Can we just go to bed now?

This day has been quite the adventure. Beloved got to see, firsthand, what happens in my world when Things Go Wrong With Cars.

I pulled into the parking lot at the 24/7 Post Office to mail a Bernina part to his niece. We have been trying to get that in the mail to her for three or four weeks now. I stepped out of Lorelai. Into a pool of something dark and very, very slick. Ew.

I scuffed my soles as clean as I could, went in and mailed the package, then came out and panicked, just a little, not so much as you would notice. Called Beloved, who was just settling down for a nap. Did our mechanic happen to have a tow truck? He did not know. 1-411 to the rescue, and they put me through. Mechanic did not. So I let them know that somebody would be bringing Lorelai in. Called the tow company I used (more than once) when I was single.

Beloved showed up in our truck, carefully tested the substance beneath Lorelai, and confirmed that it was indeed oil. His best guess, about 5 quarts of it. We settled in to wait for the tow truck. Dude with impressive muscles rolled Lorelai backward out of the parking spot and forward to the ramp of the truck. $155 later, Lorelai was on her way to the garage and we were on our way to my well-woman.

I have my flu shot. They have an impressive harvest of my blood. I got the EKG and the chest X-rays and the assume-the-position. (Made my doctor laugh when I told her that this year I could not say she was boldly going where no man had gone in a very long time. Made her snort, actually.)

Beloved and I came home by way of Taco Cabana, because I was hungry on the suburbs of cranky at that point. He ate a couple of tacos. I inhaled an entire Cabana Bowl. I do not think there was so much as a grain of rice left in that bowl when I put my fork down.

Holiday baking did not ensue tonight. But we have the decks cleared for tomorrow. I am ready to pray, to smooch goodnight, and to call it a long, long day.

But not before telling you that the only thing wrong with Lorelai was two tires that were scary-bad, or would be if I had had enough energy to be scared. I had the misfortune to pull into a parking spot where someone else had a vehicular malfunction. (This would explain the major lack of banging and smoke as I pulled into the parking space.) Beloved had one of his killer headaches, so it did not occur to him to check the dipstick. I was on the cusp of frenzy, being 15 miles east and two hours shy of my well-woman, so it did not occur to me to check the dipstick.

Which is why, my friends, they call it a dipstick.

Over and out.