Today was all about cars. I woke up this morning filled with that particular fortitude that enables one to spend an entire day at the DMV, the inspection garage down the street, and then on your knees in the snow and slush taking the plates off of one beast and putting them on another.
These days are rare, and must be seized.
We got the title to the Subaru last night (much to my surprise, as no cash has yet changed hands -- this girl is maybe a little too mellow for her own good), the same day that I received the necessary forms from my brilliant insurance company, so today was the day to make an honest car out of her.
I was very excited to be saving a little scratch by transferring the plates from our gorgeous old Volvo to the young whippersnapper Subaru, but as always the sales tax on a thousand-dollar car is based on some insane hermit's idea of what the car is actually worth, so they made me pretend I had payed more than twice what I had (or will) and pay the sales tax on that figure. Curses.
Then I cruised on home with my shiny new registration, got out my screwdriver and pliers, and commenced to shave all the skin off my knuckles trying to get the plates off the (somewhat slightly rusted) Volvo. Big fun. I finally made Matt use his superior boy muscles to pry the damn things loose. Once the plates were in place, it was off to get inspected. There's a seven-day "grace period," but let's be serious. If I didn't do it today, I'd forget about it until the moment I saw flashing blue lights in my rear view mirror.
So I motored on out to the garage that my beautiful mechanics had recommended for inspections. It turned out to be run by a lovely bunch of young Middle-Eastern men who very sweetly ushered me to the sunniest seat in their waiting room, complimented me on my big soulful blue eyes, and then offered to make me coffee.
After about a half hour I was invited into the shop to discuss the results with Joe, the hunky head mechanic. I gathered my newspaper and my purse and hustled past the large-print sign that insisted no customers were allowed in the shop.
The Subaru passed. Apparently, so did I, because the you have beautiful eyes gambit suddenly got ratcheted way, way up while we were in the shop. (Imagine an extremely thick, hunky accent on hunky Joe's part.)
Joe: So do you drink?
Me: What?! Yes, I guess so.
Joe: Don't I know you from (seedy danceclub near my house that I have never set foot in)?
Me: No, no, I don't really go out much.
Joe: I know I know you from somewhere. You are beautiful. I know.
Me: Well, thank you, that's very nice of you, but I don't think we've met.
Joe: You married?
Joe: How many boyfriends you have?
Me: (smiling slightly) None, I don't do that.
Joe: I'm married, I have six girlfriends. One for every day of the week but Friday. You know what day today is?
Me: (smiling widely) Friday?
Joe: So I am free today!
Laughing, I get into my car, and Joe blows me a little kiss. I drive away, trying to drum up some sense of annoyance and outrage, but really, I just can't stop grinning.