Dashboard Processional

I was proud of Ramona when she sliced and diced the pigeon a couple of months ago. She’s a tough cookie, just like her mom (me, for anyone not fluent in Allison). She don’t take no sass from nobody. But evidently she heard me bragging, and she got a little too big for her britches.

Ramona tangled with a Tundra last week. 

She lost. This is what Ramona looks like, by the way:

This is what Ramona would look like were she human:

She couldn’t possibly look like anyone but Maxine from the Hallmark cards, except she would definitely be chain-smoking Virginia Slims. When I purchased Ramona, she smelled like the inside of a smoking room in a Motel 6 in Tennessee. She is now channeling Frankenstein...with all the replacement parts, not much of her is even a Subaru at this point. What seemed like a good deal in the beginning, I have paid for twice over the span of nine months. L-E-M-O-N. At least she has low miles at 150,000. Oh wait, I forgot. The odometer was rolled back. That’s actually 250,000.

Rick, my mechanic, called me at work Wednesday. We’re on a hug-hello, life-story basis at this point. After two days of trying to get the jammed hood open after Ramona’s brawl, they discovered that the pouring smoke (no big deal, right?) was just a radiator hose that needed replacing...25 bucks. Sweet.

Oh, and also another 400 for the body work so my hood would stay shut. He wouldn't go for my bungee cord idea. Hey, my undercarriage is being held up with dental floss. No lie.

See, I have a history of automotive woes.

Before Ramona was the Bunny Slayer.

Bunny Slayer was affectionately named after she chased down and ran over the biggest rabbit I have ever seen, in the middle of the Arizona desert. She steered directly for Bugs and thunkthunk. I lost all control over her. She had blood lust - what can I say?

Bunny Slayer’s rear windows only stayed up due to the fact that I had opened the door panels and shoved a year’s subscription’s worth of Lucky magazines inside. The windows still slipped down a bit, so I jammed ink pens and sticks into the rubber pieces to help hold them up.

I was towing Bunny Slayer once (I think on one of the Georgia to Texas moves) and didn’t realize I had to tow her with all four wheels off the ground. All these truck drivers kept honking and waving. I gave a few the one-finger wave. “I’m going as fast as I can, assholes!” When I got to Texas, Bunny Slayer was literally hanging off of the tow bed by one chain. Doh. I tried to drive her off, transmission gone.

Then I moved her to New Jersey. I came out of my Newark apartment one day, walked to my (always parallel) parking spot, to find her...not there. Hmmm. I called the police, who told me she had been stolen but was found the night before. Two days of back-and-forth later, turned out my dumb ass parked in front of a driveway and got towed.

Before Bunny Slayer, there was the Blueberry. 

Blueberry was involved in the world’s first and only drive-by rafting. I was driving with a friend in Portland (likely to a bar, luckily not from one) when everything suddenly went orange and BOOM. I pulled off to the right shoulder. My left side mirror was gone and my hood was dented. I looked around and saw a large orange inflatable raft on the left shoulder. A car had pulled off to the left ahead, and someone was running to pick up the raft. I yelled at him to pull to the right shoulder as my friend got his license plate. He collected his lethal weapon raft...and sped off. When I called the police and told them I had been involved in a hit-and-run incident with an inflatable watercraft, they told me to hold before they said there was nothing they could do. I wonder if they were laughing at me when I was on hold...

My first very-own car was Mervo:

Mervo was a late-80s model Ford wagon purchased for $800 from this woman:

My sweet friend Heather told me it wasn’t so bad...that it looked like a cross between a Mercedes and a Volvo. Thus, Mervo. Mervo broke down mucho.

I really think public transportation is the right option for me.

Brain Dump

A friend of mine used the term "brain dump" in an email today. I thought this would be an appropriate title, as my brain is 'bout to take a dump in this post. I keep a running list of blog ideas in my BlackBerry notes, and I plan to cover a few of them now. I will hold off on "sesame street techno pants'ed" and "short shorts lotion no shower." Mostly because I have no fucking clue what either of those mean. Also because I think each of those might be awesome enough to need its own entire post.

Let's get this show on the road.

I moved again. For anyone keeping track, that makes seven moves in the last two years - three of those in the last six months. After all that moving, I think I've become quite the interior designer. Let me give you a little tour of my new place.

I went for the minimalist look in the living room. Notice the placement of the quilt-wrapped flat screen - right near the cable jack, should I ever decide to pay for cable. And rain boots right by the door are a functional addition to any home.

Now for the study. I haven't decided exactly how to use the study, so right now it's my art studio, home office and gym. What a useful room!

And here's where the magic happens, bitches. Notice the placement of the air mattress. That's some good feng shui.

Because I know you are wondering, yes, my design services are available to any interested parties.

Whatever, living alone is the best! I spent the weekend unbathed and singing to my iTunes in the living room. Another special treat is having my kitchen back. My kitchen. Nobody else's weird-ass food (mini cocktail weenies in a jar, beans, nasty Chili's leftovers) taking up space in my grill.  Now it's only my weird food. You see...

I went sugar-free (or at least really, really low sugar).

So these diet staples...

...have been replaced with this crap.

If you look closely, you'll see hummus, tofu, mozzarella, green tea, soy milk, fruits and vegetables. In the freezer I have gluten-free pizza and vegan chicken nuggets. Why, you ask? I had eight photos of desserts in my BlackBerry. Candy breakfasts are no joke with me - they're a real thing. If I'm not careful, I'll end up with the beetis.

Plus I jump at any chance to be a culinary pain in the ass. I was a vegetarian for nearly six years. My diet consisted of grilled cheese sandwiches and Hostess cakes.

So I'm definitely planning a picnic dinner party like Grace Adler. Put down the organic goat brie cheese and return to the picnic area!

Since I have all this space, I've decided it's time to get a hobby. Do you even know how hard it is to find a Hobby Lobby around here? How can I be expected to choose a hobby with the Lobby? After browsing the aisles, I settled on drawing. Wah waaaah. Yeah, I know, boring, shut it. If the drawing doesn't pan out, I'll move on to my second and third choices: sword swallowing and bee charming.

So I guess my new sense of calm has somehow spilled over into my workplace. At our all-company meeting last week, I was awarded this:

Something about being a raving fan, yada yada yada. I got a scarlet letter. WTF. It is funny how this stupid little wooden R has washed a strange contentment over my professional life and alleviated the restlessness. Such a small recognition had such a pacifying, sedating effect. I'm fairly certain it's The Man trying to hold me back. Like drugs, those crimson wooden letters. They turn you into a lemming, and the next thing you know it's 30 years down the road. I ought to burn it, that evil voodoo witch letter.

But evidently, it also stands for "Retiree Bait." Check out my dating matches this week. No lie.

Um. I don't remember ever checking "Santa Claus" as my preferred body type. I can just imagine the third dude saying, "I've got a present for you, little girl. Just come sit in my lap." 

Brain elimination complete.