She just said merkin... in front of Judy Blume

This morning, I impulse-bought a ticket to a virtual book tour event for one of my favorite authors, Jenny Lawson. Her new book, Broken (In the Best Possible Way) just came out and in the age of Covid, virtual tours have become a thing. 

Picture from thebloggess.com.

Now you don't have to travel to the nearest bookshop they're visiting, wait in line, be awkward in a crowd, sit on uncomfortable chairs, and try to not trip in front of your idol. Instead, you can pay for your ticket (it included a signed copy of the book plus shipping) from the comfort of your desk and enjoy hearing your favorite authors speak in your underwear. (I mean, you'll be in your underwear, not that your favorite author will be wearing your underwear. Maybe they will, I don't know your life.)

Ain't technology great?

Anyway, I wish I had been paying attention to all of the newsletters and blog alerts I get because Jenny Lawson had events with nerd queen Felicia Day and the Neil Gaiman last week which would've been amazing to attend. But that's ok because today's event was hosted by none other than Judy Blume. I'm sure I read some of Blume's books (probably the Fudge books if any) but I don't really remember. This fact was not going to stop me from attending an event with the legend herself.

If you haven't read any of Lawson's books or her blog (The Bloggess), she spends a lot of time talking about her struggles with mental and physical illnesses such as depression, extreme anxiety, rheumatoid arthritis, and auto-immune disorders... but in a funny way. It sounds like a strange combo, but it works. She started as a blogger and quickly found a community of people who were going through the same things she was and within this community, began to take over the world.

Not literally but I feel like she wouldn't do any worse than what's going on right now. Plus, there would be far more taxidermy animals around.

Picture from thebloggess.com.
Yes, that is a little mouse Hamlet with
a tiny mouse Yorick skull in his hand.

Not that I'm all gungho about taxidermy animals. They smell funky and are more than a little creepy. (I spent 9 years working in a store full of them with four massive mule deer watching me everyday, I get to say that.)

My friend, Jen, recommended Let's Pretend this Never Happened to me years ago and it was one of the funniest things I had ever read. In it, Lawson talks about growing up in rural Texas with her taxidermist father who liked to collect wild animals (both living and dead), trying to explain the insanity that is her family to her straight-laced future husband, and the struggles and joys of finally bringing her daughter into the world.

When I stumbled upon Lawson's second book, Furiously Happy, (which focuses on Lawson's struggles with mental illness and her mission to live 'furiously happy') by accident at a local bookstore, I bought it immediately and have been hooked ever since.

Picture from thebloggess.com.

I routinely listen to both of these audio books on Overdrive, especially when I'm having a bad day or if I am feeling exceptionally anxious. 

I love them. Everybody should read them. Tangent over. Back to the event. 

Top row (L to R): Muffy (ASL translator) & Judy Blume
Bottom row: Jenny Lawson

Judy Blume was the moderator and asked Lawson all the normal questions about the book and even went in-depth about some of the chapters. It was great to see how excited Blume was to talk about a book she obviously enjoyed, and Lawson was so excited to be there with someone she has idolized since she was a kid.

Lawson read a chapter from Broken about the awkward things people do, she included a wide range of examples that people had tweeted at her such as pulling chapstick out of their purse and applying it in front of a bunch of people only to realize it was actually a tampon or asking a friend how their dad was doing... while at said dad's funeral.

Lawson has such a refreshing way of looking at the world, that it's ugly and terrible while also being wonderful and beautiful. That you might feel alone but there are actually hundreds, if not thousands, of people who are going through the same terrible thing as you and they'd love to hug you (from a distance, no touching without permission and a negative Covid test).

She's also a potty-mouth which makes me giggle.

(She has an adult coloring book called You Are Here that I totally recommend, not safe for work)

Picture from thebloggess.com.

And circling back up to the title, (you thought I forgot, didn't you? Or you thought I was just going to leave you hanging. For shame.) Lawson was talking about hairband extensions you can get online to make thin hair look fuller, she then pulled one out and put it on her head to show us. I'm not 100% sure how we got there, but she listed other possible uses for it, including as a merkin... in front of Judy Blume.

I feel bad for the ASL translator. Do you think there's a sign for merkin?

Cloudy Day Thoughts: Yurt Edition

The last few days have been cloudy and rainy and I have been enjoying them from the comfort of my apartment... pretty much the same way I've been spending 99% of my days for the last year. It kind of took me back to the two days I spent in a yurt last October.

My friend Jen messaged me last September with a post from the Dancing Crane Writing Center saying they were offering a free night's stay in their yurt to any author in exchange for a copy of their book. One of my old coworkers had a yurt that we gathered at a few times and I always threatened that I was going to break in and never leave, I loved it that much. So, when I heard about the deal from Dancing Crane, I thought about it for about 30 seconds before messaging them to find out what I needed to do to stay there.

They told me to go on their Airbnb page, find what days they were free that I wanted and to let them know. I picked a Wednesday-Thursday in October because it was far enough away that I could get stuff settled at work and I could attended a Central Nebraska Writers Group meeting in person for the first time since I moved to Lincoln.

After having lunch with Puffy and seeing a couple of friends that I've missed, I headed to Gibbon to get checked into the yurt I'd be staying in for the next 24 hours. It was south of Gibbon, across two branches of the Platte River, and buried back in a copse of trees, protected from the road in the host's backyard. The owner, Terry, had messaged me that she had to run to Kearney but the yurt was open and I could make myself at home. 

Don't mind if I do.

After pulling into the yard, seeing a house, and being terrified I was in the wrong place and just chilling in a stranger's driveway, I found the yurt behind the garage, parked, and strolled into the round tent that I soon wanted to be my permanent home rather than just a passing lodging.

Interior of the yurt

Even though it was a cold, cloudy, and drizzly fall day, the pellet stove kept the yurt nice and toasty. I set up at the table next to the window and worked on a couple of Monster Shorts while staring out the window and enjoying the calm. This was the first time I had spent the night away from my apartment, alone, all year and it did wonders for my peace of mind.

View off the back porch

I spent a few hours working, drove into Kearney for the writers group meet, hung out with Puffy for a bit and then went back to the yurt to crash. I woke up early the next morning to work some more, enjoying some hot tea and crackers that were there for guests. 

All the while, wishing I had booked a second night at the yurt. Before I even left, I promised myself that I would be back to spend a couple of nights when I had the opportunity.

For any who don't know, Gibbon is right in the migration path of Sandhill Cranes and millions stop in the area every spring for mating before moving on. Terry said she had built the yurt in the fall of 2019 to be ready for the crane season of 2020, only to have the pandemic bring it to a screeching halt before it really got going.

Crane poster

 If you're looking for a nice quiet place to spend some time with nature in the Kearney area, I 100% recommend the Dancing Crane Writing Center. 

Find their Airbnb page here. They also have a Facebook page.

Bathroom and cool barn door

Bed and wardrobe

Desk and map

Close-up: Nebraska Literary Map

Pellet stove

Super cool chair and ottoman

Door to the porch with cool curtain. Got some Jr High vibes from it.
Anybody else have a beaded curtain when you were younger?

Kitchen area hutch


Kitchen area sink and island

Awesome front door

Seating area in the center of the yurt

Crane picture and mobile

Crane tapestry

Prayer to Saint Veronica next to the door

Terry said during migration season, this whole field is full of cranes

Quarantine Monster Short: Yule Cat

The night of Christmas Eve was the dominion of Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat. The massive shadow cat would travel village to village, devouring any child who had not received new clothes for Christmas, a sure sign they were naughty throughout the year.

Picture by PBS, found on Bored Panda

This year was a little different. Because of the sickness spreading through the human world, nobody was going out. They were spending all of their time home in their most comfortable clothes so there was no need to buy new ones.

By the eighth village, Jóla, the Yule Cat, could barely move. It had eaten so many children that it had completely lost the taste for them. The thought of even seeing another child made it nauseated. It didn’t want to come near another one until next Yule, and it wasn’t even sure if that was far enough away.

Disheartened, Jóla laid down in the grass on the side of the road, unwilling to even enter the next town to wreak its traditional punishment on the children who had been naughty. Jóla was just falling into a doze when one of the Yule Lads raced by, causing a ruckus. Jóla opened one eye to glare at him and he stopped.

“Jóla! Why are you sleeping in the grass? You are supposed to be eating all of the children who were naughty and did not get new clothes. Christmas Eve is for the Yule Cat!”

Jóla grimaced at his loud voice and jovial laugh. It just wanted to sleep until it wasn’t so full.

“Jóla!”

The Yule Cat’s ears flattened as it opened both eyes to glare at the Lad. “I am too full to move. I cannot eat any more children. They will have to go unpunished this year.”

The Yule Lad rubbed his chin, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “There are other ways to punish children.”

Jóla raised its head. “What do you mean?”

The Yule Lad grinned. “You can play tricks on them like my brothers and I do! Come, help me. I will play tricks on the adults and you can punish the naughty children!”

Jóla was beginning to like the sound of tricks. It sat up and gave the Lad its full attention. “What kind of tricks?”

The Yule Lad shrugged. “Lots of things. I like hiding their possessions, putting potatoes in shoes, tying their sheets into knots, opening their paddock gates so their animals escape, things like that.”

Jóla’s head drooped a little. “I can’t do any of that. I don’t have hands.”

The Yule Lad shook his head. “You can do other things! Like knock stuff over, push things under their beds, nudge windows open.”

Jóla jumped to its feet. “I will do it! Let us go!”

The Yule Lad took off running for the next town, Jóla jogging along behind him.

The Yule Cat was the size of a house so while the Yule Lad could creep in through windows and doors, Jóla had to use magic to enter without tearing down the whole building.

At the first house, Jóla put its head through the wall to look around for something it could do. It knocked over a glass of water and nudged a single shoe under the bed. In the next house, it ripped up the curtains with its claws and pushed a bunch of things off a table.

It chewed on books, shredded newspapers, scratched furniture, shed on the rugs, yowled loudly, and knocked over anything it could find.

Jóla began to enjoy itself. It wondered why it had not thought of playing tricks centuries ago. It still ate one or two children in each village to keep its reputation, but it spent most of the night thinking of better and different tricks to play.

In one especially naughty child’s bedroom, Jóla managed to cough up a hairball the size of a grown adult. That would surely keep the child in line in the coming year.

At the last house before dawn on Christmas morning, Jóla tried to think of something new to do. It was a large town and it had done most of its tricks two or three times already and wanted to do something special.

“Hurry, Jóla! The sun is rising!” The Yule Lad yelled as he skipped out of town.

Jóla thought for a few more seconds, then its face split into a giant grin. It carefully nudged the bed with the sleeping child around so it was against the opposite wall, then disappeared into the fading darkness.

The Yule Cat could not wait for next Christmas Eve.

I Got Covid

Sunday, November 8th was a hot, windy day, reminiscent of a Nebraska August, not November. My windows were open, my cheap ass not wanting to turn the air conditioner on. The weather reports said a cold front was moving in that night.

All of this is important, trust me.

I woke up with a headache and thought my head was going to explode considering the amount of sinus pressure I had going on. I stopped taking my allergy meds two months earlier when I ran out so I figured I’d just suffer through the day and if they didn’t go away with the cold front, I’d get more meds on my way to work. I was also super sore all over. I chalked it up to the cold front and me being old. Weather changes always made my knees ache, what’s a few more sore body parts?

I didn’t really feel better Monday morning but I was still thinking it was just a bad case of allergies, maybe a sinus infection if I was unlucky. Went to work and carried on like normal.

Still felt crappy Tuesday morning when I woke up so I stopped on my way to work and got some allergy meds and a thermometer. In the age of Covid, you can’t be too careful. Come lunch time, I noticed I couldn’t really taste my Cheetos but I could taste my sandwich without a problem so I figured it was just because I was stuffed up. Got home from work and decided to make sausage, potato, and cabbage soup.

Because soup fixes everything.

I realized when I was cooking the sausage that I couldn’t really smell it. I also couldn’t taste the sausage I tried.

Oh. No.

I checked with Test Nebraska and the soonest I could get tested was Friday. I emailed my boss letting her know that I’ve been feeling sick and I just lost taste and smell and that I couldn’t get tested until Friday. What did she want me to do?

She emailed me back that I could get the rapid testing done at work. She added the HR gal in charge of testing in on the email and she got me set up with an appointment 9am Wednesday morning. I’d go straight to the testing, wait in my car until I heard back, then we’d go from there.

Y’all, I had the original testing done earlier in the year where they basically tickle your brain through your nose. I can’t tell you which one is worse. The rapid test I did, she vigorously swirled the swab around at the back of my nose in one nostril, then did the same thing in the second. I had tears in my eyes and the need to itch inside my face.

The nurse said my results would be done within the hour so I drove over to the garage under my building and waited. 20 minutes later, she called and she didn’t even have to say the words and I knew.

“Hi Katherine? This is Jane from the rapid test… I’m sorry, you tested positive.”

I sighed, thanked her for letting me know, hung up, and burst into tears. Once I could see again, I started letting everybody know. Texted my family and my best friend. Texted the people I spent a few hours with the day before my symptoms showed up. Emailed my boss and the higher ups at work to let them know my results. Texted two of my coworkers.

Everybody was so kind. My coworkers packed up my desk and brought my equipment to the garage so I could work from home during my quarantine. My friends and family immediately asked me what I needed and if they could drop anything off for me. My heath-nut sister (I say that with love) started doing research and found a bunch of things that I could do that might help stave off the worst of the symptoms. And then she sent me a bunch of stuff to keep me well supplied in the two weeks I’d be locked up.

It was one of the darkest times in my life and my loved ones rallied to let me know I wasn’t alone.

At some point during my isolation, I decided I
wanted a dragon onesie so I ordered one. It doesn’t
quite fit but it was good enough for a picture

I ended up getting the whole laundry list of symptoms: head and chest congestion, head ache, severe tiredness/lethargy, abdominal cramping and diarrhea, joint pain, loss of taste and smell, loss of appetite; but I never did get a fever.

Some things to not eat when you can’t taste:
· Scrambled eggs
· Yogurt
· Peanut butter
· McNuggets (the crunchy outside was delightful, the gooey breading between the crunchy and the chicken was repulsive)

Things to eat when you can’t taste:
· Toast
· Soup
· Things you don’t like but are good for you (for me, it was the seaweed in miso soup)

Thankfully most of the symptoms are gone now (my taste and smell are still pretty spotty but gradually coming back) and life has somewhat returned to pre-isolation state.

My whole office went work from home the day after my positive results. My work friends blame me, which probably isn’t totally off base.

I managed to work the whole time I was sick (I did take a day off to rest), which is not something I recommend. There were 2-3 days that the only time I was awake was when I was at my desk and I probably should have just let myself sleep and heal.

I had about 8-9 days of actually feeling horrible before it started getting better, think the worst flu you’ve ever had and add like 12%. The first time I washed my hair after testing positive, wore me out, like I got winded and dizzy. I had to lean against the shower wall until it went away. That’s how much it took me out.

I still don’t know where or how I got it. Apparently, severity of symptoms can indicate amount of exposure and since mine was a mild/moderate case, I’d say I got it from random contact, either at work or my apartment building since I don’t go anywhere else.

I was doing things right. I wore my mask all day at work (except when was eating or talking on the phone) and anytime I went into a business, I washed my hands or used sanitizer, I avoided large groups and limited the places I went, and I still got it.

I was exceptionally lucky. It could have been so much worse and I pray for those people who were not as lucky as I was.

I’m not going to sugar coat it. It sucked. Really bad.

Wear a damn mask and wash your damn hands.

Going MIA

 I fell off the face of the earth.

I mean, not really, but it sure has felt like that the last couple of months. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s kind of a dumpster fire out there.

I wish I had a great reason like I was kidnapped by Somali pirates while sailing on a yacht worth more than most countries’ GNP and the UN just negotiated my release.

Or I became a long-haul trucker.

Alas, neither is true. Life just got the better of me… and I signed up for Hulu.

Some things that have happened since my last post in September:

1)      Ate in a restaurant for the first time since March

2)      Visited my family for Labor Day

3)      Broke my car a couple of times

4)      Judged entries for an anthology

5)      Had two short stories accepted for an anthology

6)      Had a short story rejected by a magazine

7)      Read/listened to a bunch of books

8)      Learned a whole bunch about death, dead bodies, and the American death industry

9)      The high school speech team I help with started back up

10)  Stayed in a Yurt

11)  Drank far too much wine with my sister and bestie on Halloween

12)  Got Covid and had to quarantine for 2 weeks

13)  Spent Thanksgiving alone

14)  Discovered the Mandalorian

15)  Made a flat Christmas tree out of an inverted trellis, garland, and lights

It's a bit scruffy and only half the lights work
but it turned out better than I expected with
my limited craft skills

That seems like a lot of stuff to be doing during a global pandemic but I’ll remind you, that’s over 2 months and most of that stuff can be done from the comfort of my apartment. Man, are we all getting our money’s worth out of our rent/mortgage this year.

I’ll go more into some/most of these in individual posts, just wanted to let you all know that I’m still alive.

Latin mass but not in the good way

When I was a senior in high school, my dad got a job with a company that sent him to manage a hog farm in O’Neill, NE, over two hours from where we lived. So he got a tiny apartment to live in during the week and come home on the weekends.

To some, this might seem weird, but he had been traveling with his previous work weekly for years, getting home late Thursday or Friday, so it had become normal for us.

One weekend, my mom and I decided to drive up and spend the weekend with him in O’Neill. I think there were some sort of city festivities going on to make the trip a bit more exciting. One thing my parents were interested in was attending the Latin mass that was going on that weekend.

For me, growing up in the Catholic Church well after the Second Vatican Council, or Vatican II, (the conclave that changed mass from the traditional Latin to the language of the country where it was happening, it changed a bunch of other things, too, but that’s the one that matters to this story), I was excited to experience mass how it was when my parents were children.

Dad spent the morning before mass telling stories about being an altar boy and stumbling his way through mass in a language he didn’t understand. They had cheat cards for the altar boys so they knew when to respond and what to say until they got a new priest at their church who was old school and did away with the cards, demanding the altar boys learn the responses without assistance.

Since it was vacation, I didn’t bring my regular church clothes with me. Or maybe I just didn’t bring a nice coat. All I remember about my attire is that I was wearing pants and a bright yellow Wayne State College hoodie because it was still chilly in the mornings. We rolled up to the old, white church that looked like nearly every other country church built at the end of the last century. We noticed most of the men wore suits, or at least ties, and most of the women were wearing hats.

Strange but not alarming.

Until we got inside.

All of the women were wearing dresses or skirts and those who weren’t wearing hats had a scarf, handkerchief, or lacy thing on their heads.

This wasn’t just a special mass in Latin for the city festivities. This was an actual traditional Catholic Latin mass by a parish that didn’t recognize Vatican II.

For those who don’t know, it used to be required for women to cover their heads while in church. I’m not sure of the reason because this was well before me, nor do I know when that was done away with. It might’ve been also at Vatican II or just gradually went away. I have seen some women who keep to the tradition but it is largely not done anymore.

I have never felt more out of place at a Catholic mass before, and I’ve been to one in Mexico in gym shorts and a sweaty tee-shirt after touring Mexico City all day in June.

Dad worried the collar of his button-down shirt, wishing he had worn a tie, meanwhile mom and I sat there in pants with heads uncovered, me in my bright yellow hoodie. Dad suggested I put the hood up so my head was at least covered. I didn’t. I thought that would make me more obvious than keeping it down. Plus, Mom would still be bareheaded and we gotta stick together.

Dad was the only one of us who went up for communion since he was the only one “properly” dressed, but we made it through without being struck by lightning or glared at.

To be honest, I didn’t look around at the other petitioners so I don’t know if we got glared at or not. I just tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while looking like a traffic cone and avoiding eye contact.

Overall, it was an experience I’m glad to have had. I learned a bit more about the church I grew up in and what mass looked like when my parents were kids. After Vatican II, most churches pulled out the huge ornate altars that filled the front of the church because mass was to be more inclusive for the congregation (another reason for the language change). Now, the priest spends less time facing the altar and more time facing the parishioners and there's no need for the fancy when simple would do.

Super fancy altar

  

Simple altar of a modern church

I’m all for new experiences, but I usually like to be better prepared for them. Since our little adventure in the traditional church, I’ve learned that in a pinch, a tissue and a bobby pin make a great head covering when nothing else could be found, so do with that what you will.

Author’s note: If I’m wrong about any of the Vatican II stuff, please forgive me, I’m doing basically zero research and going off my spotty knowledge.

Rough Morning

I had a rough morning Wednesday.

Horrible cramps woke me up at 2:30 which is always pleasant. Ladies, you can attest. Once I finally fell back to sleep, I snoozed my alarms so much that I woke up a half an hour later than I usually do. That’s fine, still enough time to make it to work by 7. Left my apartment about six minutes later than I usually do but still in good shape.

Alfred, the day I got him and set off a
whole stream of mechanics visits

Got into Alfred, my car, and turned the key in the ignition.

Click.

Noooooo.

I turned the key again.

Click.

Took the key out, prayed to the car gods, and tried again.

Click. 

The lights on my dashboard came on, the alert messages scrolled through all their possibilities, the dome light was on, but the radio wasn’t working.

I cussed a few times, gathered up my stuff, and headed back into my apartment to figure out what to do next.

First thing: email my boss to let her know I would be late, if I made it at all.

Second thing: call Dad.

Yeah, I am a 34-year-old grown-ass woman whose first thought when shit goes sideways is to call her father. I’m not ashamed.

His response: “I can’t do anything about that.”

Me: “I know, just tell me what to do.”

I rolled through all of Alfred’s symptoms, all the while praying it was just the battery because I figured any other answer was going to be super expensive to fix.

He asked if the car was in park. Considering I’ve turned my car off without it being in park exactly twice before (shut up, it was years ago and I was young and dumb), I was hoping that was the answer. I went out and checked. No, that wasn’t the answer, car was in park. He suggested I try starting the car in neutral. No idea what that would do but Dad said to try it so I tried it. Didn’t help.

His diagnosis was that the battery was dead (thank goodness!). His advice: call AAA to get a jump and take it to Auto Zone, O’Reilly’s, or someplace like that and get a new one.

I checked opening times and every place opened at 7:30 am. At this point, it was 7:10 am and I decided to wait and call places to make sure they’d install the battery for me and how long it would take. I also researched battery prices to see how much this latest episode of Alfred breaking would cost.

7:35 arrived and I called the closest place, Auto Zone. Yes, they would install the battery for me and it would only take 10-15 minutes.

“Perfect! I’ll call AAA for a jump and be right there.”

Thank you, Mom, for the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

Called AAA, the helpful lady said somebody would be out to me by 9:20 to help. Odd time but I’ll take it.

I wandered around my apartment for 20 minutes, trying to decide what to do to kill the 1.5 hours I had when my phone rang. It was the AAA service guy. He asked some additional questions about what my car was doing, I rolled through the symptoms again, and he said he’d be there in 15 minutes.

Hooray!

It was 8:00 by this time. I was an hour late for work, my anxiety was at an 11, and I was still praying to the car gods that it was just the battery. I texted my coworkers to let them know the situation and I killed the rest of the time by terrorizing Toothless and stalking the service guy on the GPS map they texted me.

When he was two minutes away, I gathered up my purse, lunch bag, and mask and headed out to my car. I popped the hood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The crappy thing about living in an apartment complex is that GPS always takes people to the wrong entrance and they get lost, never to be seen or heard from again.

When I was beginning to despair of ever seeing the service guy, he finally pulled up, dug out all his gadgets, and got to work. I tried to be cool but one way I control my anxiety is by getting as much information as I can so, I asked as many questions about what he was doing and battery stuff in general as I dared. He was super nice and answered my questions, offered advice, and gave great battery post cleaning tips. (You can use Coke to clean the corrosion off your battery posts but don’t do that in the summer or you’ll get ants.)

My battery was in fact dead. It had a bad cell and that wouldn’t allow the starter to function. He offered to install a new battery for me for free, I’d just pay for the battery.

Did you know that AAA service people carry extra batteries in their trucks and will install them for you?? I had no idea. I wished I knew before Wednesday morning. I would’ve called them as soon as I hung up with my dad instead of wasting almost an hour for stores to open.

Yes, please and thank you. Put that sucker in there and save me a stop at Auto Zone.

So, he scrubbed the corrosion off the wires that connect to the battery with a wire brush, pulled out the old battery, and dropped a new one in there. He got everything hooked back up and told me to try to start up the car.

Click.

Nooooooo.

He looked around at the engine, trying to find the answer. Messed with the wires connecting to the battery a bit then told me to try it again.

Click.

“That’s the starter.”

My heart, my stomach, and my spleen dropped into my shoes at the three words I was hoping to not hear.

I sputtered out “You’re thinking my starter is bad, too?”

Him: “It sounds like it’s not turning over but even if it was going out, it should still start with a brand new battery.”

I was picking up what he was putting down. My old car, St. Jude, named after the patron saint of lost causes and desperate cases (the car was well named), had a bad starter that wrecked a new battery the day before Thanksgiving. In the snow. Good times.

If you don’t know, I have terrible luck with cars. Some is my own damn fault (RIP Minerva) but a lot of it is just bad circumstances. I’ve very familiar with cars not starting, cars just randomly stopping on the road, flat tires, blown tires, and the check engine light.

He pulled a can of something out of his truck and removed the wires on the battery, sprayed the posts and the wires with the stuff, then connected it all again.

“Give it another try.”

One more prayer to the car gods and I turned the key.

IT’S ALIVE!!!

Words tripped over themselves as I tried to express my gratitude to this car wizard and his magic spray can.

I then confirmed that the starter is, in fact, not bad, it was just a connection thing and he reassured me that I’m good to go.

I paid the good man, thanked him a million more times, texted my coworkers to let them know that I was headed to work, and set off.

Pulling out of my apartment parking lot, Alfred let me know that my left rear tire was low on air.

That’s it, ya’ll. I’m marrying a mechanic.