Yesterday was my day off and I had planned activities for Nathan such as roaming aimlessly through the Target aisles and heading to the neighborhood tavern for a jack and coke. Don’t roll your eyes! I wouldn’t take my precious baby into that kind of establishment. I’d leave Nathan in the car with the engine running, of course! It’s only humane!
Only I went to my car and tried to turn it on, but the engine didn’t turn over. That’s as far as my auto-lingo goes, folks. It made some stirring noises, but there was no rush of the engine that signaled, “Sorry about that scare, Mona, I got a little wasted last night, but I’m okay now.” Why is it that the trouble with my car is inversely proportional to my knowledge of how to fix it?
I’m stuck with what the problem could be like it could be the battery that hasn’t been switched out since I got the car six years ago or the oil change I haven’t had in six months or it could be the universe telling me I’m not supposed to be behind the wheel.
So instead of executing my fantasies of price-checking random items at Target, Nathan and I stayed home. The kid slept for five hours straight and I indulged myself on Anthony Bourdain re-runs. I did catch about five minutes of Thomas the Train and boy, is that show depressing. It’s not enough to have freaky faces run rampant, but that Sir Topham Hatt micromanages those trains. No wonder they constantly complain. I’d be pretty pissed if I were pushed around by a boss named “Fat Controller.”
So I guess I have to get my car towed to the nearest mechanic seeing as there are two adults in this house but only enough car genius between the two of us to know that when the “check engine” light goes on, you pop up the hood and announce, “ENGINE? CHECK!”