Life Is Such A Sweet Insanity.

I found myself in a bit of a quandary this morning. As I tried to grab a few more moments of shut-eye and an incredibly fun dream I was having, I had a bedmate of the feline persuasion thinking differently of the situation. He chattered and chirped and ran around the bed like a maniac. I pushed him away a few times, he persisted. When that didn’t work, he jumped off the bed and then back onto the bed by leaping onto my back from the floor.

I now have a cat scratch across my back.

Our beloved son is tipping 14 years old and has all the energy of a cat less than half that age. How in the world do I train him when Daddy is sleeping not to go crazy? I suppose I could lock him out of the bedroom but then all I would hear is the destruction of the bedroom door.

In the meantime, I’m an obedient adult and I get the tuna out of the cupboard and into the dish on cue.

I decided to do a little sprucing up around the site today. If you’re not using an RSS reader, you’ve probably noticed that the appearance of the site has changed drastically. I decided to go with something a little more neutral. I think it’s a little easier on the eyes.

Speaking of eyes, it seems that something has irritated the hell out of my right eye. It’s not swollen or anything but it is quite red. Throughout the day I found this makes people a little nervous. I heard a lot of this: “Do you have pink eye?”  I’d laugh manically and give them the evil eye with the red eye. “YES! YES! You’re going to catch it by looking at it!” and then I’d laugh like a loon again. I’ve had pink eye before. It’s how I celebrated my 13th birthday. It was swollen and itchy and red (well, it was more than pink) and it made everyone nervous. To make the occasion more joyous my parents took me to an airshow in the ‘burg of Weedsport where EVERYONE could see my pink eye. They asked questions, lots of questions. A woman named Trix (don’t call her Trixie) thought she’d catch it by gazing into my pink eye. I don’t think she did. Nevertheless, this eye irritation is nowhere near what that felt like so I’m not sweating it. I’m pretty sure I had something stuck in my eye last night when I went to bed and it just made it’s mark while I was sleeping. If it doesn’t go away in a day or two, I might consider medical treatment. 

I’m sitting at an auto service center. It’s one of the few of such establishments that I trust. I’ll walk into a downright filthy diner and slurp down some chow but I won’t think of bringing my vehicle to a garage that doesn’t meet my personal gold standards. These guys are good. I trust them.

I’ve just handed the keys to my Acura over to a service man who I have to admit is quite woofy (I tend to notice these things). It’s time for an oil change, tire rotation and yearly inspection (for the car, not for me). It’s difficult for me to hand the keys to my beloved vehicle over to another person regardless how much I trust them; I’ve only let a handful of people drive my car and Earl is the only one that has been trusted to repeat the experience. I’d let my sister drive my car again. She has the same zest I have behind the wheel.

Some folks find it surprising how much I love my car. On the flip side I don’t understand how someone could not love their car. I do not get the whole “it’s only a car” mentality. My car is an extension of my body when I’m behind the wheel. It’s not a car, it’s a friend. We’ve had good times together.

One of these days I’ll get around to changing my own oil and doing my own maintenance again. It’s an exercise that I enjoy. Earl and I were only a month or two into our relationship when I drove my Hyundai into the garage and changed the plugs and wires, changed the oil and did other maintenance while he watched. I don’t think he expected that from me. I was fortunate growing up; one of my best friends was the youngest of an auto mechanic that owned a junk yard. Like his father, he could get an engine started while it was still sitting on the floor of the garage. The inhalation of exhaust fumes probably kept me away from the drugs. That could explain a lot. We spent hours and hours rebuilding the engine in his ’69 Dodge pickup. He also helped out when my Dad and I moved the engine from my ’74 Chevy Vega to my ’76 Pontiac Astre.

Now that’s a car for a young driver: a 1974 Chevy Vega. It reached 55 in no less than five minutes, wouldn’t start unless you had your seat belt on and you could see and hear the rust do it’s work on the top side of the fenders.

I still loved it though.