I.G.'s truck is in the shop. Again. And by "again," I mean in the "fourth time in three months" sense of the word. We're being bilked by shifty-eyed con men, and they're not even smooth-talking shifty-eyed con men. They leave his truck parked out on the curb in front of their shop for a week at a time, undisturbed. In plain view. On a major thoroughfare. This time around, the vehicle has been almost wholly encased by a massive cobweb, and a small band of drifters seem to have taken up residence in the truck bed, yet, when I.G. calls them up to ferret out how the "repairs" are going, the "mechanics" insist they're working on it.
How? Telekinetically?
I've lost track of the number of times it has been recommended to us that we just buy a new car already. While I appreciate the well-meaning attempts to guide me through the linear thought process (old car = non-operational; new car = operational; operational car = shimmering, sparkling, rainbow-straddling unicorns enjoying happy fun time...YAY! Ergo, replace old car with new car! Problem solved!), it's not like I was unable to take that leap on my own. It's just that it's easier to take such a leap with the accompanying income to acquire and insure said new car.
Alas, our ownership of a non-operational auto coincides with our ownership of one moderately-operational house. Yup. The fixer house needed more fixin'. That is a whole other, separate anecdote - a story so far-reaching and convoluted, it requires its own zip code. Sure, I could bore you with details of an old, also non-operational A/C system, and us living in a locale in which the sun squeezes out tangible streams of magma in lieu of rays during the summer months, but....... that's another senseless blurb for another senseless day. Even though I'm not going anywhere, and have all the time in the world to tell you about it (from the confines of my now well-air-conditioned domicile).
Since at the moment I'm a home-based freelancer, and one placed in charge of a toddler with no firm social or academic obligations, it makes more sense for I.G. to have the one remaining operational vehicle. For now - until I land more freelance clients, or an actual, real job - we're trying to suck it up and adjust to life as a one-auto household.
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd the cabin fever has been ratcheted up a few notches around here.
The thing is, I have a pretty high tolerance for social isolation. Up until recently, I've not been the least bit concerned just because my coiffure is a tad Unibomber-y, and it hadn't felt that unusual that the only other human companionship I enjoy during the day is provided by a person who believes that canned ravioli is the height of both human culinary achievement and avant garde fashion. And yet......sometimes when Z. starts rapidly swinging her head back and forth in order to see how many times she can smack herself in the face with her own braids, instead of pointing out to her that that's NOT sane behavior, I just laugh, because it's the funniest thing I've seen all day. (OK, it's the only thing I've seen all day.) And maybe it's a bit feral-Jodie-Foster-ish that wee Z. and I communicate almost solely via Boosh crimps. Maybe outsiders would even find it a bit creepy that, when I ask Z. what she wants for lunch, and she says, "Future sailors, cyborg sea-dog, tell me what you dream of..............," I know that she really means, "Hot dogs," but......
Wait....where was I going with that? Did I have a point? Could I even make a point if I wanted to?
You see? The part of my brain that used to facilitate linear thought process is suddenly looking a lot like I.G.'s truck, sitting on the side of the road, untouched, and with grim future prospects.
Yikes. I should get out of the house more. Oh........ that's right. I can't. So, if my rants here continue to deteriorate and are soon lacking not only cohesion, but also discernible, identifiable, real words....
Phferrerminix! Aspuhl nadot wesleyhead. Juop quor?
(Crap. Too late.)