Apparently No One Keeps the Camaro

My car is a 2012 Chevy Impala, and lately it’s begun to do weird things.  Like refusing to budge, despite my politely placing it in gear and gently pressing on the gas pedal. It particularly likes to refuse my requests in reverse, or when turning, or when it’s cold.  Add to this the strange shuddering and grinding sounds it’s making, and my instincts tell me..something’s wrong.

I’m intuitive like that.

I just refuse to believe that a car, with only 40K miles on it, should be exhibiting such behavior. Especially since this is nearly identical behavior to what drove (heh..heh..see what I did there?) me to take it in last June, when they replaced all the fluglebinders (it’s an industry term) what made the wheels go round and round in front, under warranty.

So, yesterday I took the car to the dealership to drop it off and find out just what the feck is going on, again.

Consensus of opinion, from various shadetree mechanics I know, is that it’s the CV joint in the right front wheel.

Apparently, that’s bad.  As in, the car may just stop suddenly on the highway.  And by suddenly, I mean as if you’d hit an invisible wall…which would no doubt lead to actually hitting a wall, or being hit by something that feels akin to hitting a wall…at 60 mph.

I told my personal service advisor (*eyes roll*) the trouble, and “whew…am I glad that’s covered under the powertrain warranty..” to which he replied, “no it’s not…”  So, I looked it up on the Chevrolet’s website where it lists things like “Shit We Cover Under the 100K Powertrain Warranty, and Unicorns” and gollleeee, right there in black and white coverage it lists the CV joints.

I haven’t imparted that wisdom to my personal service advisor (*eyes roll…again*) yet, because I’m waiting to hear what he has to say.

All of which has nothing to do with the title of this post.

I’m getting to that part.

As I turned into the dealership, I had to pass the “Pre-Owned Sales” lot.  I saw a mid-40’s ish couple looking at a silver Camaro.

Then I noticed the red Camaro, the blue one, the other silver one, more reds and a few blacks.  The entire lot was damn-near door-to-midlife crisis-door with ‘pre-owned’ (what does that even mean?? It was owned before it was owned? Never understood that..) Camaros.  Most of them looked to be within a year or two of rolling off the assembly line.

It was a procession of shattered dreams and loves lost.  I could hear the sobs as I drove past them.

I went inside the service department, noting that not a single Camaro was in for service, and stood next to a lot of other dissatisfied GM-product owners.

One young lady struck up a conversation with me.

Hey, this is Texas, if you stand still in any line long enough you’ll hear someone’s life story.

She told me that she’d driven up from Houston that morning in her 2013 Equinox, only to have it break down near her destination.  It was doing the same thing my car is doing.

I looked at my personal service advisor (*eyes..okay, you get it*) and said, “I used to believe in GM products…I’m just sayin’”

Others in line snickered or nodded, grumbling ensued.

“Hey, now!” personal service advisor said.

“Well, see…her car is doing the same thing as mine – it sounds like – and you know why?  Because the same worker assembled them, and he was hungover..both times.  His wife left him for that damned exotic dancer and he can’t let it go….”

The line erupted in laughter.

I was on a roll.

“I had an ’05 Impala, and it’s still running perfectly.  But that was before Homer’s wife left him. It was right after their second honeymoon to Cozumel..”

Everyone, including me, dissolved into fits of giggles.

My personal service advisor even joined in.

Finally, the Houston lady was given a loaner and sent on her way.  She’s in town till Friday, so they’ve got a couple of days to figure it out.

And I was given my loaner.  A 2015 Malibu with the most comfortable seats in a car I have ever sat in.  No lie, these things are amazing.

But, the car shuts off every time you come to a full stop.  Personal service advisor says it’s a “cool feature, that saves gas” and I heard, “weird shit that’ll break within a year, or if it doesn’t your engine will die a premature death from all the unnecessary starts”.

Also, at the post office yesterday I found out that if you bend your head down to text you exert the equivalent of 60 lbs. of pressure on your neck.

I told you this is Texas, and you learn a lot standing in line.

By the way, I know where you can probably get a Camaro, cheap.

I Must Have Taken the “W” Train

You know how we all kid when we’re talking about how before someone was born they missed the brain train, or looks train, or whatever?

Don’t read me in that tone, you know we’ve all done it.

Well, I took the W train where ‘W’ means weird.

Not that I’m weird.

Okay, I may be just a bit weird.

Alright, a LOT weird.

But, my body..my body is weird in so many ways.

Like the time everyone in the family got pink eye, except me.  I got cellulitis and the ophthalmologist treating me was so excited (giddy, actually) to see it he dragged out the huge book of “Eye Diseases: Things That Look Horrid and Can Kill” (I may have made up that title) to excitedly tell me that he’d heard of this in school, but never thought he’d see it.  It being the bacteria marching through my eye and headed to my brain (it stopped before the brain, thank God, or I’d be posting this from the hereafter).

Or the time I got strep throat, tested positive for it, and my tonsils had been gone for over 40 years. Or when I got mono, from one of my grandchildren, or when I got mumps twice, or when my skin turned green as a Martian and one side of my neck (lymph gland) looked like I’d swallowed a softball and it was lodged there, and NO ONE knew what was wrong with me..never figured it out, and no it wasn’t hepatitis.

Or the time I stopped breathing because the doctor gave me a shot of penicillin.  I was three, and sick, and that’s how sick three year olds were treated in the Stone Age.  That lead to a lifelong theory that I was deathly allergic to penicillin, until I did the penicillin challenge test, and yay! I’m not allergic to penicillin, but when I take it I get all puke-y, so I really didn’t gain anything.

I told the allergy doc about my weird body when I went to see her for my pineapple allergy.

Hmm…wassat?  You’ve never heard of a person being allergic to pineapples?

Neither had I, or she, until I ate pineapple one day – after years of enjoying this delicious fruit without incident – and immediately found breathing terribly difficult as my throat closed.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened, but it was the first time that pineapple was the only thing I’d eaten, so it was the first time I realized that I was allergic to pineapple and not the preservatives in trail mix.  You see, a few weeks before this I’d eaten a trail mix with dried fruit and nuts. It had pineapple in it and shortly after eating it my hands doubled in size and my arms, hands, neck, and face were covered in hives.

That was fun.

No, no it wasn’t, but I blamed the preservatives and swore off anything dried.

After the last episode I went to the allergy doctor and told her about the pineapple reaction.

She stared at me for at least a full minute before saying, “I’ve been doing this for over 15 years, and I’ve never heard of that.”

Of course she hadn’t, but then she hadn’t known me back then.

Rather than have me test the pineapple theory, to be sure I had the allergy, she gave me an Epi-Pen to carry around.

Because, PINEAPPLE and ninja PINEAPPLE are out there, people.

They Call It Witchcraft

I’m inclined to agree.

Amazeballs and awesomesauce all rolled into one.

This Must Not Be A Thing

Just…it can’t be.

I can’t even….

What the…….

Please tell me it’s not necessary for someone to post this:

Humanity is doomed…

*whimper*

It’s A Sad Day

My kids have suddenly discovered “organic” and “natural” and “raw” diets, and are trying desperately to raise their children like little 19^th century ragamuffins.  I expect, along with all processed foods, electricity will soon be banned from their homes.   That is until it’s elebenty-hunnert degrees all up in here.  This is Texas after all.

Hey I’m all for going organic, or orgreenic, or whatever the hell the kids call it these days.  It’s just that when I was a kid we called it “go out to the garden and grab a bowlful of beans”, because that’s what we did.  And then we had to snap the beans, or shell the peas, or whatever it took to rid the vegetables of the things we weren’t going to eat.  Of course, after that the cook (my grandmothers in this case) would make wizardry out of those things and we’d eat till we thought we’d burst.

Anyway, whenever we could we’d run to the nearest store and load up on the foods kids really crave.  Like Laffy Taffy, Slo-Pokes, Jolly Ranchers, Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum, and Coke or Pepsi to wash it all down with.  Except the bubble gum.  It lost its flavor after about four chews, but we hung onto that shit all day; carrying it on the end of our index fingers as we ate or drank, then putting it back in our mouths to chew on getting every last bit of the putty-tasting goodness out of it we could.

Naturally, I figured my grandchildren would run straight to my candy or cookie jar the minute they broke free from the chains of organics their parents shackle them with when they’re not with us.

Boy, was I wrong.

I offered my 6-yr. old granddaughter an Oreo cookie.  Manna from heaven if you ask me, but not in her mind….

“Grammy, what are these?”

“Oreos, punkin.  Haven’t you ever had an Oreo?”

“Not like these. Are these the organic kind?”

“No, they’re the good kind.” I said, chuckling.

“I don’t think I should eat them.  They’re not organic, so they can’t be good for me.”

“So, are you saying that there’s an organic cookie that’s like this but it’s safe to eat because it’s organic, and this one’s not?” I asked, incredulous.

“Let me see the package.”

Mind you, she’s SIX YEARS OLD.

“Okay, “ I said, handing it over to her.

“Hmmm….see?” She said after looking over the ingredients, “It has hydrogen..something. Not good.”

She’s SIX, people.

SIX.

“You shouldn’t eat them either, Grammy.”

I stared at first her and then the package of cookies.

“You’re probably right.” I said, grabbing a handful and proceeding to dunk.