My new year’s resolution: become a mechanic. That way, I will know more about cars than how to drive one, and I will be able to tell when something is actually wrong with my car and needs fixing, and (most importantly) I will never be ripped off again.
Obviously, my car is broken again. I don’t know what’s wrong with it yet, except the “HOT” and “LOW COOLANT” lights are on and the temp gage is all the way to the right; I drove to four different mechanics (with no heat) and the one that was open couldn’t help me; I have had to cancel my trip to the cities tonight to see Avenue Q; and I have no wine in my house. Rachel Rage level: rising. My options for tonight, which was to be a friend-filled adventure of Thai food and musical theatre, are now limited to a) cleaning and packing for the move (number ten) next week; b) watching Jane Eyre; or c) reading. None of these strike me as drinking activities, but they’re gonna be tonight. Just as soon as I walk to the liquor store and pick up some wine. Rachel needs wine like the Lumina needs coolant (it doesn’t, actually. I’ve checked. It just thinks it does, which serves the purposes of this metaphor just as well).
Yesterday was an all-around okay day. After spending Thursday all alone in a building without power or heat, it was nice to have a few people around the office. I also got a call about a potential sort of almost job thing for next summer, maybe, but more on that later (much, much later. Like when it becomes a reality, or dissolves into a million pieces). After work, I visited the rabbits and turtle who will be in my care for the next month – have I mentioned this? In addition to Sybil the dog, I’ll have James, Loppy and Lily all in my care. And more plants, but who are we kidding, they’ll be gone in a week. Anyway, I’ve decided I like J, L&L because they make no noise and require very little attention. My kind of pet. I have a feeling that by the end of this Dr. Doolittle adventure, the only pet I’ll ever want in my life will be a pet rock.
After the animalness, I did some creative returning at B & N and found myself at a Buy Two, Get One Free DVD sale with fifty dollars in store credit. I never buy DVDs there — hell, I barely buy books there anymore, finding it much more rewarding to dig through the musty shelves of Goodwill or the like (I am a woman of odd enthusiasms) — but I just had to check it out, you know, see if there were any deals…
An hour later I emerged from the haze, sans my store credit but loaded up with hours of entertainment. The first thing I picked up was the new BBC version of Jane Eyre, and when I’d asked the B&N employee to help me find it she’d practically started salivating. She kept following me around the DVD section, reccomending Pride and Prejudice and asking my opinion on various Darcys and Rochesters. She backed off once I picked up my second choice: the first two seasons of It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia. She wouldn’t even make eye contact once I picked up Ghostbusters 1&2.
So maybe I went for quantity over quality. That’s not new. I’ve noticed it in every facet of my life. Food (How old are those cans of mandarin oranges in my cupboard, and why are there seven of them?). Vacations (I’m coming to get you, state of Wisconsin, since you have Anna, Elizabeth, Andy, and Mark&Abby all in one handy travel destination). Major life events (There was that time I became a telemarketer, my grandmother died, and my mom lost her job all within a month). Underwear (why buy one when you can buy five?). The quantity over quality lifestyle might not be the sanest, but…it’s okay, right? Maybe I should consider therapy. But then who wants the opinion of one so-called “doctor” when you can just blog about it and get the unsolicited, unprofessional, maybe a little unhealthy advice of many?