You've. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

Now, I love my car. It is pretty much my favorite thing that I own. Most of the time, it is crouched by the side of the little yellow house under its little carport, just waiting for me to jump aboard and take off. My car seems to equate to my freedom of movement in this big troubled world. And as traumatic as traffic can be around here, it is comfortable and purrs along quietly and plays quadrophonic symphonies for me. Tuesday, at school, I opened the trunk to sort through the stuff there for my blue painter's tape that I needed to put in my ArtBin for drawing class, then hopped in and started home. The idiot light on the dash told me a door or the trunk was still open. So I pulled over and checked. The trunk had not latched. And it wouldn't. I tried all kinds of gyrations, including slamming it several times. Nothing worked. So I gingerly drove home, avoiding potholes and such which might cause the trunk to fly open. And tried again, this time using the key, which I never do because I have this handydandy zapper thingie, thinking maybe there was one part of the mechanism that wouldn't respond to the electronic signal. No dice. So, the next morning I was out and about early, and dropped by the Ford dealership to make an appointment to get it fixed, figuring they were my best bet if I needed a part replaced. I made it for hella-early, as I had an important appointment at 10 AM. I was there at 7:30 AM, sitting in the waiting room with a bunch of guys in baseball caps and flannel shirts, with those Blue Tooth goodies hanging off their ears like bizarre earrings, who had probably brought in their mega-trucks for exotic things like timing chains or water pumps. I didn't want to tell anyone why I was there, like I was embarassed that my puddlejumper just had a defective trunk latch. How unmechanical could it get, anyway? So, I sat. The TV was tuned to the 24/7 sports channel, and how much can they say about a couple of baseball games, anyway? Apparently, a lot, because I sat there for over 2 hours, and they never stopped talking about them. I sat there, looking through this display case full of model cars (I assumed they were all Fords) at my reflection in the mirror behind it, getting more and more frustrated. I had brought my current mystery novel, thank HP, and that kept me from getting totally steamed. I finally went to the service window to tell the sweet woman there that I had an appointment in 20 minutes, and really needed to get there. And I had my car 5 minutes and $133 later. With the proviso that they were able to "adjust" the lock, but it would probably need replacing later. Goodie. Fortunately, I am good at restraint of tongue, having nearly 20 years of practicing it, and did not disgrace myself, not even when I saw the bill. I was just happy to drive away in my sweet little automobile, its trunk now securely closed, and arrive at my appointment 2 minutes early. Gratefully. Life on life's terms. How interesting.