Two years ago, I had a slow-leaking tire, so I pulled into McLea's, who had saved me more than once before, and3 hours and $400 later, I was assured I would not need to worry about all 4 of those suckers for a long, long time, or 50,000 miles. Uh huh. Today, I journeyed out into the wilds of east county, into the Valley of the Moon, to give a dear friend a ride in to our favorite meeting, and pulling out of his driveway for the return trip, found one tire almost flat. No cell phone reception. Okay, I risked driving in for a couple of miles to the fire station, where these baby firemen, who couldn't have had a combined age in triple digits, filled me up again so I could drive on. After the meeting, back I went to McLea's, where I sat in the testosterone soaked, rubbery-smelling waiting room for two hours before I got the bad news that the nail that caused the damage got all imbedded in the sidewall during my fear-fraught short drive to the fire station, and although I still had 37,000 miles on my warranty, this damage did not apply. So, $130 and 2 1/2 hours later, I left, all fixed. And I did what I always do. I drove around the corner to Trader Joe's, bought myself a bouquet of flowers and a crunchy salad with chicken and Chinese noodles and peanut dressing, then went home and stuffed my mouth. What can I say, it was a oh-what-a-good-girl-am-I moment. And, about the page from the sketchbook, I kept it while in intermediate drawing class, where I got brave about pen and ink, and fell in love again with Egon Schiele, edgy and tragic guy that he was. The more advanced class taught me a lot about just letting it happen. I erase a lot less now. Progress, of sorts. Just need to give nails a wider berth.
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