Skiers on Strike
Stupid TV Heaven

Amy vs. the Universe: A Ballet in Three Acts

Mondays are so fanfuckingtastic sometimes.

Scene: I leave my house this morning (which is freezing, because the heat’s not working again. Again.), and get in the car. The Ford Focus ZX3. The lesser car. Not a bad car…just lesser. I wave to Jason as he drives off to work in the better car.

Key in ignition. rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr….nothing.

Well, okay. It’s pretty cold out. Let’s try that again. (More pathetic revving commences.)

Oh god, did someone leave the lights on? Negative. Huh. Interior light on? Nope. Is it in neutral? Check.

rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…shudder, gasp, die. Crap.

Where’s my phone? Not in my purse. Crappity crap!

Back up three flights of stairs. Phone is not in charger. Phone is not in other purse. Find old bottle of Clonazepam. Ahhhh. Nice.

Finally find JASON’s phone in JASON’s jacket. Call him while dashing back downstairs, having a full-on hissyfit about the phones and the car and the Pile o’ Things waiting for me at the office.

No way in HELL I am waiting for Ford Fucking Roadside Assistance this morning. Jason senses this and promises to turn around and come back home. And this is why our marriage works.

Better call work and tell them I’ll be later than usual. And I have a real excuse this time!! Wait. The hell is my work number? Oh yeah, it's on MY phone. Speed dial is a beautiful thing, but it completely removes any and all hope of me remembering phone numbers.

Wait! A business card! I’m sure I have one and maybe I could get to the name directory to get Viper’s extension and…

Oh. All I’ve got are Blogcards. Hee, but they’re funny.

Jason calls and asks if I remembered to check if the car wasn’t in gear. Oh. My. God. Don’t. Even.

Jason arrives and we determine that yes, the battery has indeed inexplicably died. Yes, it’s cold but this car is TWO YEARS OLD.

Pop the hood. The hell is the battery? Oh, underneath a plastic battery cover. That's...odd.

Pop the battery cover. And now I'm glad I had the battery cover because it was so much prettier than the FESTERING MESS of turquoise battery corrosion underneath it. You know, the kind of thing that you or even a Jiffy Lube guy would have spotted in an instant and gone, "Hey, that's not right" HAD YOU SEEN IT. But no, the pretty battery cover saved you from that hideous sight.

(Yes, yes. Should have looked under the cover at some point, but seriously. This is me. Out of sight, out of mind. The last time I looked under my couch for the TV remote I saw dust bunnies bigger than my head. But then I found the remote and never looked under the couch again.)


At this moment Jason remembers that Ford sent us Recall Notice 2383749857034593-493-9 a couple weeks ago, and that it had something to do with a battery cable. And then I notice that a nylon strappy thing, apparently meant to hold the battery in, has shifted over to one side and has been completely cooked away by the corroded cable. Mmmmmmm, tasty.

Miraculously, we do get the car jump-started and I make it to work...praying to all that is holy that I don't do something blonde and stall the car. I hate that car.

Took it over to the dealer tonight. Sweetly explained the above story (without all the cursing) to either a Ford customer care representative or a chain-smoking, semi-sentinent brick. Hard to tell.

I hate that car. I hate the battery and the battery cover and I hate the noise it makes in second gear and the sloppy clutch and I hate that the thingie to adjust the side mirrors is just far enough away from me that I have to lean forward to reach it, but when I lean forward I can't tell if I've adjusted the mirrors right.


(Also? Cleaning crew at my office cleaned out the refrigerator on Friday. And they threw out the frozen entree I'd left in the freezer. In the freeeeeeeeeezer. Where it was frozen.)


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