Gentlemen, Check Your Engines

My vehicle, like most on the road these days, has an array of lights and symbols that tell me something’s wrong or about to go wrong. The old lights that tell me the oil pressure’s too low or that the engine is heating up to the melting point are still there but I also have lights that tell me I didn’t close a door or the hatch all the way. The vehicle assumes that I, and apparently anyone else, can’t decipher the intricacies of the gas gauge so it tells me when I’m low on fuel. It also tells me when the anti-lock brakes aren’t working, when the turn signals are fritzed and when I’m low on window washer bug juice. There are a couple of lights that are trying to tell me something’s wrong but I don’t know what they mean and it really hasn’t seemed to matter. All of these lights come on with an electronic ‘ding’ sound to ensure I take my eyes off the road, ignore traffic and get blood pressure up. Good things to do in 60 mph rush hour.

The most annoying light is the one that says ‘Check Engine.’ The first time this one came on I pulled over, popped the hood and looked. The engine was still there, still running, still sounding normal. It turns out I wasn’t the one who was supposed to check the engine. When the light comes on I’m supposed to take the van to a garage and pay the mechanic about a hundred dollars to hook my vehicle’s computer up to his computer and tell me every thing’s fine, the sensor just has to be reset. For $100 I could have reset the sensor myself with a hefty wrench.

The vehicle has a computer. It doesn’t seem that it would take much to put a scrolling display in (my telephone and fax machine have that) to tell me specifically what’s wrong with the engine. The vehicle already knows. It could say things like ‘Your Fuel Injector is about ready to crap out’ or 'Piston #3 is slapping around like a Rumba Band’ or ‘The last curb you drove over ripped off your oil pan and you’ve got about a hundred yards to go before the engine seizes up.’ For the cost of a vehicle these days, it doesn’t seem too much to ask. Until then I’m keeping a hefty wrench handy. I may have to re-set a sensor.

A Little Debbie Rescue

Chris was over a while ago, stayed for supper and conversation and we talked for a while. Quite a while, actually. It was getting close to midnight and he was getting ready to leave when he remembered he had a picnic-type thing at one of his jobs the next day. He was supposed to bring a desert. He groaned when he thought the only solution was to stop at one of the all night grocery stores, pick up a box of brownies and spend the next couple of hours making it. I told him there was an easier way.

“Stop at the store,” I told him, “and pick up a couple of boxes of Little Debbie brownies. When you get home take them out of their cellophane packages, cut them apart and put them on a paper plate then wrap the plate and brownies with plastic wrap. They’ll look home made.”

Chris prides himself on his cooking ability and I got such a look as he shook his head and left for the store. When I saw him the next day I asked him how the picnic went. He said it was okay. I asked how late he was up making brownies and he shuddered a little bit.

“You know,” he said, “I was so tired by the time I got to the store I just went ahead with your idea.”

“How did that go?” I asked.

He shuddered again and said, “Three people asked me for the recipe.”

Hot Buns

A friend of mine came by the other day with his new car. It was a used car but new to him and he was excited about it and insisted I go for a ride. As a new car it was a luxury model but even used it still had all the bells and whistles. I got the tour of all the knobs, levers and lights as we drove down the street. We got to the end of the tour and he pointed at the last lever. It had an on/off switch above it and a lever that slid back and forth with lights that went on as he pushed it to the right. “This is my favorite one,” he said. “Do you feel it? Heated seats!”

I felt a warmth coming from below. It felt good. A little unusual but good and I squirmed to take advantage of it. During winter in Minnesota we’ll take warmth wherever we find it.

“You know,’ my friend said, “I’ve always liked a warm seat but the only way I could get it before now was to pass gas.”

I am so thankful some automotive engineer some where had the idea to run high resistant coated electrical wires through this car’s seat cushions. It was -7 degrees that day and I had the feeling my friend would have tried his alternative method. At -7 there was no way I wanted to be hanging my head out the window like a dog. I would have. I just wouldn’t have wanted to.

My Best Holiday

We just passed my favorite holiday – Ground Hog Day. To me it ranks up there with Christmas, the Fourth of July, New Years Day, Thanksgiving and all the rest of them. Ground Hog Day is special. It’s a no pressure, no stress holiday. There are no presents to buy, no huge meals to prepare, overeating is optional, no stress in making resolutions I know I’ll break before the month is out, no relatives I feel an obligation to entertain. The only anxiety in the day is wondering if the rodent will see his shadow and either way it doesn’t matter. I live in Minnesota. We could tarp the ground hog’s hole to keep it dark or flood it with sun lamps. It’s going to be winter for at least six weeks no matter what we, or the weather, do.

The point is, I’ve found Ground Hog Day to be the perfect holiday because the activity options are wide open. Sleep in or get up early, have friends and relatives over or don’t, the type and quantity of meals is open and if you want to shop, no store is going to be crowded because of the holiday. It’s a guilt free, anti-stress holiday. I love it.