Counterproductive

Lately I've noticed that half my wardrobe I can't even fasten up any more. I have neither the time, money, nor desire to replace it, so I must lose some weight. Not a prodigious amount-- fifteen pounds would do it; even ten would go far towards solving the problem.

So about two weeks ago I began, and thanks to some simple measures like not eating after 9:00 PM and taking an omega blood sugar formula and not buttering my toast I'm already down four pounds or so.

But now comes an interruption that which threatens to stop and reverse my progress, a catastrophe involving falling plaster and an unexpected setback in my house renovations. This leads to nerves, which generates excess adrenalin and crashing blood sugar, which means I want to eat something, anything, NOW, even if I had a meal only an hour or two ago. And I can't think straight until I have.

Not good, especially since being too fat will keep me from squeezing around the ladder on the stairs.

I'll try stuffing my face with lettuce from the garden. I'm not too optimistic that'll do the trick, but we'll see.

Car-nal Knowledge

First thing this morning, I was heading southbound down the two-lane highway, literally on my way to do the Lord's work. The day was dark, cold, and wet and the road was twisty and hilly through field and forest, moor and mountain-- oops! not time for the second hymn yet, is it? Google Maps had told me it was going to take over an hour to do the twenty-nine miles to the first church where I was to preach, but I was trying to cut that down a bit-- while keeping an eye on road conditions, of course, and watching out for Deer With Attitude.

Two miles or so from my destination, I'd emerged from the hills into the flats. I was making good time, the day was beginning to open up, and all was well.

Until I rounded a lefthand bend. And the front end of my PT Cruiser took a sudden fancy to keep heading left. On the straightaway.

Hey! Did I just cross the center line? Oops, 'fraid so! All right, stay cool-- crank the wheel-crank the wheel-crank the wheel-I can do this, I can pull it out, keep cranking-crank-crank-crank! Oh, damn, which way am I supposed to crank the wheel? I'm turning it right-right-right, but it doesn't seem to be doing a heck of a lot of good, is that why I'm still sliding across the--empty, thank God!--northbound lane, closer and closer to the-- dammit, don't want to hit-- keep turning the wheel, keep turning the wheel, keep the car away from the-- bamm! guardrail.

I did not intend to be introduced to any guardrails this morning. I especially did not intend to experience intimate knowledge of any.

So much for my plans. Thank you, Mr. Black Ice's Matchmaking Service.

It was my left fender and the left corner of my bumper that left a token of paint and broken parts on the unfeeling, uncaring galvanized railing. That's some consolation. Head-on would have been a lot nastier.

So there I was. Stopped, at least. On the shoulder and not down into the field, which was a blessing. Shut off the engine and tried opening my door. No go. Call the cops? Triple-A?

No. I had a service to lead and preach in twenty-five minutes. And no contact number at the church to let anyone know if I'd be late.

So I wouldn't be late, if I and my car could help it. Would it restart?

Yes.

Would it disengage itself from the guardrail's steely embrace?

Yes.

So eager-- anxious-- was I to prove this that I did not get out and take any pictures of the Carnal Act itself. Souvenir shots waited till I'd carefully driven back across the road and parked the car on the southbound shoulder. I gingerly climbed over the stickshift and handbrake, and getting out by way of the passenger door, went around to document the damage.

How damnable the damage is, I'll have to find out. I really, really, really would prefer not to turn this in to my insurance . . . I was just five months away from getting out from under the three-year penalty from a previous accident, and I do not want my rates to go up, no I do not . . .

But I know what I'll be doing tomorrow . . .

Me? I feel fine, mostly. A little pain in my lower back. But how much of that is the bump on the highway, and how much of it was standing in the pulpit with my fallen arches in dress shoes for two services, with no worship leaders to assist so I could sit down occasionally? Not to mention wandering around the mall checking out the sales until 4:00 PM afterwards! In those same shoes!

After the second service at the second church, I drove again, more carefully and more slowly, along that fateful stretch of road, casting an eye over to the side to see if I could tell where I'd hit, maybe by token of a bright red piece of plastic bumper at the guardrail's feet.

I saw nothing. Nary a trace. Teach me to have any more casual encounters with guardrails! They're all Come 'ere, Sweetie, but once they've got you they leave you bruised and battered and won't even cherish the little gifts you leave behind!

Ow! Ow! Ow!

For the past few months, some little bubbles have been appearing around my back left wheelwell of my lovely bright red PT Cruiser. I know it'll cost a fortune to fix, so I stare at it and refuse to accept the implications and let it go.

A couple months ago, some charming person in a vehicle with a high bumper, backed into my car while it was parked, pushing in my front grille and chipping paint off it. But I can't afford to fix it and whoever it was hit it squarely and anyway, it's made of plastic and won't rust. So until I can come up with the cash, I detach and let it go.

But this afternoon I was out running some errands, and came back to my Ddraig Goch Fach (Little Red Dragon) to find this!!

What the bugger!!??

Gouged to the metal on the top of the fender! and rubber residue all over the fender's side!

I think I know what happened. Last night, between 11:00 and midnight, I heard noises outside, like a bell jingling and sort of like a car door shutting, but not exactly. My dog began to bark, and I got up and looked out my upper storey window. All I could see in the darkness was what looked like the side wheel reflector of a bicycle suddenly appearing, almost as if it had just been turned on, then rolling, rolling leftward down the street.

I didn't think anything of it then. Thought the bike was across the street. But today I can see it all: Riding with no lights. Bike tire hits and scrapes the side of my fender. Handlebar digs into its top. Blasted cyclist picks himself up and rides off under cloak of darkness, may his/her conscience eat him!

This afternoon, once this ghastly sight blasted mine eyes, I did not pass go, I did not collect $200, no, I drove directly to the body shop that did the repairs for me in May 2006 after I had a minor dispute with another driver over who should occupy a certain space on a local city street. Estimator came out and looked at the latest damage. Estimator sat at his desk writing it up. I sat there, waiting, feeling I was about to cry. I couldn't detach this time. Damn, they've injured my pretty car!

And getting this fixed is not going to be cheap. I don't dare submit it to my insurance: my rates are finally starting to come back down after the 2006 contretemps.





















Ow! ow! All I can do at the moment is dab on touch up paint to cover the bare metal and keep the rain out. It looks scabby and terrible. But it can't be helped. I have to let it go, will I or nil I.

But I don't have to be happy or detached about it. My poor Little Red Dragon! Owwww!!