Volvo: 'The Swedish are smarter than you and so are their cars'

I bid farewell to an old friend last week.  On Friday, reluctantly and with a few tears, we took the Red Wonder for it's last drive.  Without any ceremony (or notice) Husband decided there was not enough Duct Tape in the world to keep my little buggy on the road and simply replaced it with something far sturdier and with functioning headlamps. 


Turning over the keys to my beloved 'car' felt like limping an old pooch to the vet for the longest walk. As I think back on our time together I know I will never have another car like it. I recall fondly the day I discovered I could put the trunk lid back on all by myself.  I loved knowing there was only one way I could insert the bent key into the ignition which didn't lock the entire steering column.  I remember the day brought it home as a replacement for a car which had failed to function as a mode of transportation in the most spectacular of ways: the brakes failed at the same time as the transmission.  


Formed by impassive ingenuity and running on high octane Swedish chocolate, this new car of mine is not getting off on the right foot, as it were. I confess I look upon it with suspicion.  Firstly, it starts. It also smells clean and new, as though the previous owner was too good for McD's fries.  Furthermore, I have a hard time believing all the wonders the user guide promises, things like 'air bags' or 'anti-lock brakes' or 'gas mileage.'  These sound made up.


This new car, if I am to believe what I read, is also far smarter than any car has a right to be.  According to the manual, I should be unable to lock my keys in this car.  It was designed to prevent this. I am deeply offended by the implication that I would fail to have a back up plan for this situation and I am already searching for a way to disable the passenger window.

Which Wild Thing Was That?

We live with several animals.  I say several for we have two large and slobbery dogs, one she's-not-overweight-she's-just-fluffy cat, and the Mystery Beast.

The Mystery Beast wakes us up in the night to let us know in a booming voice that everything is all right.  Neither dog will have anything to say when the light comes on except "Who, us?"

The Mystery Beast eats unmonitored breakfast toast and leaves a trail of drool leading away from the toilet bowl.  The Mystery Beast leaves a warm spot on the no-dogs-on-the-sofa.  The Mystery Beast will eat baby green tomatoes straight from the vine.  The Mystery Beast eats the cats' food when the cat isn't looking.  The Mystery Beast has gas.

This Beast is not yellow or black and tan or orange and white.  This Beast, to the best we are able to guess based on the sizable dust bunnies under the kitchen table each morning, is grey in colour and, apparently, likes the taste of shoes. 

The Mystery Beast has never been spotted by a Two-Legger although the dogs and cat claim to see him on a regular basis.  Like the Boogie Man of house pets, the Mystery Beast lurks behind our doors and under the stairs, waiting for any opportunity to clear the counter of unwanted loaves of fresh bread or to carefully tie the sewing machine thread to the toaster oven.  Although we have never seen it, we know that the Mystery Beast is here to stay and while it may cost us a few slices of peanut butter toast, it is still far cheaper than the Rottweiller, who still owes me for a $400 dental retainer.

Noises Off

For the sake of peace in the marriage, and in an effort to maintain the illusion that I do not live with a crazy person, here is a list of sounds (and my guesses v. actual cause) that frequently emanate from random corners of the property which I do not question:

1.  Shattering glass.  Possible cause: Husband dropped a mirror while moving stuff in the garage.  Actual cause:  Husband dropped a mirror while flashing a low-flying airplane in an attempt to signal his buddy, the pilot, that he, Paycheck, is a complete twit.
2.  Loud banging - wooden. Possible cause: Wind has simultaneously slammed closed all of the doors on the second floor.  Actual cause: Husband has just walked into an open cupboard door, injured his head and shut the door so hard it has bounced open and hit his head a second time.
3.  Loud banging - metallic. Possible cause: Husband has used a 10 Lb sledge to remove a stubborn brake drum from the van.  Actual cause: Husband has used a 10 Lb sledge to remove a stubborn brake drum from the van (this happens often enough that the sound is now quite unmistakable).
4.  Loud banging - explosive. Possible cause: Husband has just shot himself in the foot with a nail gun (extremely likely).  Actual cause: Husband has accidentally super glued a sports ball to a dry suit with industrial epoxy.  The heat from the resulting chemical reaction has turned the Spider Man basket ball into an IED.
5.  Expletives followed by any combination of the above.  Possible cause: In four years my writers' curiosity has never driven me to investigate this and, should you find yourself overwhelmed with the need for illumination in this regard, I invite you to stop by and see for yourself.  


The dogs and I will be under the couch.

A Subtle Blend of Honey and Blue Collar Sweat

Gentle reader, I am comfortable enough with our relationship that I feel I can admit the following:  I like beer.  Does that make me less of a lady?  Would it surprise you to discover that I like to drink beer straight out of the bottle?  That in my opinion the only thing better than an ice cold beer is another ice cold beer, possibly before the first is even finished?

I have tried wines, red and white.  I am always reminded of tomato juice for some reason.  I don't like rye and until I tried scotch I was unaware that I even had a gag reflex.  I am not sad enough for vodka or crazy enough for rum.  One night in the early spring of this year, tequila nearly put me in the hospital and gin just tastes like tree ass.

Let's face it, beer tastes like pop used to taste when we were kids.  Sweet and fizzy and the feeling is the same only instead of sugar making you do silly things, it's alcohol and a total loss of volume control.  Dark or light, honeyed, red or white, it doesn't matter.  Every one is just as tasty as the next and the best thing?  The very best thing?  They come in packs of six, eight, 12, 24 and (here in BC) 30.  You'd get some funny looks if you showed up at a BBQ with a 30-pack of gin but everyone is happy to see beer.

What am I talking about?  Where is this headed? Why am I writing about beers at nearly midnight in the middle of the week?  And where is my bottle opener?  These are questions which have plagued Man for eons, or at least as long as it takes to get to the fridge and back.

Drinking is serious business to some.  To others, a celebration.  We drink to toast, to honour, to remember, to forget.  We drink in crowds with friends.  We drink in crowds alone.  We drink to health or in spite of it.  I am drinking for that very best of reasons: because Husband brought it home and put it in the fridge.

G'night all.

This Old House

Husband came home the other day with plans. Big plans.  Plans so big they are actually 'Plans.'

"We are renovating!" he said in a deep voice with chest out-thrust and hands fisted on hips.

(Side note:  there are three things Husband and I do not do well together, three exceptions to the marital bliss we call life.  1. Move the sectional, 2. Deal with doggie-sick on the carpets and 3. Renovate. This can only end with bloodshed.)

Without hesitation, without a seconds' pause, without a drop cloth, Husband immediately began to coat the walls of every room in the house with Spackle.  The Polka-Dot Door could film a show in my living room.  And in the kitchen, stairwell, front entrance and upstairs hallway. 

And it didn't stop there.

With zest and vigor and still no drop cloths, Husband began prepping the guest room for paint.  Prepping, for the uninitiated, means shoving all the furniture into a pile in the middle of the room and slapping primer on the walls.  It was while in the middle of this Husband casually mentioned he was glad to be getting the room painted as his mother would be coming for the weekend.  In about three (3) days.

For those having trouble keeping up, let's take stock.  Walls: splattered with Spackle from kitchen to coat closet.  Furniture: in a heap.  ONLY guest room: in shambles.  Mother-in-law: arriving in t minus 3 days. Husband: endangered species.

It was while searching through the basement to find a good edging brush to correct the mess made by the bad edging brush that the drop cloths were found.  It was while laying the drop cloths in the guest room that the dessicated dog sick was discovered.  It was while hunting for spot remover under the kitchen sink that the good edging brush was found.  It was while disposing of the bad edging brush in the garage that the spider dropped into my hair.  It was while explaining to Husband how my hair, face, glasses and shirt got coated with paint that I decided he could handle this situation on his own.  It was after my second beer that I calmed down.

Husband can do amazing things.  He can fly a plane and sew a jacket together from scratch.  He can free-fall and fold laundry. He can paint a room all by himself when threatened with a cot in the 'spider cave' if he is not done before Mother-in-law arrives.  The room looks fantastic.  Mother-in-law made the appropriate sort of fuss over our efforts and Husband has promised that his very next task is to find the spider camping out in the garage and firmly usher it out the door.  I was hoping he would perhaps start on the house-wide game of connect the dots he has created with Poly-Filla but I've learned to pick my battles and will gladly accept having a scale diagram of the constellation Leo on my living room wall if it means spider-free access to my garage.

But only for so long.