Who doesn't like whales?

A while back Marc and I were eating dinner and Marc mentioned that he needed to get his oil changed. A large portion of his brain is devoted entirely to being responsible so this wasn't surprising. He then eyed me over his salad. "When was the last time you had your oil changed?"

Sometime in ought nine? Bush was still President, I think? Because that was the last time.

A very small part of my brain used to be devoted to responsibility, but the battery in that part of my head got weak and the whole thing started beeping so I smashed it with a hammer.

"Also," I went on, "my steering wheel has become loud and my brakes have started making a noise."

"Like a squeaking sound?" he asked. "When you brake? That's the signal it's time to get them checked."

"Yeah, no," I shook my head. "It's more like a 'GRRREEEEOOOOORRRRREEEEEOOOOW' sound." I crinkled up my face in a menacing manner in an effort to communicate the exact pitch of what comes out of my car each time I use that pedal. Marc looked at me aghast. You'd think after almost ten years, he would be used to the continuous disappointment that I bring to our relationship.

(Really, it's not that big of a worry, the noise. I just do everything in my power to avoid activating the brakes. It's a pretty small car so I only need about one hundred or so yards to coast to a stop.)

This of course started yet another rant, I mean diatribe, I mean conversation about why my car is Old and Needs A Proper Burial, all of which I listened to with a glazed over expression on my face while really I was thinking, "I wonder if Sawyer will take his shirt off on Lost this week?" Marc finished and went back to eating his meal, I'm sure wondering how exactly I manage to get through the day without a minor understanding of How Things Work & When They Need Care. I don't know. I guess as long as a tire doesn't spring loose and go bouncing across the freeway, I'm cool.

I eventually did go and get my oil changed and the brakes looked at, though the steering wheel still puts a stop to conversation each time I have to make a sharp left. I didn't consider this an issue until the other day when my mother was in the car with me (an event which I had prepared for by cleaning the insides furiously, first). We were off, somewhere, and when we reached our destination, she turned to me and said, "You must really hate to talk to people." That's true, yes, but I didn't know why she had made this particular observation and so asked. "Well," she replied, "with how loud your steering wheel is, I can't imagine anyone can get a word in edgewise, what with it sounding like you have a herd whales mating under the hood."

So, I suppose what's she's saying is, it's time to get that fixed.