On how my broken-down car will only work as an excuse for so long

So yesterday I had big plans - BIG PLANS - to do another Saturday 10+-miler, but I was severely deflated when, driving home from Eastport, my car started to sputter as if it were out of gas (a feeling with which I'm all too familiar), but the tank was nearly full. None of the warning lights were on and, though I could use an oil change, it wasn't crucial. Right before I reached the reservation where I work, the car totally gave out on me, and I sailed over to the shoulder. I believe all of my hype about how great my car had been jinxed it. Don't ever count on anything; I, of all people, should know that, where automotive dependability is concerned. Fortunately, I now have a cell phone (thanks to a summer break-down in downtown Boston during the height of Red Sox game traffic that put me over the edge and up to the counter of an Amesbury, MA Verizon store. I'd gotten lucky that time, but knew that I wasn't going to have the luxury of a Cornwall's Pub telephone should things go awry on the barren and deserted Route 9 in Maine). So I broke out the celly and called up my buddy Alice (the woman who'd vetoed my there-and-back ski trip for a snow shovel), who was out to get me in under eight minutes (we need to work on that. It should've taken 4 minutes, max). We ran by the Mobil station to get some dry gas to see if that wouldn't solve the problem. There'd been a bit of rain the night before, and in my experience with both of my '94 vehicles, they don't fare well with the excess moisture. Dry gas was a no-go so Alice, for the second time in just over a year, loaned me her Ford Taurus. Now I can drive incognito for a few days.

While driving home, the light, spitting rain changed to a violent freezing rain, which then turned to heavy, wet snow. All in a period of five minutes. The weather up here really wigs me out. Needless to say, there was no way I was going out running in that mess. It was established long ago that I'm a fair-weather runner - no denying it. I got home, called my trusty mechanic, Bruce, and arranged to have him tow it back to his shop. He swung by to get my key as I was out attempting to uncover my mailbox from the snowbank (a botched job; the shovel I found appeared to be made of aluminum foil and was worthless for hacking into the ice). Anyway, Bruce is the best. He's quick, a man of few words, he's cheap, and I'd be willing to bet that he'd have towed my car even when it was nearly stranded in Beantown (for those of you wondering, the incident there in August was rectified when the WV, as my cars are wont to do, rallied and got me safely back to the Gulf of Maine the next day, hence the nickname, "The German Prize-Fighter." Lesson learned with that one: Never buy a car off of craigslist from a dude from Manchester, New Hampshire, with a labret piercing. That right there should've sent me heading for the hills, but at the time I was desperate. Will I ever buy a Jetta again? Perhaps. I just need to see a headshot of the seller before we spit and shake on anything).

So the car's in the shop, and I come in out of the cold and size up my apartment, which is in a shambles. It was a busy week, and when I'm not here a lot, things pile up. I tackled first the shower, whose walls become stained orange from the high iron content in my water. It looks like animals are butchered in there, but no, it's only where I bath. I with I had a before-and-after shot to give the full effect, but I don't. Comet is a wonderful cleaning agent, and costs less than a dollar. I'm certainly not advocating raising the price, but the current state of my shower might make a good argument. Stuff is a force with which to be reckoned. Then I hit the dishes that were tumbling out of my sink, did a load of laundry, vacuumed, peered out the window to blue skies that looked promising for an afternoon run, but thought the better of it when I realized how freezing cold it was. Guess what? Running in the cold is for the birds. I sat myself down on my new coffee table and commenced pickin' and playin' a few tunes to warm up for my 4 o'clock jam session with a few friends in Eastport (we did a shockingly good rendition of 'Summer of '69', courtesy of 13 year-old Francis. I was embarrassed at first, but ended up really enjoying it. I'm brushing up for next week on the few lyrics I didn't already know).

Today I made of for what I was lacking in cardiovascular activity in vigorous stirring and kneading, making bread. The first two loaves didn't work out (freezing yeast=bad idea jeans. Totally accidental. Terribly sensitive refrigeration system I have. And I was worried it was the smoke from the burning towel I'd used to cover the rising dough...). But the final loaf was a quickbread, and was thus not influenced by the ruined yeast. The aroma of the Dutch apple streusel bread baking in the oven is heavenly, and I feel like something finally went right today. I'll test it out tomorrow after a yummy dinner. Today's snow storm wasn't much; I cannot hope for a snow day tomorrow, so for the remainder of the evening, I'm content being seduced by the French new wave - Jules et Jim is a delightful little film.

Bonne nuit, tout le monde!