I got nuttin’. Nada. Well, I got somethin’, but it’s just a whiny baby moan about my poor car. And that’s this: It’s raining biblical here in So Cal, and naturally, my little car has a leak. I’m hoping to blame it on the recent incompetent bunglery of the goobers who painted it. Can’t find where it’s coming from. Fashioned a really-stupid-looking-obviously-done-by-a-girl visqueen “panel” on the driver’s side door because I was sure that was the culprit. Drove around looking like a MORON — and still had water on the backseat floor, so clearly, my groovy makeshift panel didn’t work. Maybe God meant it as a “lesson in humility.” (I say that as an homage to something a verrry wealthy friend of mine once said: “Yeah, my dad wouldn’t give my little sister a Mercedes as her first car. She had to drive a CAMARO as a lesson in humility.” Oh, please. The poor baby. I laughed out loud and snorted — I think I really did snort …. well, it IS pretty snort-worthy — “Oh, yeah? How’d that work out?” — BEFORE bothering to look at her face. Once I did, I stopped laughing. She was dead serious. Oh. Uhhhhh … oops.)
So I’m gettin’ really chapped with this. Car stinks like a thousand ratty sponges AND steams up like a sauna when I drive — and not in that smooth, snooty “oh-Lovey-let’s-have-a-spa” kind of way. Nope. It fogs like a dozen hormonally crazed teenagers are loose and makin’ out in my car. And hey — if the windows are gonna fog, I want it to be from something fun I’M doing, not because there’s some freakin’ encroaching wetlands in my backseat! I’ve repeatedly, obsessively destroyed the marshlands with sponges and Lysol and anything else I can get my hands on. But only under cover of night lest some pinchy environmentalists catch me and call the wrath of the EPA down upon me.
Although, maybe I should just cave in and get me some fishies.