After two solid days, of car-fixing, I've had enough.
Saturday was replacing the radiator in the Nomad with an extra expensive, non-leaking model, and Sunday was changing the drum brakes on the Excel. Filthy, and quite exhausted, I solemnly cross my fingers in the hope that nothing goes wrong with either car for at least three months.
Enormous thanks have to go to Chris, who is my candidate for human-most-likely-to-be-the-new-messiah-that-nobody-has-noticed-yet. Think about it. Chris seems to know everything, is polite and kind to everyone, and had no trouble removing most of the interior of a car in less than an hour. That's not the miracle, the miracle is that when we put it all back together, there were no screws left over! It's true. (I'm sure Jesus would've been able to change a radiator in a Nissan, no worries.)
It may be that Chris has some competition though. My Stepfather Terry came over today just as I was cursing and swearing at the (unbeknownst-to-me) upside down brake shoes I had just installed. Terry just sat down and fixed them, fixed the other side, adjusted the handbrake and that was that. In fact, If I had a dollar for the number of times Terry's saved me from my own mechanical skill, I'd have about fourteen dollars.
Maybe there could be some wannabe messiah miracle-off, where they could get together and try and do all kinds of funky mechanical miracles to impress everyone. That might be fun.
But the thing that plagued me the most this weekend was the ultra painful aural puke that was broadcast all over my neighborhood. At one point, I had Hotel California on the left of me, Culture Club on the right, and the guys over the road playing Justin Timberlake at 100 dB. Justified? I think not. I don't mind loud music, but not bad loud music! I mean, when you're scraping the skin off your knuckles under a car and that annoying part of your brain is singing along:
"Shoop, Shoop, Shoop Shoop, Shoop, Shoop Shoop - It's in his kiss - that's where it is!"
Really. It's hard enough as it is.
Saturday was replacing the radiator in the Nomad with an extra expensive, non-leaking model, and Sunday was changing the drum brakes on the Excel. Filthy, and quite exhausted, I solemnly cross my fingers in the hope that nothing goes wrong with either car for at least three months.
Enormous thanks have to go to Chris, who is my candidate for human-most-likely-to-be-the-new-messiah-that-nobody-has-noticed-yet. Think about it. Chris seems to know everything, is polite and kind to everyone, and had no trouble removing most of the interior of a car in less than an hour. That's not the miracle, the miracle is that when we put it all back together, there were no screws left over! It's true. (I'm sure Jesus would've been able to change a radiator in a Nissan, no worries.)
It may be that Chris has some competition though. My Stepfather Terry came over today just as I was cursing and swearing at the (unbeknownst-to-me) upside down brake shoes I had just installed. Terry just sat down and fixed them, fixed the other side, adjusted the handbrake and that was that. In fact, If I had a dollar for the number of times Terry's saved me from my own mechanical skill, I'd have about fourteen dollars.
Maybe there could be some wannabe messiah miracle-off, where they could get together and try and do all kinds of funky mechanical miracles to impress everyone. That might be fun.
But the thing that plagued me the most this weekend was the ultra painful aural puke that was broadcast all over my neighborhood. At one point, I had Hotel California on the left of me, Culture Club on the right, and the guys over the road playing Justin Timberlake at 100 dB. Justified? I think not. I don't mind loud music, but not bad loud music! I mean, when you're scraping the skin off your knuckles under a car and that annoying part of your brain is singing along:
"Shoop, Shoop, Shoop Shoop, Shoop, Shoop Shoop - It's in his kiss - that's where it is!"
Really. It's hard enough as it is.
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