Fa La la!
This year I’m getting brakes for Christmas. It’s not quite a lump of coal, but it feels like it.
One of the problems of driving an aging car is that these things happen; and these things happen at the most inconvenient times.
The other day the brakes felt wooshy jittery and I suspected that the mechanic and I would be having a date soon. I prayed, loudly, with incense and much lamentation, for our date to occur in January.
No such luck.
We’re having uncommon snow and cold this December with a storm expected in later tonight. My inner adult sqaubbled with my inner child and persuaded her that the pleasure of working brakes was indeed greater than the pleasure of giving gifts. It’s ever so nice to be able to stop the car especially when icy roads send it into a spin.
I can’t remember what it was last year, but early December found me plunking down a significant amount of cash for some sort of car repair. Perhaps this is a new holiday tradition.
Car repairs seem to arrive in my life when I can least afford them. One year, I took the broken regularator from a 1980 Honda Accord, painted it pink, slapped a flower decal on it, hung it from a green card and told my mother it was her Mother’s Day gift. She was amused.
We’ll see what she thinks of decopauged book ends made of brake rotors. On second thought, they would make a better gift for my dad. Perhaps Mom will like placemats made out of worn out brake pads. (What do brake pads look like? Coasters, maybe? Dresser doily?)
Fa La La!
[Dear Santa, next year I want a new Subaru.]
Edited to add: I went and picked up the car. Paid heaps of money. And then…AND THEN caused quite a stir when I asked for my rotors. “Your what, ma’am?” I want my rotors. “Um, sure.” Next thing I know the manager arrives asking me what he can do to help. I tell him nothing that I’m fine. “I thought there was a problem.” Um, no. I don’t thinks so. “You were asking about your rotors?” Yes, I want them. I’m going to paint them a glossy black, paint my father’s monogram on them, and give them to him for Christmas. “Oh.”
I have never met a Christmas tree I didn’t like. Every year, without fail, I proclaim whichever tree I’m looking at as “the prettiest ever.” I haven’t gotten my home trees up yet. It’s a daunting project and I need to wait until I’ve got a fair span of uninterrupted time. I’m thinking this weekend will prove to be relativelyvoid of extracurricular activities.
W. Va. Fur and Root 