We Have a Heartbeat

The morning after my car was towed home, I got up as usual, turned on the computer, took my vitamins, but instead of making my breakfast smoothie I simply got back into bed. Starting the day meant dealing with my car, and I hated the very idea. About an hour later I heard John making his breakfast in the kitchen. He was up early, for him. I continued to try to go back to sleep and dream of winning lottery numbers, but it wouldn't happen. At nine I finally dragged myself up and made my protein drink. Since my blender can wake the dead, John knew I was awake.

He came to my door and shouted, "Get up, Mary! We have to see what's wrong with your car!" So not only was my car broken, but John was being nice and I'd be beholden to him. I told him to go away so I could get dressed.

John had many ideas and theories about my car. I think he'd stayed up late contemplating it. Of course it started when I turned the key, pretending there was nothing wrong. John had me unplug the phone charger I usually keep plugged into the cigarette lighter, and put this battery and alternator tester in there. I did this with the car off, with it on, with the lights off and on. It always said that everything was just hunky dory. John was perplexed, but not dumb enough to ask if my car had actually died.

Instead, he posited that my phone charger was to blame. Its cord acted as an antennae and some random bad signal had traveled through it and into my car's electrical system. All I had to do was unplug it and all would be well. But, but, it was still plugged in when I started the car a few minutes ago. And, while I'm no mechanic, and wouldn't be impolite to someone who was going out of their way to help me, that idea made no sense to me whatsoever. And I believe in a lot of things.

Without saying anything, I obviously communicated my doubt. He went and got another tester and put it directly on the battery. It said my battery was fine, and somehow this proved John's point (in his mind). All this took several minutes. Then he had me shut the car off and restart it. It refused.

There was no attempt, just a deadness that convinced John it had nothing to do with my starter, but had to be the battery. The battery that his testers showed was just fine. So he disconnected it. And the connection on the positive side was corroded. This seemed to be important. I was feeling so panicked again, thinking about how much it'd cost to fix all this, that I couldn't appreciate how wonderful it was that my connection was corroded. But John was happy about it.

He took a knife and started scraping at the corrosion. I stepped away, instinctively knowing that it wouldn't be good to let any of that stuff get on me. When he reconnected it, the car started up, and sounded just slightly better. It's nothing I can describe well, just a feeling that it wasn't trying as hard. And John thought the lights looked brighter. I figured we were both just trying to convince ourselves that we'd solved it.

We came inside and I had an email from a friend who is more knowledgeable than I am about cars, but too far away to come fix it for me. He'd read my whine the night before about what happened and suggested a couple things, with emphasis on the battery connections. That made me feel better. After more discussion with him I decided I ought to buy a new battery, not just depend on cleaning off the corrosion. Mine was four years old, and supposedly good for three.

John was happy with that idea. We could have a hot dog lunch at Costco! I can see Gwen's face, smiling at how happy a hot dog from Costco could make John. We went back outside to take the old battery out of my car. I started having flashbacks to the last time I needed one, in Florida. My handyman neighbor, Moe, had insisted on doing it for me. And, as it turned out, I couldn't have done it myself because I didn't have the tools necessary. There's an L-shaped bar that holds my battery in place and you need to reach way down the side of it, to where the bar is connected at the bottom, and unscrew the bolt. No one's hand can reach, due to other pieces-parts, so a specific tool is needed. Don't ask me what it's called. I could pick it out of a line-up, if I had to, but that's it.

I remembered how Moe had let that bolt drop, and after much cursing had used a long, magnetic rod to poke around in my car's guts till the bolt stuck to it. I remembered the whole, long, stressful day when I got that battery. And then I tried to forget, because bringing negative energy into the current situation wouldn't help at all. It went pretty well. He got it unscrewed, very carefully took it off and handed it to me, and grunted a small complaint about there being no handle on the battery as he picked it up and immediately set it down on the road. He left, and since I didn't know what he was off in search of, I thought I'd be helpful and put the battery in his truck. I took it over to the garage, found a sturdy box and set it inside, then placed it on the back seat of the pickup. He was taking a lot of his time for me, and I just wanted to make the process easier.

He came out of the house and announced that he'd get the hand truck so we could move that battery. I almost hated to tell him, but I said it was already in the truck, ready to go. He looked. He said, "Mary, you're never going to catch on to the helpless female routine, are you?" I didn't bother to explain to him that, while I enjoy having a man do things for me, I don't enjoy it if there might be something expected in return. And John is the tit for tat type.

At Costco I learned that I couldn't use a credit card (I pretended that didn't upset me), and that it'd cost $74. for a new one (I didn't cry, but does anyone need any weeding or cleaning done?). The man asked if I needed assistance bringing the used battery in and I was too frazzled to think about his or anyone else's male ego. I just walked out and grabbed the thing and brought it in. When I did so, everyone inside was laughing. So after the transaction was completed, and John and I were walking over to the hot dog stand, I said, "What were you all laughing at? Tell me."

He said, "Oh, I just said that I'd better stay out of your way."

He must've felt it necessary to say something about how he was "letting" the little lady go do the hard work. I bought his hot dog for him and he was happy with that.

I thought we'd simply put the new battery in, connect and tighten and be done. No. The part that holds the battery has two tracks leading down to depressions (but no holes). I don't understand why the design is necessary, but it looked like it had some corrosion built up, especially in the depressions. John told me to vacuum it out. I put on a t-shirt that I didn't care about, just in case, and vacuumed. It didn't do much. So I chipped at it with a file. John decided that getting the hose was a good idea, and he filled this thing with water. I said, "Now what? I don't think it's good for my car to splash this water out." He told me to use a rag and sop up the water, wringing the rag out several times as I completed the task. That sounds so much simpler than it was. I kept stopping and rinsing off my car, in case any acid, however watered down, was getting on my paint.

When we were finally ready to lift the new battery into place, I did it. Again, I automatically thought I should do the hard work, since John was already spending most of his day on my problem. I wish we had a video of this portion of the day's events. There's a cozy that fits over the battery (I don't know why -- to keep the battery warm?), and when I set it down the cozy caught on the positive connection. The new battery was much heavier than the old one, and even with a handle to hold onto, I was having a hard time.

I said, "John, it's stuck on the connection. Push it back so I can let it down." The problem was, I was in the way of him doing that. And I couldn't move back a step while still holding a very heavy object at an already awkward angle. He'd have to touch me, with the back of his hand, in order to grab the connection. Specifically, the back of his hand would come into contact with my chest. He hesitated. I said, "Today, please" though I'd have preferred not to expend energy on speaking. He did it, I set the battery down, then we both backed up and talked about how it was such a good idea that we'd cleaned that area out first. I thought of the movie Planes, Trains & Automobiles, when Steve Martin and John Candy wake up and realize where their hands have been while they slept, then immediately begin talking about sports.

I remembered why there was no handle on the old battery. Moe had taken it off in order to get the L-shaped bar into place. When I told John he took it as a challenge and was determined to get the bar on without losing the handle. And he did. But then he a problem with the connector. That's twenty minutes of my life I'll never get back. Finally, after undoing the bar, taking the battery back out, solving the connector issue, and putting it all back in, John dropped the bolt off the bar. He cursed.

I thought he left to go get one of those magnetic rods, and I used the time to search with a flashlight. I located the bolt, but of course couldn't reach it. He came back saying he couldn't find the magnet thing. I told him I'd found the bolt, and just needed something "long and pinchy" to get it out. He brought me kitchen tongs. I said, "You're kidding, right?" I was thinking of needle nose pliers, maybe. But I slid the tongs in between the battery and some hoses, grabbed the bolt on the first try, and somehow managed to bring it up without dropping it.

I said, "I can't believe that worked."

John said, "I can't believe you found it in there."

I said, "When will you acknowledge that I am The Finder of Lost Things?"

He laughed.

So, the battery settled into its new home, the Saturn started right up several times, and we decided that we'd solved the problem. I rinsed the car off again, and the street where I'd wrung out the rag, and John rinsed out the vacuum cleaner. We put away all tools and I moved my car back into the driveway. Today I started it up and let it run for 15 minutes, then turned it off and back on a couple of times. All good. I haven't gone anywhere yet, because it's a holiday weekend and if we didn't actually solve the problem, I won't have any mechanic shop to take it to till Tuesday. And you only get so many tows a year with AAA.

I baked brownies for John last night and he was pleased with that as a thank you. He just left to see the woman he's dating, and I'm pleased about that.

I'm hoping that, even though my car has some years on it, it's still in good condition and just wanted a new part. Oh, that reminds me. Mike, the CHP officer, looked at my tires as we waited for the tow truck the night before last and said that, while they may be old, they still have plenty of tread on them. He thought the Big Brand Tires guy was just trying to sell me new ones. So I feel better about that.

All's well that ends well, and hopefully this is the end of my car adventures.

 

Saturn: Dead or Alive?

Odd things happened yesterday. So my thinking that my car could heal itself isn't as strange as it might seem at first.

First my cousin, Sue, posted to Facebook that bizarre electrical things were happening at her house, and coincidentally it was the birthday of her recently departed dear friend. I believe in signs like that.

Then I met a friend, Vonda, for lunch. Vonda recently had cataract surgery and I helped her with a few things as she recovered, and she felt the need to treat me in return. While we sat talking, she suddenly looked to her side, as if she heard something next to her in the booth. For an instant I thought she heard her cell phone ringing in her purse, but it quickly became obvious from the look on her face that it wasn't that. When I asked her what was going on she said, "I just heard someone laughing. Right next to me here." Vonda obviously heard it, since she was upset. Hearing things will do that to you.

I said, "We were just talking about the kids. I bet you heard Gwennie laughing. She's probably here with us right now." That didn't exactly comfort Vonda, but she was too polite to tell me I'm nuts. I believe Gwen was likely there, in spirit, and tickled to hear about the kids and the fun they had at Sophia's party.

When I got home, my computer had gone to sleep. I woke it up and it was extremely sluggish. I don't blame it for this reaction, since I'm not a morning person myself, and I simply restarted it. But it didn't restart. It went to a black screen with one ominous line across the top that said, "Disc boot failure. Insert system disc to blah blah blah." I had no intention of coddling it like that. I simply held my finger down on the power button till it went dark. I waited a few minutes, turned it back on, and all was well.

Later I left to meet my friend, Kathy*, at the Olive Garden restaurant. I had a gift card to use and we hadn't seen each other for forever (like a week or so). I got in my car, turned the key, and started it up. Then it stalled out. Huh. I turned the key again and it started right up and stayed on. I figured it was just a weird kind of day, with strange things happening. I drove. I took the back way because the radio report said the 101 was backed up due to a hit and run. Everyone else heard the report and the back way was backed up.

Twice my car sort of hiccupped. It never does that. It's 11 years old and has always run perfectly, except for when it needed a new battery four years ago. And I discovered that when I went out to the driveway and found it wouldn't start. No drama. I asked my guardian angels to please keep me from breaking down in the midst of that traffic. The car continued to run and I got to the restaurant and pulled into a parking spot. As I was shifting into Park, the car died. You can't say the angels failed me. I was not in traffic. The battery had to be dead, since the doors wouldn't even lock. Yet I hugged Kathy hello and rather calmly told her, and said we should just go in and eat -- that maybe it'd be okay when we were done. Why not, right? The computer just needed a minute to settle itself down. Batteries can come back to life if you just believe.

Kathy, being a tad more sane and practical, but also hungry, said that after we ate she'd jump my battery. A lovely dinner and visit ensued, if you don't count them getting my order wrong and Kathy needing to send hers back for something that didn't taste bad (an off night, I'm sure, since OG is usually just fine). Then it was time to deal with my car.

I got in, turned the key, and it started right up. The universe fixed my car while I ate!  Kathy, again being more sane and practical, said she'd follow me home, just in case. And, in an appalling lack of faith, I said it was probably better if we took the back way, rather than get on the freeway. The universe reacts to a lack of faith the way dogs do when they smell fear.

I got a couple of miles, no problems or hiccups, and then stopped for the light at the 118. I was the first car, with Kathy right behind me, and we were in the middle of three lanes. The one to our right was a right only lane, and the other two were left turn lanes. Technically you could go straight ahead also from the lane we were in, if you were going to State Ready Mix, a company that provides sand and concrete and other stuff. The entrance to it was closed at 8:30 PM, so going straight ahead would allow you to cross the 118 and, after maybe thirty feet, run into a locked gate.

As I waited for the light to change, the car died. Dead, dead, so very dead. No lights, no ability to put the emergency flashers on. I jumped out of the car and told Kathy to put hers on. She had no idea where hers were, so I leaned into her van and did it myself. Because people say odd things in stressful situations she took the time to thank me and say she'd always wondered how to do that. Then, again because people (okay, me) do odd things in stressful situations, I stood between our vehicles and called the Oxnard police. I stood between our vehicles!

If you cut off a limb with a chain saw, I'd calmly call 9-1-1 and have someone apply pressure while putting your limb in a bag of ice. But if my car breaks down, I lose my mind. I can't fix a car. I'm at the mercy of (mostly) men who have ripped me off royally in the past, because I have no idea what's wrong or how to fix it. And I can't afford to have this happen. At least on the inside, I go into a complete panic. So, I was standing between the vehicles, even though the normal me would know that's idiotic.

The dispatcher transferred me to the CHP, and that dispatcher, a woman, took my information about what had happened. I said I'd call AAA, but I needed a police car because I was blocking traffic and it wasn't safe. Duh. She asked me where I was standing. I'm thinking she's not psychic, but rather I'm hardly the only person to be so stupid. I told her and she said, very calmly, "Ma'am, please move carefully, when it's safe to do so, to the side of the road. Where is your friend?" I told her Kathy was still in her van and she said, "I suggest that she also move to the side of the road, for safety's sake." Of course, because the cars coming up Vineyard Avenue were barreling toward the back of the van and then swerving away at the last minute, flashers notwithstanding. People are oblivious. The nice woman said she'd get AAA started for me, so they'd get there faster.

Kathy and I stood in the weeds at the side of the road and watched in horror as car after car swerved around her van. I was wondering if my insurance would cover buying her a new vehicle, since she was there only to help me, or if I'd have to pay for it myself. I don't know how I kept the hysterical laughter inside. We talked about where the CHP office was, how far away one of them might be, and why the freakin' hell they were taking so long. Then the lights on my car came back on. I believe I pronounced it "possessed."

I think it took almost thirty minutes for the cop to arrive. When he pulled up behind Kathy's van I said, "Do you not see the flashers, idiot? Go around her." I said this because he pulled right up and stopped. But I didn't know it was him because he didn't have his lights on. Wasn't that the point of him being there? Luckily he was still in the car when I said it, and didn't hear me. And he did turn some of the lights on. Not the full panel, which in my stressed state really annoyed me.

He looked at my car, which wouldn't start even though the lights were on, and looked around the immediate area. There was no shoulder, anywhere. He said he'd push me onto the 118 and across the bridge, and we'd stop on the other side, where there was a place to pull off the road. The uniform, the aura of authority, even the gun had no impact on me. I flat out refused to go along with his plan. I think I said, "We'll both die." He smiled, and I had the impression that smiles get him what he wants in life (30, dark and handsome), and assured me we would not. I said we wouldn't because there was no way I was going over that bridge, being pushed. I then pointed to the entrance to State Ready Mix and said, "Why can't you push me over there?"

He eyed it, then said, "You'll have no power steering. Can you turn once you get there so you're parallel to the street? The tow truck will need to be able to access the front of your car." I said that of course I could. We had a plan, and it involved him getting his car behind me, us waiting for a "fresh green light," and then him pushing. I told Kathy to just go on home, thanked her, and we all got in our vehicles. And Kathy didn't move. I realized that she couldn't see if she could pull into the other lane because the cop was blocking her view. It took him longer to realize it. He used his loudspeaker to suggest that she leave when she had a chance. I started laughing, then stopped, sure the hysteria wasn't tamped down all that far. Finally he caught on and got out of his car and stopped traffic so she could leave.

I had my car in Neutral, foot off the brake, and when the light turned green he pushed me across the four or five lanes. When I got off the road I turned the wheel and the car had just enough momentum to carry me to the position we'd talked about. Then another CHP cop showed up. They chatted, and talked about how they'd need to shut off a lane when the tow truck arrived. I looked at all the room between the road and the gate and said, "What if you push me back? Then the tow truck can back in and be completely off the road while he takes my car." The second cop looked skeptical, but the first guy knew I'd managed to turn the big bad wheel without power once, so he thought it was a good idea.

Second cop stopped traffic and first cop pulled up to my front bumper. He pushed, but I didn't go anywhere. He pushed again. Nothing. He said over his loudspeaker that I shouldn't have the wheels turned yet. So I let them go straight again, he pushed, and I moved back. I quickly turned so I'd go back toward the gate. Turning the wheels stops the momentum, so I wasn't back far enough. Second cop again stopped traffic, and first cop made this big U-turn in the 118 and came straight at me. For a moment I thought he was going to plow into me, but he stopped short at the last minute. However, he didn't gently push me when he put his foot on the gas this time. He hit me hard. I went backwards, and stopped at the gate. In the beam of my headlights, which were still on, I saw my license plate holder. Second cop left. Pushy cop felt badly and started explaining how easy it'd be to fix it. I didn't care. It seemed completely unimportant.

He talked into the radio hanging over his shoulder, then said his boss wanted him to get my info, since he'd damaged my car. I didn't say that it probably ought to be the other way around. I handed him my license plate. He laughed, and asked for my license and phone number. It was dark, and I couldn't have read his name tag without my glasses even if it weren't, so I asked him his name. Oh my gosh. I now know the entire history of his name, when and how he changed it, why, his heritage, and more. It was all very entertaining, though I don't expect you to believe that. A lot of it was due to his delivery. Officer Mike Alfonso (not Italian) was very funny and charming once he was no longer suggesting scary things or breaking my car.

I heard all about his family vacation to Texas, too. I didn't know about the Moody Gardens in Galveston. One of its attractions is a museum with a "Bodies Revealed" exhibit. That's the one that has actual human bodies shown in dissected form, so you can see the inner workings, muscles, organs, etc. Mike was grossed out by it, and only went because his wife insisted. He said, "They made a point of telling us that everyone had volunteered to be studied by science, so there was no one inside who would object to being on display. AS IF that would make it appealing." Again I felt the laughter trying to take over, but I beat it down.

I think it might've taken an hour for the tow truck guy to show up. When he did, he got into my car and it started right up. He said this often happens. He popped the hood, saying I probably had a loose battery connection. The battery was battened down tight, so he decided it was not that. He cleverly told me it was probably something electrical, and expensive. I did not ask for his name.

Tow truck guy wanted me to drive my car home. He said he'd follow me, but since it was running, why not? I didn't say that I pay $80. a year for AAA and if I want a tow I'll damn well get a tow. I said that it was also running when I left the Olive Garden, until it wasn't. And breaking down in the middle of the road once a day was enough for me. I guess he didn't much want to do the work of putting the car up on the flatbed, because he really tried to convince me to drive.

At one point he looked at Mike and said, "It was dead before? You saw it?" I'm pretty sure Mike saw my body language as I tensed and The Look took over my face. He said, "Yup, it was dead. And I don't think Mary decided that, since dinner at Olive Garden hadn't been exciting enough, she'd just invent a car problem so she could spend some time with us." Tow truck guy looked chagrined. He got out of my car and said it was no problem, he'd tow me home (I had no idea what shop to take it to, so just wanted to get home and decide later), but he didn't move to do so.

He just stood there, chatting. His conversation wasn't as funny or interesting as Mike's, but we all stood around talking, and Mike had both of us cracking up. He said that once, while covering Santa Barbara, he was called to a house where the driveway was blocked by a parked car. Instead of having it towed right away, Mike went door to door, trying to find who owned it so they could just move it. At one house the woman inside wouldn't open the door, but cracked the window just enough to see him. He told her why he was there and she said, "Can I see some ID?"

Mike spread his arms, then pointed to himself. "Uniform, name tag, badge, gun, radio that squawks -- I didn't see how showing her my driver's license would be any more of an assurance." Maybe you had to be there, and still operating on high adrenaline, but I thought it was hilarious. I also thought that we should probably be moving right along with this whole tow thing, yet we weren't. They just kept chatting. I had no idea how late it was, or that John had called to ask where I was. Tow truck guy put my car on the flatbed, but then continued to gab.

Finally the static on Mike's radio seemed to be asking where he was. He told it he was just about done and said to us, "They're looking for me. I guess I have to go." Tow truck guy said, "Oh, they're looking for me, too." I thought, "Then why have we been standing around shooting the breeze???" But I didn't say that.

Mike made some kind of smart ass remark. I can't remember what it was. But all who know me know that I have a habit of smacking someone on the arm if they say something like that to me. I was mid-strike when I stopped myself. I said, "Geez, I was just about to hit you." Tow truck guy said, "That wouldn't have been good." I said, "Well, you can take the girl out of New Jersey but you can't take NJ out of the girl." Mike said, "Before you threaten me with any more bodily harm, let's go."

He took off, tow truck guy and I got into the truck, and he saw another flatbed go around the corner. He grabbed the radio and said, "Al, is that you?" Al replied, "Yeah, man, I was looking for you. You okay?" Tow truck guy said, "I'm A-okay, just about to take her home, uh, take this car to Colina Vista now." I'm thinking Al questioned him later.

When I got home it was 11:00 PM. That's a lot of chatting.

Good grief, I'm long-winded, aren't I? There's more to the car story, but I'll save it for part deux.

*Name changed because my friend didn't like having her privacy invaded with my blog.  Lesson learned.

Free Always Costs Something

I have had my computer on a wooden contraption that I'd never call a desk (why insult desk-makers the world over?) for years. I didn't have room for a real desk, then I moved here and had simply become used to the awful thing. And I didn't really "need" a desk, obviously, as this thing had sufficed all this while.

But this afternoon I looked at the free stuff on Craigslist, which I do occasionally, and someone was giving away a perfectly good computer desk! Usually free stuff is free for a reason, but this looked nice. I walked out to the living room to tell John, since his help and his truck would be needed. He was napping on the couch. Disappointed, I went back to my room, staring at the picture on the monitor, reading over again that they'd take down the ad once it was gone. I considered calling the house phone to wake John up, but figured that'd be obvious from the guilty look on my face after he woke up.

I went back to the living room and stared at him, willing him to wake up on his own. His eyes opened and I immediately said, "Oh, did I wake you? Sorry." I was not. He said he wasn't asleep, just resting, and I told him about the desk. I didn't expect his reaction. He practically jumped up (he's 75, so literally jumping up would be something to see) and said, "Well, let's go get it!" He headed for the door. I had to put socks and shoes on, go to the bathroom before leaving the house (a rule of the universe), and grab my purse (for no good reason, since I wasn't driving and it was free). I panicked for just a moment, then remembered his enlarged prostate and realized I had time. No, he's never discussed it (not even with his doctor, I'd bet), but I've lived with my father and I know the signs. So he came back in to go the bathroom and then we met at the truck.

I directed him to the address in Ventura and the desk was -- yay! -- still there. It looked great. It was your standard, put-in-together-yourself particle board type of thing, but it looked well cared for. A man riding down the street on his bicycle saw us and came over, saying he was a neighbor and offering to help us put the desk in the truck. I told him how nice of him that was, and commented that the desk could be sold, not given away, since it was in such good shape. He said the owners were great people and they simply didn't need it anymore. All was lovely and well.

Then we tried to pick it up. We all know that particle board weighs more than real wood. But I'd forgotten just how much heavier it is. Good gravy all Friday, as my mom used to say (though I have no idea where she got that or what it means), it was ridiculous. John, being the way he is, couldn't stand to have me help in front of another man. He elbowed me out of the way and the two of them picked it up and got it in the truck bed. I'm stronger than John, so I guess it was pure male ego and testosterone at work.

On the way home I suggested calling Logan and/or Kael to help us at the house. John said no, that wasn't necessary. Logan and Kael are strappin' young men, and if one or both were at home and not busy they'd be happy to help. But I couldn't exactly get them there on a pretext (no one simply "stops by" to visit unless John is away), and he was determined that we could do it ourselves, so I didn't call them and ask if they could possibly speed over from Oxnard and beat us home. They're both careful drivers.

All we had to do was take the desk out of the truck the same way it went in. But John, being the way he is, could not let that happen. No, me being strong enough to lift half that desk (or maybe three-quarters, since I don't know what the split was between him and the good Samaritan), was too much for his chauvinism to consider. So he proclaimed that we'd slide it down. Except that, on the verge of doing so, he decided we needed lengths of wood to slide it along. I don't know why. Perhaps because they're stacked in the side yard and should come in handy for something. Heaven knows we can't burn them in the fireplace (hasn't been used in years, which is a crying shame and another story).

So he left me with the desk hanging half off the truck gate and went to get the wood. I should've followed my gut and let it slide down, but I hesitated and -- it's a cliché because it's true -- lost. The wood planks made no sense to me, though I followed his directions and placed them where he told me to place them. The desk slid partway down, then got hung up on one plank and, with a jerk by John, the whole thing fell off the planks and hit the concrete driveway. And it broke. He wouldn't let me see how bad it was. He just kept getting in the way and giving me directions that involved the dolly.

At some point he gave up on the dolly and shoved and dragged the poor desk the rest of the way into my room. Veneer snapped off, pieces inside one drawer clanged to the ground, and when it finally came to rest in its spot it no longer looked like the cared for piece of furniture the nice couple over on Cheshire Street gave away.

When I saw the broken part I cursed. Yes, I still put to use what the Navy taught me, when provoked. John said it was no problem, that he'd jack it up, glue it, and clamp it. Jack it up! That was not just some absurd comment -- he actually did it! I've never seen anyone jack up a piece of furniture before. Live and freakin' learn, right?

I had pushed my other furniture aside to make room for the desk, and when John suggested that I simply leave the new desk alone, as the glue set for several hours, I gasped and clutched at my neck. I did. It was very melodramatic. I said, "Do you think I can leave my room in this kind of disarray for hours? Have you met me?" He chuckled and said that, on second thought, I could go ahead and put my things on the desk while the glue dried, that it'd be okay. The clamp is still on as I type this, after eleven at night. He might take it off tomorrow. I don't think the clamp is actually holding the desk together. I hope.

I cleaned it thoroughly and then set about fixing the broken drawer. For some reason, the roller assembly wasn't screwed to the bottom of it. I'm pretty sure it was supposed to be, but it wasn't, and had never been. I think it had simply held together tightly when new, and now it'd been loosened by use and the move. I asked John where he'd put the glue. He wanted to know why. I explained. He said that wasn't the right kind of glue and he'd be in to look at it shortly. I said, "That's not necessary. This isn't a big deal." Then I used scotch tape to keep the assembly in place as I turned the drawer over and slid it onto the tracks.

John came in a few minutes later and was dumbfounded (yes, I'm choosing my words precisely here) that I'd fixed it without him and his special glue.

I needed his help. Without the truck I wouldn't have the desk at all. And it was free. I appreciate all that. But damn, it would've been so much easier and turned out so much better if I simply owned my own truck.

Bite into This

I want to share a couple of new (to me) discoveries about eating and dieting, in case they might be helpful to someone else.

One is that no amount of watching Dr. Oz and writing down the names of teas and supplements will take the pounds off. You can watch his endless line of chefs and experts prepare dish after "shave 200 calories off" dish, but if you don't stop to think about what you're eating, those 200 calories won't matter one way or the other.

Until you know why you're sabotaging your health, you can't stop overeating for longer than a few days at a time. Sorry, I can't tell you how to figure out what it is you're hiding from yourself. But I'm sure there are books about it, and therapy for the rich or well-insured. I just know that it's the key because discovering my own reason has allowed me to think before grabbing for a snack. As opposed to inhaling half a bag of chips before noticing I was eating.

A more practical discovery is how to give in to a craving without ruining your calorie count for the day. Even if you've figured out why you overeat and can stop and think before each meal, hormones are hormones and sometimes the body screams, "Give me carbs!" in a way that's difficult to ignore. And by "carbs," the body on a hormone spike never means broccoli or a banana.

This won't work if you have brownie mix in the cupboard. But, if you have pancake mix on hand, we're cookin'! I'm assuming that if you're trying to lose weight that you don't bring easy, simple carbs into your house. No cookies, Hostess pies, or donuts. You should at least have to bake the indulgence first, to slow you down and make you think about what you're about to do.

Okay, everyone who knows me knows I'm a chocoholic. Especially dark chocolate truffles, in case anyone is making notes for future reference. Anyway, I pretty much believe that chocolate improves everything. I even put chocolate chips in my brownies, just because. So, chocolate pancakes should be a treat that completely derails your diet and convinces you that a gallon of ice cream for dinner is a good idea. As if anyone actually sells a gallon anymore. They list it in liters so you won't notice it's smaller but the same price.

Let's say you'd normally want to eat four, or maybe eight, pancakes. Depending on the brand you could be looking at anywhere from 400 - 800 calories up to 800 - 1600 or more. And that's before adding the butter and syrup. Don't look at the side of the container and think those numbers have anything to do with you. You're not going to use one tablespoon of syrup or two pats of butter. You're going to add another 1,000 calories easily because of the way that syrup seems to disappear into the pancakes as if you didn't pour any at all, forcing you to pour more. Realistically, you're looking at more calories in this snack than you're supposed to eat all day -- on a maintenance diet, not a weight loss diet.

But the chips will save you. They save me, so I'm confident about this.

Heat the griddle, mix the batter, then throw in some chocolate chips. If you're making 4 - 8 pancakes, one hefty handful should be enough. Mix well. Scoop and pour, flip after a minute and a half, and pile on your plate when done. Dress 'em up with the butter and pour that syrup. By now you've had enough time to think about all the calories (do you even want to know the total after adding the chips?) you're about to consume, how sickly full you're going to feel in a few minutes, how this will lead to even more overeating once you've burped a few times, and how you wouldn't be giving in to this at all if you weren't such a weak person and a disappointment to all who've ever met you. Of course, you still intend to eat them. It's natural.

Here's where the magic happens. You cut into the sweet, golden exterior with the side of your fork, preparing to capture and swirl that big bite in the syrup that hasn't disappeared yet and slide it into your mouth, the perfect combination of creamy fats and carbs settling on your taste buds for a moment before you chew it too fast and gobble up the rest. Except, well, you see the chocolate.

You think melted chocolate is a good thing, I know you do. You're picturing it on a strawberry at this very moment, aren't you? Or covering a cake ball. This is not that. Your brain will see little puddles of brown oozing out of your pancakes and know what they are, but suggest something else before you can put your hands over your ears and sing La la la la la. Being a grown person (notice how I didn't say "big girl?" -- not that men can't benefit from this, too), you will take the bite anyway. And you will find that chocolate doesn't complement pancakes the way it does just about everything else. Even if you close your eyes, it really doesn't.

But your eyes are open, and you will only get another bite or two down before you can't bear that brown ooze swiped across your plate, looking like nothing that ever came into contact with a strawberry, at least in a pretty, plated and ready-to-eat sort of way.

If your craving is very strong, or your frugal nature kicks in and starts adding up the cost of the pancake mix, butter and syrup (it will ignore the cost of the chips -- the chips are worthless at this point), you might try to cut pieces that don't contain chocolate, to eat some regular, old pancakes, the kind you now lament not making to begin with. It won't last past a few bites. The chocolate is everywhere. Melting. Oozing. Trails of it across the plate, remember? You will stop eating.

Throwing the disgusting mess into the trash will not feel like a waste of time and money. It will be both a relief and a victory. At most you consumed 100 -- 200 calories. Sure, it could've been a protein snack and therefore Dr. Oz approved. But your day is not ruined, as far as staying under the magic number of 1200 is concerned. It's pretty much ruined as far as thinking about those chocolate trails and being grossed out is concerned. But that's okay! You beat the craving, and the hormones didn't win! Yay, right?

Now brew some Pru-erh tea, which Dr. Oz says shrinks fat tissue, and pop a konjac root pill (but remember to drink a ton of water with it, since it's going to blow up inside your stomach to make you feel full and the water is part of that), if you think it'll help, and get on with your day.

You're welcome. Anytime I can help, I'm here.