Dreams in Cars.
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I’ve noticed I don’t dream of being thinner as much as I used to now that I’m working toward doing something about that. Apparently, if I’m working on something I regularly dream about, my brain moves on to other things. I should have guessed as much since that’s how I know it’s time to work on and/or write about car stuff.
Working on car stuff will be much easier in the foreseeable future. Drill Sergeant Dave dropped off an early birthday gift to me the other day. Funny, he’s never been about birthdays or gifts and in that, we share the same feeling. His gift was the biggest of surprises, a low-rise floor jack so I could work on my own car in my own garage, the very thing I’ve been looking forward to doing for the past eight years. I couldn’t thank him enough which I’m sure made him as uncomfortable as I felt doing so but c’mon, what does one say to a grumpy old guy who usually makes most people’s lives a complicated, living hell?
(Side note: The car friends I went to Redding with affectionately refer to Drill Sergeant Dave as ‘Walt’ as in Walt Kowalsky, Clint Eastwood’s character in the movie, “Gran Torino.” I own that movie, a favorite of sorts, and quite honestly, Drill Sergeant Dave is exactly like Walt, every grouchy, disgruntled, politically-incorrect bit.)
Just as soon as I can swing a couple of heavy-duty jack stands and an oil filter wrench from the budget, I’ll never have to rely on anyone else’s garage or tools again to change my own oil. I think some major front end suspension polishing might be in order too because, if you recall, I do love my Dremel.
Finally, speaking of the personal garage the car club uses for tech days, the garage I learned much at, those days may be coming to an end. Poor health, mental and physical, is intentionally being made worse and a divorce is looming. Competition Boy never thought he’d reach fifty years old and in fact, counted on the heart attack to end it all years ago. Now that he’s flirting with fifty-one, he’s given up, having spent the past year literally trying to eat himself to death, that is, when he isn’t digging a debt hole the likes of which would take two lifetimes to repay.
No one can seem to get through to him and his wife is done with trying. All that’s left is for him to divvy out who gets what and then sit back and wait for his last breath. So terrible to watch, so disheartening to listen to his negative diatribe. I wonder if Drill Sergeant Dave sees the writing on the wall and that’s the reason for the pre-birthday floor jack.
