance on my parents for these seemingly simple tasks, but I know they just want to help and make sure I don’t get screwed over. Still, I feel like a big baby letting my dad do all the heavy lifting during all this. Even though he’s insisting to do it. I think it makes him feel good to help me out in such a big way since I’m usually so independent.) They’ve not yet made me an offer. I guess they’re still waiting on the police report and the drunk bitch’s insurance people to get their crap together.

I called to make an appointment with a doctor who comes highly recommended by two people I work with. I’m waiting on the call back from the lady who schedules appointments for people who’ve been in wrecks.

Instant mid-post update: The lady just called and said the doctor cannot accept new patience (<------ Freudian typo) patients who have been in car wrecks. WTF. Jesus Synchronized Swimming Christ, what does it take to get a doctor to see you in this town? I AM NOT GOING TO THE FUCKING EMERGENCY ROOM.

Instant post-post update: Just made an appointment at Primary Care Specialists for tomorrow. I went there last year when I had a sinus infection. I just remember seeing a doctor for about three seconds, and I don’t remember her name. But I don’t freaking care who sees me or for how long. I just want to get this out of the way.

Well, my hooptie is thismuchcloser to becoming junkyard scrap. Lately it’s been doing this thing where it will shudder violently if I’m idling in drive or reverse, and it will stutter and stammer and act like a prissy toddler that doesn’t want to do what I’m telling it if I’m driving and trying to accelerate the least little bit.

The TRAC OFF and SERVICE ENGINE SOON lights have been blinking in a display of holiday festiveness. I didn’t know if the damn thing was going to get me from Memphis to Saltillo, but it did. And this afternoon I dropped it off at a mechanic in Savannah, who’s keeping it overnight.

I know nothing about cars but I suspect it’s either a transmission problem or fuel filter/injector issue.

Obviously I’d prefer it to be a fuel filter problem (as in, “Here’s a new fuel filter; you’re good to go, little lady!”) but I suspect it will be whatever could possibly be the most expensive disorder on the menu. Mmmmmm, love that new transmission smell.

While in Savannah, I got a wild hair up my ass and coaxed Phil to drive me to Wal-Mart. I’m not sure why I’m occasionally hit with these urges to be COMPLETELY EFFING MENTAL but I believe I lasted all of five minutes inside there before crying uncle and demanding that we leave. And it wasn’t really even all that crowded. It’s just that it’s Wal-Mart … in Savannah … a place I very much do not like to spend lots of time. A place teeming with that uneasy sense that you vaguely know every person you see, even if you don’t recognize them. Or that, if you do, you’ve got to stop and talk. My dual nature (total asshole vs. polite country girl) rips my innards to shreds in such situations. I think the whole thing gave me indigestion.

We left and drove around Savannah to look at all the houses we made out in when we were kids. That was kind of fun. And we marveled at all the broke-ass meth lab houses and how some parts of Savannah look so, so shitty. And then we picked up Phil’s mom and took her out to eat at Uptown, which has apparently changed owners but still serves up yummy chicken salad (albeit using a slightly different recipe). And I’ll be damned if I didn’t have a delicious Riesling there too — a steal at $6 a glass! Made my car problems seem oh so distant.

Tomorrow morning I have to get up and check on my ride to make sure it will be functional by the time I need to leave for work (noon). Hopefully they will have fixed it. Otherwise, I’ma park my ass at Uptown and keep drinking. It will be one of those days.

*This title has nothing to do with the post. I’ve just been watching my new Flight of the Conchords DVD and needed to acknowledge that my obsession has been rekindled.

Actually, it only meets three of the criteria for hooptie-dom set forth by this reputable source. (Must open door at drive-thru because window won’t roll down, blinkers won’t work, and tape deck eats all tapes, for those of you keeping score at home.)

But tonight my car threw me for a loop. I was leaving work and noted how chilly and damp outside it was, and how the last time my window ever rolled down it was cold and snowing. So, just for fun, I pushed the “down” button. And sure enough, the window — which handn’t budged in probably a year — began going down. And then I heard a crunch and a screech and all kinds of bad sounds as the window began rolling off the track and setting itself awkwardly and askew in the door.

I freaked out, of course, thinking the window was either going to fall out onto the street or shatter into a million pieces and send glass searing through my eyeballs and neck artery. Neither of those tings happened. I managed to keep it upright enough to not fall out as I made the drive to Phil’s, where he helped me get it back on track and taped up so the cold and rain couldn’t get in the crack.

This comes less exactly a week after I realized my passenger-side door no longer locks.

I am reluctantly placing myself in the market for a new car. Starting … now.

I have some kind of mental block against keeping my car clean. So fear me and stay off the road, because one day I have no doubt my car could look like this.