Guess who’s now parking at the far end of the lot so nobody will ding his precious new baby

Guess who’s now anthropomorphizing his mighty new car as a helpless infant.

Guess who’s been at the gym for half an hour and already fallen in love seven times.

Guess who just took more than 10 gym selfies in an attempt to find one that’s suitable for public display.

Guess whose super-cute Wolverine shirt keeps riding up over his bloated dad belly like he’s a turgid dirigible.

GUESS WHO CLAIMS TURGID DIRIGIBLE AS A BAND NAME.

NEW RULES:

When I pay a hella lot of money THAT YOU BARELY NEGOTIATE ON to buy a sexy new Kia Forte 2020 from you [JUST LOOK AT THIS SEXY INTERIOR! CAN YOU BLAME ME FOR BUYING IT? NO, YOU CAN'T.], you owe me two things:

1. A bag to put all the stuff from my old car in when I do a final sweep of its contents. Seriously. Why isn't this a standard thing you do when you sell a car? I can't be the first person ever who needed a small bag for the crap in my glove compartment when I traded in my old car for a new one from you.

2. A final sweep of your own through my old car to find things I overlooked. Like my damn garage-door opener. Seriously. Why isn't this a standard thing you do when you sell a car? I can't be the first person ever who accidentally left a garage-door opener in my old car when I traded it in for a new one from you. And now you have to wait around tonight for me to pick it up after work. How is this efficient for either of us?

BUT LOOK AT THIS SEXY INTERIOR, PEOPLE! I WOULD NEVER LEAVE THIS CAR IF I DIDN'T HAVE TO GO TO WORK ON OCCASION TO PAY FOR IT.

Look at this pretty tree!

WAIT—is that my awesome new car under it? How on earth did it get in this photo? DID I MENTION I HAVE AN AWESOME NEW CAR?

I haven’t had a car payment in 15 years. BUT I DO NOW!

The transmission in my trusty silver 2004 Kia Spectra started feeling a bit iffy this week. And the rust spots over the rear tires were growing so big they’d been issued their own ZIP code.

So my sister—my sweet, sweet sister who turns into a take-no-prisoners pit bull when she buys a car—and I headed out this morning JUST TO LOOK at cars ... and five hours later I came home with a shiny new MEGA HIGH TECH black 2020 Kia Forte.

TWENTY. TWENTY. My car is so shiny and new it hasn’t even been built yet.

AND!

Once the car was all mine and I started it and turned on my shiny new SXM Broadway channel to accompany my first official drive in my shiny new car, SXM WAS PLAYING XANADU, which as we all know is the best show ever.

IT. WAS. ALL. FORETOLD.

HOW TO ADULT:

1. Get an estimate to have the ugly, bubbly rust on your car repaired
2. Contain your flinching instinct when you get the original ballpark number
3. Head from there to get your oil changed
4. Remember to bring your coupon
5. Refrain from awkwardly flirting with the nerdy straight guy with the ugly shoes in the waiting room
6. Refrain from super-embarrassingly giggling and flipping your hair when you talk to the super-cute guy behind the counter
7. Head from there to the gym for the first time in over two months
8. Make up for all that lost time and all those atrophied muscles in one workout*
9. Sign an international supermodel contract*
10. Read the fine print

* delusions may vary

Fifty Shades of Gray!

OK, Four Shades of Gray. If you count the car. Which I hear is recently paid off. And is named Eleanor. Presumably after the Roosevelt Eleanor. Who also ended up gray. Which takes us all the way up to Five Shades of Gray. Almost there!

Rob and I just ran three miles in our matching shirts. Scott, presumably mortified that we were all tripleting, entered a loop of scampering ahead of us, circling back to us and then scampering ahead again. I think he ended up running 497 miles. He was a rabbit. Which made me Mitch McConnell. Except I rooted for the team that actually won the Civil War. (That was a tortoise-and-hare allusion, in case it was as abstract for you as it was challenging for me to write with any helpful context. Scott was the hare. I was Mitch McConnell’s stupid tortoise face. The rest of Mitch McConnell is a racist, zealously dogmatic, chancre-scarred tortoise butt. But I digress.)

Anyway, it was nice out so we ran because it’ll get hot out again soon and we—or at least I—won’t want to run. So for at least today I’m facing the world feeling athletey and lithe. Even though I run like a turtle butt.

You will be found

There’s only one thing more certain than me taking a selfie when I’m at the gym: me forgetting where I parked my car when I leave the gym. In my defense, EVERYONE at the gym today came in a silver car.

Also: new haircut!

Also: Disney running shirt!

Also: I finally found my car!

First-in-the-morning doctor appointment >

mole scraping > car appointment > three doughnuts while I waited to hear that the car guy couldn’t help me > referral to a different car specialist > estimate and new car appointment set for tomorrow > failed attempt at tying a bow tie in my car > fancy luncheon with lovely people > but first I had to stop in the bathroom and tie my bow tie like a civilized person > nagging headache > more desserts > work > teleconference presentation > untied bow tie because my fat neck was choking in it > still with the nagging headache > return stuff at Target > drop stuff off at Goodwill > drop of bag of expired medications at the police station > yes, that’s a thing > still have a fucking headache > cued lines for an off-book rehearsal > finally home > rakish untied-bow-tie selfie > GODDAMN FUCKING HEADACHE > bed.

Guess who’s probably getting a new battery as soon as AAA comes

At least this time AAA is coming to my nice cozy garage instead of trying to find me and my blown tire along a lonely highway in rural Vinton like last time.

For those of you keeping score at home, that’s two AAA calls in three months, after zero AAA calls in probably a decade.

Also for those of you keeping score at home, it’s been so long since I've had to pop my hood that it took me forever to find the damn hood-poppy thingie.

Remember how I said my knee was sore and it would probably become a problem and I would bitch about it on here when it did?

I AM NOW BITCHING.

We ran about a quarter of a mile this morning before I decided my knee hurt too much for me to push it and maybe make it worse. So thank goodness Scott ran three miles without us yesterday and Rob had car troubles and couldn’t join us this morning so I don’t feel like I wasted anyone’s time and effort.

Well, not thank goodness about Rob’s car troubles; car troubles suck. But thank goodness he wasn’t here; he’s a tedious bore and all he ever talks about is grapes and owls. I mean I’m glad I didn’t cause him an unnecessary drive to join us for what ended up being a two-and-three-quarters-mile walk. That first part was a typo.

Also: I forgot to wear my awesome-o running watch this morning, which undoubtedly contributed to my knee pain. Stupid watch.

Anyway, we took our didn’t-running selfie in front of this cracked, brittle old stick wreath, which is the perfect metaphor for the circle of our friendship. Plus it’s round, so if you squint really hard it kinda looks like a human head, which in turn kinda looks like a semi-plausible maybe-ish stand-in for Rob. Plus if you squint really hard you could also strain your optic nerve, and I’ve always thought Strain Your Optic Nerve would make a great band name. Or not.

Plus ignore that CD that’s tucked in the wreath. It’s filled with high-definition scanned photos for a book I’m editing. Apparently nobody was home when my scanning guy dropped it off. And apparently I forgot to check for it when I knew he was dropping it off. TWO DAYS AGO. I blame my knee.

Stupid knee.

When you’re home alone for the weekend AND YOU GET TO PARK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GARAGE

I’m now in the market for a new car

because as I was driving home from rehearsal tonight I felt a spider land on my ear and a wisp of spider web wrap across my face so I slammed on the brakes in the middle of First Avenue, ran screaming down the street, came back with an industrial-grade blowtorch and set the whole thing on fire.

I’m also now in the market for a new set of skin because I immediately went to a nuclear power plant and had a full-Silkwood scrubdown.

We'll always care

We finally got Scott to be the Deena to our Effie and Lorell! But I think that’s MORE than enough of this Scott-in-the-middle stuff, and we’ll relegate him to the back where he belongs post-haste.

This morning’s three miles were muggy (which I just learned is a mostly Midwestern word that’s our polite way of saying moist), though we felt the illusion of cooling breezes once we were moving through the air. But boy, once we finished running we sure were sweaty and moist. The only real problem we faced on this morning’s run was multiple near-grisly-death experiences; there was apparently a 6:30-am-flash-mob-except-instead-of-the-high-school-drama-department-dancing-to-“Thriller”-in-a-mall-it-was-cars-dispatched-to-encounter-and-almost-not-see-us-at-nearly-every-intersection pride parade. I always give a little thank-you wave to every car that stops for us, but I also always worry that the drivers think I’m self-entitledly hand-yelling at them to STOP YOU SELFISHLY UNSAFE IDIOT BECAUSE WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY and they’ll get to work and talk smack about us to the steno pool. (Dear every driver who ever encounters me at an intersection: I’m pretty sure that I do indeed have the right of way, but you have the giant vehicular-manslaughter machine that would totally win in a game of Intersection Smackdown! against my rippable flesh and brittle bones so I ALWAYS defer to whatever you want to do.)

But where was I? Let’s see: Dreamgirls reference ... moist ... moist again ... gratuitously long compound adjective ... Michael Jackson reference ... talk of grisly death ... gratuitous use of all caps ... antiquated euphemism for a group of secretaries ... parenthetical side note that was not meant for you and you were rude to read it ... what did I forget? Oh, yes: a contextless mention of Rob so he gets included in this rambling post that somehow never got around to mentioning him organically. Because it’s more than Scott. It’s more than me. Whatever miles we run, we are a family.

Beware the Hips of Jake!

I warned these two that though my hip felt 99% better there was still the possibility that running with me wouldn’t get us to the end of the block and I’d have to stop and we’d all have gotten up at 5:30 and picked out our super-cute running outfits for nothing.

Well, shit.

We didn’t even make it half a mile before I had to abort our mission, but they decided to walk with me and we explored the newish paved trail—which is super-awesome—that runs between E Avenue—which is gross and dumpy and needs a tornado and a developer with a vision for a new and brighter utopian, space-needle-like future—and the new Mt. Mercy sports complex—which looks super-awesome but seriously, sports? me?—and we ended up covering 2.8 miles.

And I’ve clearly infected Rob with the selfie virus—which makes him weak and socially pathetic—because he suggested we take a selfie—which again is weak and socially pathetic—before I even thought of suggesting it myself. And that’s alarming. And a first. And say it with me: weak and socially pathetic.

Anyway, here we are—all resisting being in a selfie except Rob, who is making an absolute fool of himself—posing in front of his hyper-macho manly-man testosterrific muscle car, which he has incongruously named Princess Sparklepony. Straight people, amirite?

And I’m left with a re-wrecked hip, which I shall name Rear Admiral I.T. Band McDisappointmemt. Or Getajob Yahippie. Or Bennehip Arnold. Or Nancyhip Toosoon Questionmark McKerrigan. Or Cap’n Hipshit. Or Eleanor. If that name isn’t already taken.

#HowToTurn50 #WhichKindaRhymesWithHippy

My car is now scrubbed and vacuumed and carpet de-spotted and so pristine-as-Wonder-Bread clean that none of you gross dirty people will ever be allowed even to look at it again

Speaking of gross dirty people, I was scrubbing so much grimy-looking black stuff off the knob of my stick shift (oh, stop giggling and grow up) that I’d reluctantly come to the conclusion that my hands are environmentally toxic petroleum-sludge factories ... only to discover to my horror that I’d actually been scrubbing the entire plastic finish off of my knob (I said STOP GIGGLING) and exposing the raw, dense foam underneath, which will now no doubt start crumbling in the sun and heat.

Well, shit.

But! Once I was finished rubbing the hell out of my knob (seriously ... do you people need a time out?) I drove to Iowa Running Company in NewBo to cash in a $10 coupon I had and get some new running shoes. I was fitted for Brooks Adrenaline running shoes 15 years ago because they offered the specific stabilization and gait correction I needed, and they’ve successfully taken me at 100 miles per pair through 7 marathons and 20+ half marathons since then. I’ve loved everything about them ... except their relentless, soul-crushing grayness. Most running shoes come out in exciting new colors each season, but Brooks Adrenalines are always drearily, predictably gray with blue accents, then drearily, predictably gray with another shade of blue accents then drearily, predictably gray with (ladies, hold your children) gray accents. NOT THIS YEAR, THOUGH! I am now living, breathing proof that the world does nothing but get more exciting, because this season’s Brooks Adrenalines are ... enticingly-not-gray black with enticingly sparkly gold accents:

And that’s a shift I can stick with.

It’s time for the annual Clean My Carmageddon!

No stray under-seat french fry will be safe.

How to repair a flat tire:

1. Cancel all your plans for the night.

2. Get up early the next morning and run 2.25 miles with a buddy who totally kicks your butt at a 10:09 pace even though he’d told you he was a slow and unsure runner.
3. Liar.
4. Be one of the first people in line at the Walmart auto center.
5. Find out that your tires are really old (which you kind of already knew) and that your flat tire was beyond repair (which you kind of assumed).
6. Get four all-new tires for way less than you’d mentally budgeted for.
7. Eat heaping piles of sugar and regret at the nearby Hardee’s while you wait for your less-expensive-than-you'd-assumed tires to be installed.
8. Facebook!
9. Pad your list because you want an even 10 and you have plenty of time to get there.
10. Done!
11. Oops.

I’m home safe and sound!

And apparently THIS happened during all the excitement of my day:

Thoughts and prayers, Melanie. Thoughts and prayers.

I hate to be all judgey BUT I’M GONNA BE ALL JUDGEY

because AAA just sent the cast of Deliverance to wordlessly change my tire and start to climb back into its truck with zero interaction with me regarding the inflation level of my spare, how long they recommend I drive on it or anything else related to what I should look out for as I pull back into the highway with the back-right quarter of my car supported by a donut that hasn’t seen the light of day for 14 years. 

AAA, you really suck right now. But I’m heading home. Or into fiery death in a ditch.

Guess who’s parked precariously on the narrow shoulder of a rural highway somewhere north of Vinton IA with a flat tire and a 45-minute wait for AAA

Hint: It’s the gay guy who worked very hard to make sure this flat-tire photo is centered, balanced and artfully composed:

This 45-minute wait has given me plenty of time to cancel my much-looked-forward-to afternoon (sorry!) and evening (also sorry!) plans using my new, non-battery-abruptly-dying phone, though. So there’s that. It’s also given me plenty of time to visit the websites of every tire store in Cedar Rapids to find out that they’re ALL closed Saturday afternoons PLUS all day Sundays. Because there’s no reason to have convenient weekend hours when we all know that car tires go flat and need to be replaced only on weekdays. EXCEPT MINE.

But! AAA and iPhones are a potent car-trouble-fixing combination when you’re parked precariously on the narrow shoulder of a rural highway somewhere north of Vinton IA late on a Saturday afternoon. And I have a full tank of gas and a not-gonna-die-anytime-soon phone battery (plus Facebook!) and I’m as relatively safe as I can be parked precariously on the narrow shoulder of a rural highway somewhere north of Vinton IA, so this unexpected turn of events is more of an adventure-ish setback than a catastrophe.

OH BUT WAIT! Because LITERALLY JUST AS I TYPED THAT LAST SENTENCE, AAA called to tell me it won’t be a 45-minute wait—40 minutes of which have already passed—BUT A THREE-AND-A-HALF-HOUR WAIT.

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Why the fuck do I even *HAVE* AAA if they’re going to suck this bad? And I really have no place to move my car and try to put on my spare by myself IN MY SPORTCOAT AND TIE while I wait.

FUCK.