So, my car has oil. As usual, I took the longest and most complicated route possible in achieving this. I ignored the situation for as long as I could. I went to get gas, couldn’t bring myself to prostate myself in front of a forecourt attendant and ask for help, and just caught the train to work for a couple of days. Finally, Kelly and I went and booked me a service, because that seemed like the easiest way out of the whole debacle. As I learned in private school: when in doubt, throw money. (NB: This, on the whole, has not served me well.)
Yesterday, I got a call from my best friend’s husband. I had been avoiding him, because he is constantly called upon to fix my life for me, and I worry that he gets slightly tired of having a second wife who steals his chips and doesn’t put out.
“Katie,” he said to me, “you are a fool.”
This is true.
“Your car isn’t going to explode in the next ten minutes,” he explained in the weary tone of someone who’s tired of having his chips stolen. (Apparently this is why it’s called a warning light!) “And you’re not paying for a service to avoid opening a cap and pouring in some liquid.”
Secretly I was relieved, since I am currently overdrawn in all my accounts, and had been planning to hope that the garage had dishes in need of washing, or would be open to solicitation. But, I thought, surely it is more complicated than that!
No, internet, it isn’t.
We opened a cap, and poured in some liquid. My car is purring like a happy kitten, and the whole business was achieved with a glass of wine in hand. The way everything should be achieved. Suck it, life! I win.
Izzi is saying to me, right now, “I love me an ellipsis, but eventually a sentence just needs to END.”
Rocktober was on Friday night. I was house-sitting for Kelly again, so I went up to her place after work to get ready. I put on my new black jeans, loaded up the eyeliner, and emptied a can of hairspray into my teased hair. (Then I put it in a ponytail so you couldn’t tell, like a secret painful present for morning-Katie to brush out. Don’t say I never gave you anything, hungover future self.)
I’d brought soup and a bagel from work to eat beforehand — not because I was planning on drinking sensibly but because I really wasn’t. Damage limitation, my friends! It’s a beautiful concept. As I went to prepare my dinner, I realised that the dog was getting fur all over my snazzy stretch capris.
So I took them off.
Pleased with my nous — ha, last blog! SUCK IT! — I returned to the kitchen and set about toasting my bagel. It was a warm day and I’d left the back door open behind me, so the sounds of neighbourhood chatter drifted in on the breeze. I was finding the whole situation quite delightful, until I turned around to get a plate.
As it turned out, Kelly’s neighbours were having a gathering out on their deck… directly opposite the open door in front of which I was making soup IN MY UNDERWEAR.
Confronted by a party of strangers all trying to pretend we hadn’t seen each other, I beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom to find my pants. When I returned, my plate was empty and a very innocent-looking dog sat quietly in the corner, surreptitiously licking his chops.
So that’s the story of how I arrived at the bar and Jeffrey was like, “You should do three shots of tequila in a row on an empty stomach!”
And I was like, “Okay!”
Which lead to this:
Which almost lead to a story about how I sold my body for an oil change.
Oh well. There’s always next time.