oh sweet god I caved

I have mixed feelings about this... however, I felt that my egocentric stories should best be foisted upon those who voluntarily chose to read them instead of forced on the general listserv.

Besides, all the cool people are doing it. Right? Right?

car adventures

So I replaced my kefarging distributor cap and rotor today. Neat trick, considering I don't know jack shit about how to do that. I didn't see how I had a choice, since every time it rained the car refused to run. So I whipped out my copy of Auto Repair for Dummies and it said your distributor cap is wet, dummy. So I went and got a new one, and I've got a Haynes manual for the Prelude. Not a great one, since it talks about only the model years I don't have..

Every time I go to a mechanic, I have these two stupid discussions. "Think your carburetor's clogged, ma'am?" "That'd be a neat trick, because I have fuel injectors." "But it's a Prelude," they say, looking at their computers. Look at the damn car, jerk, it says fuel-injected right on the engine. Now I have more sympathy for the other stupid discussion, which goes like this: "Want your automatic transmission fluid topped off, ma'am?" "No, that would ruin the gears, since it's a manual." "But it says it's an automatic," they say, this time looking at the car. Yeah, but this is the 6th (yeah, you heard me) transmission in the car, and after the first crappy one fell out, I had standards put in. "Can you do that?" they ask. No, jerk, I pushed the car here. Now stop asking stupid questions and put the oil I asked for in the freaking car...

But back to the goddamn distributor cap. Seems Mr. Engine doesn't want to go if Mr. Electricity doesn't get Distributed through Mr. Distributor, and Mr. Electricity doesn't like Mr. Corrosion, who invited himself in with Mr. Water, not that they asked me. I've been waiting for a nice day, but no, I'm an idiot and I have to do this in the sleet. Apparently, in order to work on my car, you have to be an idiot.

So I'm feeling all Idaho self-sufficient girl and I unfold the manual to the appropriate page with its crappy directions for a different model year of car than mine, and immediately I hate whoever designed this car. There is no way in hell to get a screwdriver into the engine to get the old fucker off. I am not strong enough to rip the hoses off, and already I'm in pain. Not a good sign. The neighbors are staring at the crazy lady swearing at the car in the sleet, and I haven't even started. Sweet.

I decided to use the screwdriver incorrectly as a prybar and a stripping tool and a hammer. Good mechanics are turning in their graves under shady trees somewhere, but not here, because I'm being pelted with sleet. Two HOURS later, I have removed most of my airflow system and the distributor cap. I am shaking with pain, but Whoo hoo. I flip it over, and

THERE'S NOT A FUCKING THING WRONG WITH IT! Why did I remove this thing? Do I have a starter problem? Perhaps I should slam the hood shut and pretend my car was vandalized. Wait, I don't have comprehensive, that won't work. Shit. So I pull on the rotor, and it won't come off. I have no strength whatsoever, and I hurt. I go inside for a Percocet, and I can't feel my hands.

I incorrectly use the screwdriver as a prybar again. Ok, I feel better. The rotor is so corroded I don't even know why my car started on dry days. Oh wait, why do I feel better? My distributor is toast. Hey, will WD40 fix that? Will Coke? Will bourbon? I get the WD40 and a Coke. I decide to try the WD40 on the car first and the Coke on me before I try the other way around. Works a treat.

I have no fear anyone will ever steal this car. They can't. Only I can make it run, and I suspect it's like Wonder Woman's plane--it runs on my thought waves, because it sure as hell doesn't run because it's mechanically sound in any way. Also, the neighbors seem to be frightened of me for some reason, and are shuffling the children away from me.

I incorrectly use the screwdriver as a hammer again to bash the rotor where I think it goes. I can't remember how the other one came off, and it's not like I can feel my hands anyway. I try to put the new cap on, and it's worse than taking it off--the evil fucker who designed this car expected me to fold space to put it back together. No wonder those idiot mechanics charge so much--they have to disassemble the whole damn car to get that one screw in. Apparently I am loudly swearing again, for I have frightened the mailman. Fuck him, flaunting his bravery in the sleet.

My plan of repeatedly yelling "AAAGH! AAAGH! AAAAGH!" with every misuse of this poor screwdriver seems to be working. Not that I can see anymore, things have frozen to my eyelashes, and my nose is dripping into the fusebox. Hah! One screw! Now for the second! Shit! It doesn't line up! Well! It's! Going! To! Because! Agh! I'm! Going! To! Kick! It! Mother! Fucker! Pus! Bucket! God! Damn! oh hello mr price, what a pretty dog, yes you are no I'm fine, thank you Son! of a Bitch! Get! In! There! You! Bastard! Ow! My! Back! I! Swear! To! God! If! You! Don't! Line! Up! oh holy shit it worked. Now to strip the threads on this screw, hah!

Ok, let's assemble all the hoses. Hmm. It seems, when one kicks the crap out of one's car, one loses all the hose clamps somewhere in the engine. That was another good 40 minute scavenger hunt. Did you know it's harder to get the hoses back on that to rip them off? I don't want to do this again, this sucks.

I make sure the car starts, yay. Boy it sure sounds better than it did before. I go in, clean up, fall over, and then I remember that you're supposed to replace the plugs & wires when you replace the rotor.

Luckily, just then, the power decided to go out at the house (I'm not making this up) so I took this as a sign from God I should lie the hell down and take a nap.

old stuff

If I'd had a livejournal two years ago, I would have written about these two incidents from September of 2004, so here, I'm sticking them in:

I'm driving along the other day, it's a nice day, I have the windows open, and I pass a skunk. Whooeee, it's pungent.

So I, of course, change the radio station.

It's been interesting to see the reaction of non-synesthesiacs, hehehe.

So again, I’m driving along, and I have my hair down, which is unusual. However, when I do, I find I get a lot of attention from certain types of fellow drivers (usually passels of gardeners yelling in Spanish) because now I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car. Hair up: fussy old librarian begging to be cut off; hair down: apparently, I Must Have You Because You Yell Unintelligible Things At Me. Who knew life was a set of clearly defined roles determined solely by whether I happened to have a hair clip handy or not?

Today, it’s Haile Selassie next to me--you know, the former king of Ethiopia deposed and I think eaten by Idi Amin, used to wear this little leopard fez--driving some very expensive BMW. No leopard fez, which is a shame, because I have a weakness for leopard, but he is grinning like crazy. And I grin back, because it’s a good day. Ok, so he’s weird, possibly insane, he has no chance in hell with me, but he thinks I’m the Hot Chick In The Red Sports Car, and who could hate that? He waves his cell phone at me, I shake my head no. How the hell am I supposed to know what his number is anyway? I'm hot, so I'm psychic? He motions me to pull over with a very big grin, but I let him know I’m having none of that and race off.

And then I think, "There’s that Nigerian general who’s always emailing me. Bet he wants his 20 million back.”

I don’t know if anybody else on earth would get that, but it makes me spit milk out my nose.