Beaver Riots and Malevolent Ponies or, a Sunday Wasted

I had intended to do yard work today, as right now my property looks much like the site of an angry beaver riot. I decided against it, though, as no small part of the work that needs doing requires a chain saw.

Anyone who knows me at all knows that the idea of me wielding a chainsaw is simultaneously 1. ridiculous and 2. terrifying. Especially if one were to add, say, a ladder into the mix.

I bought a house because I felt I had something to prove. Finally at 30 I'm beginning to recognize that my need to prove things results, more often than not, in really fucking stupid choices on my part. Emotionally trying and frequently expensive, my "proofs" are what one might call "follies" in someone who was not as stubborn as I. And, you know, if you were the kind of person to use the word "folly" at all. Which I am. Clearly.

Anyway, so now I'm stuck with a house with a really big yard with many trees and their attendant leaves, gumballs, fallen sticks, etc. The only upshot is the squirrels and birds. The leaves I don't mind. I figure if god didn't intend for leaves to lie on the ground, s/he in his/her infinite wisdom would have solved the problem by now. As for the rest of it, I am torn between my natural loathing for outdoor labor and my desire not to have the white trash house on the block. If the weather doesn't completely go to shit, I might just go a-chainsawing next Sunday, Christmas Eve for those of you who keep track of those things. Since I am declining Christmas this year, I'll have the day free. Plus, I will probably have some hositility brewing anyway. What better way to express dissatisfaction than with power tools?

Yes. I should have bought a condo. Next time.

So instead of righting the various wrongs of my yard, I cleaned my car instead.

There are people in this world who, for various reasons, love their cars. Mandy and The Baby, for instance. Then there are the people who treat their car with a certain reverance, as an extenstion of themselves and the image they want to project. My ex-husband. Then, there are the vast majority of people who treat their cars as functional tools. These people regard their cars with a large measure of indifference tempered by a bit of respect or affection. They expect their vehicles to work in a predictable way, and they are usually not disappointed.

Then there are the people like me.

I regard my car in much the same way I expect a carter 200 years ago would have regarded a malevolent pony. I keep waiting for the miserable beast to bite me. Again. My relationship with my car is one of mutual wariness and distrust. I am always waiting for the fucker to randomly stop working. The "Service Engine Soon" light has been on for months. Because earlier this year the bitch spent about a month in and out of the shop in an ultimately futile effort to determine the bit of engine that needed servicing, I am ignoring the light. I figure the only thing that needs servicing is that light, and my proposed solution involves wire snips.

However, the bitchin' Sentra had devolved to the point that even my habitual comfort with a certain amount of chaos and automotive filth was exceeded. It was a serious disaster. And now it is clean. So I feel I accomplished something with my weekend.

Anyway, tonight my friends over at the Tin Ceiling are doing their last night of Flu Season. Wish I could have seen it, guys. I'm sure it was lovely.