One of my core beliefs is that cars thrive on neglect, and my current one, a Honda Civic nicknamed Rocinante,** bears me out on this. The little oil change reminder thingies placed with such optimism on the driver’s side of the windshield are mere guidelines—I have about a twenty-mile, round-trip commute, so it takes a long time to build up the mileage, and while I could go in every three months, meh.
The way I figure it, if nothing lights up on the dashboard, and the idle doesn’t rattle my fillings, it’s all good.
But I do have that big trip coming up and unless I chicken out and take the bus or the train,*** which would be far more relaxing but add three or four hours to my trip, I’ll need a car that can make it to St. Louis.
So I took today off to get my car drained, tranfused, tuned, tweaked, braked, rotated, and aired out. It now drives like a much more expensive vehicle, but without any added risk of being carjacked by anyone interested in mere retail value.
If I remember to fill the gas tank, I’ll be all set.
That is, aside from figuring out what to pack, where to park, and how to cope with my quirky, yet oddly attractive anxieties about traveling and attending alone—though there are so many panels I want to attend, the biggest worry I have is choosing which ones.
And if I can fit in a side trip to the Zoo on Sunday . . .
*Knock,knock. Who’s there? Ether. Ether who? Ether bunny.
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Justin. Justin who? Justin other Ether Bunny.
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Stella, Stella who? Stella nother ether bunny.
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Samoa. Samoa who? Samoa Ether Bunnies.
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Beryl. Beryl who? Beryl of ether bunnies.
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Consumption. Consumption who? Consumption be done about all these ether bunnies?
Knock,knock. Who’s there? Cargo. Cargo who? Cargo “beep, beep”…run over all the ether bunnies.
**After Don Quixote’s old, broken-down, extremely loyal horse.
***The whole point of going this year was that St. Louis is only 5 hours away. That’s less than a hour on a plane, but I plan on hauling home swag and souvenirs that I don’t want to pay for again at check in. And I hate to fly—not fear, just a general loathing for airline policies.