I wish I’d been able to find both of these crude bumper stickers back in the day.  I saw this ancient (late 80’s?) distressed Grand Marquis in the Kroger parking lot last week.  It is probably some young kid’s inheritance from Grandma, who abandoned the old Grand Marquis for either a newer Grand Marquis or other large old people’s car (Buick Century, etc.) -or who died.  Since none of my relatives were into big cars except one of my grandfathers, and he always traded his cars because they were low mileage and impeccably maintained, I never inherited a big car. I never really wanted to.  I remember the 72 Plymouth Fury Grandpa had that he traded in on the 92 Buick Roadmaster, that he traded in on the 2002 Grand Marquis.  When he traded it off the Fury still smelled like a new car. The Roadmaster probably did too when he traded it off.  The 2002 Grand Marquis was sold in the estate sale or something when he died, and it had less than five thousand miles on it- in 2006.  Fine with me.  The biggest vehicle I have ever owned was my 94 Toyota truck, with its legendary 22RE engine (a 2.4 4 cylinder for those who may not know.)  I don’t do big cars.  My idea of a large car is a Corolla.  A Grand Marquis is a land yacht. 

I think Dad preferred me to drive small cars primarily because let’s face it- doing the horizontal mambo in a 79 Subaru DL or in a 70’s versionVW Rabbit is an exercise in contortionism.   Possible, yes, but a physical challenge, and I am not the best at any kind of physical challenge.  Dad was probably a lot more optimistic about me getting lucky than I ever really was.  I wasn’t voted “least likely to get laid” in the Senior Will for nothing.  Before I got my first car I tried without success to convince Dad that I should get a 75 Camaro to drive so I would look more cool (hell, I could have had a new Mercedes and I still would have been a geeky awkward nerd with thick glasses and no social aptitude, but it was worth a try.)  Dad put the nix on anything with more than four cylinders.  I’m glad he nixed the Camaro because they are the absolute worst car to try to drive in the snow, and I can’t see out of them worth squat because the seat sits too low.  Gasoline and maintenance also cost less on the small 4-cylinder cars, which was and still is a plus for me.

I don’t think I would dare to sport such edgy bumper stickers on a newer car (though I do make some conservative political statements on the Hello Kitty Yaris) but back when I drove real piece of shit cars, who would care?  As much as I really hated driving nasty cars due to mechanical failures, poor performance and bizarre quirks that are inherent to cars pieced together with Bondo, duct tape and pop rivets, I never had to worry much about cosmetic damage. Who gave a rat’s ass that the headlight buckets on the Subaru were fabricated out of sheet metal and as a result the headlights were aimed as if I were perpetually attempting to tree coon with them?  I remember reattaching the Subaru’s exhaust from the cat back with a coat hanger- in the rain- with Dawne and Jamie both in the back seat laughing their asses off.  If some wise-ass decided it was fun to walk on the hood and roof of the car and dent the hell out of it, oh, well. That was then and this is now.  Now that I drive a late model car, I am thoroughly pissed about a less than 1″ dent in the left quarter panel of the HK Yaris caused by two guys trying to wrangle a used Saturn crossmember in and and out of the trunk.   Most people would never notice it, but I see it- and therefore it pisses me off.

Some days it seems like just the act of drawing breath seems like too much.  I really don’t like being in that frame of mind.  I’ve never been a patient individual but for me high fatigue=really bad attitude.  Especially if someone expects me to do something above and beyond the ordinary daily chores that are necessary.  Today I would have been quite fine with watching Science Channel and TruTV with the dogs all day, but such is not to be. 

I really wasn’t up that late doing my nails last night either- Jerry decided to spend the evening at the hell hole (I don’t even want to know how much money he pissed away there because that would be even worse for my fragile morale) and he staggered in around 10:30.  I crashed around 11:30, when I was confident to some degree that my nails had dried.  Jerry was flopped over the bed and snoring loudly so therefore I could be confident that he was both a.) asleep and b.) still breathing.  In some sort of drunken intuition he must have known not to say anything to me when he came in because I would have ripped him a new one.  Either that or he was plastered beyond having the power of speech.  That doesn’t happen too often.  If anything when he’s plastered he chases me around and runs at the mouth until he passes out. Usually when he comes in quietly that means he actually won money, (if he loses money I usually get an hour’s worth of tirade on how he is so broke, ad nauseam) but I won’t hold my breath.   I hate gambling.  I know sometimes he wins but it’s never enough to make up for what he loses.  In gambling establishments the odds are always such that the house consistently wins, otherwise why would they bother?  Over the long term you’re generally better off to keep your money rather than piss it away gambling with the far-off hope that you might beat the odds and win big.  Most people simply lose.   But you can’t tell a gambler that.

I am not quite that addicted to caffeine.  In recent years I’ve cut back on it quite a bit, but I am all too familiar with that “I’m too damned tired and burned out to deal with you,” feeling.  When I’m stressed the last thing I want is to deal with people, especially when all they want is for me to give them something or do something for them.  Sometimes just conversation is too much.  I think I might take a silent sanity day Saturday- don’t talk to anyone for any reason.  That could be good for my mental health if I can pull it off.

Of course conversation is a relative thing.  I don’t particularly want to discuss the same old tired topics. As far as politics go I know pretty much who and what I’m voting for and against, so there’s not much further discussion for me on that topic.  I certainly don’t want to be reminded of my perpetual state of relative poverty, how bad my health is, or how dysfunctional my home life is.  That doesn’t leave a whole lot open for Jerry, other than bitching at me for sins of omission, commission, real or imagined, and stuff that is high on his priority bitch list that I’ve either never thought of or just plain forgot about.  All of the above are things I really don’t feel like talking about.

Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.