Smashed Up Little Slushbox

Okay, so what’s with the lotion booger? You know, that hard half-congealed knot of goop at the end of the pump-nozzel of the lotion that, if left long enough, turns to concrete. What do they put into this stuff that the drying of it leaves a gelatinous booger harder to remove than that crust that forms around Jurassic fossils? Now this is not a problem, really. I don’t have problems these days. People with brain cancer have problems. Those with three kids, a broken arm and no health insurance have problems. Those with no homes around November have problems. I do not have problems, but I do have lotion boogers. In all of the bottles. I went through the house today and got rid of them all. It seemed like part of the Spring cleaning that’s a few months late but applies to closets, parts of the floor the babysitter’s puppy didn’t get to, and an occasional desk drawer that’s gone feral.
I am thinking about such things because I’m making a to-do list of all the crap I want to have finished by the time I head back to campus in mid-August. It’s things like switching the credit card for the gym membership, getting a battery for one of the calculators that gave up the ghost, getting a hotel for a conference I’m going to in October.
At the top of the list are two numbers, one for a mechanic and another for a body shop for my car. It all started so harmlessly. I backed into a lady in her new, red Honda Civic at the grocery store. A series of scratches on the back white bumper seemed hardly worth reporting, so I put an 11th Hour sticker over the biggest one and got on with my life. Years went by and we contemplated selling the car and buying a newer, slightly bigger one. With Boogs in tow and a large carseat to fit into the back, it seemed like the thing to do. I looked at Nissan Altimas and Toyota Camry’s, even the new Hybrid. After test-driving a lovely light-sage 2006 Camry Hybrid, I ran the math, got sticker shock and came home and detailed my little white slushbox for further use. It’s a good car, gets good gas mileage and aside from the fact that it’s white and has a cassette deck and no cd player, is a fine, practical vehicle.
Then in the middle of the night one night, someone bonked that rear fender. It was a little mashed, not badly, and I was going to get a dent doctor to come fix it. After calling him and verifying that there can be no paint damage in order for his fix-it to work, I realized that yes, I had some cracking and some rust and was going to have to get the fender fixed the old-fashioned way – take it to the dealer and have them bolt another one on.
Then my dealer screwed up. While driving to work, I noticed the car pulling hard to the right. I pulled over, adjusted all the inflation on the tires, and was bummed to find that it still pulled to the right. Since we were going to be heading out of town the next day, I figured that I should bring it in to have the dealer look at it. I barely made it before the tread flew off the tires that this particular dealership had been inspecting and rotating since I bought the little car. So, in a fit of umbrage, I fired them as my mechanics and am now using a well-recommended private mechanic. I figured I’d call them and get the number for a reputable body shop.
Then, we scraped up the poor little burro of a car yet again, getting out of a Taco Bell. My inveterate vehicle decided to take on one of those cement posts that stand along the curbs of many fine fast-food dining establishments. This post has obviously been hit often and cantilevers hard to one side, yet now there’s another piece of the car that needs to be bolted back on. Quel Dommage. It’s time, though, to admit defeat, get the insurance company involved and just bolt back together this poor smushed up little slushbox. She’s a good car, even if she’s a little boring, and I owe her that. That and it will give me something to do other than hunt down lotion boogers.