Flakiness

F and I did the most romantic thing this morning. Last week, I parked my car in Niagara Falls, ON and walked across the rainbow bridge, where he met me with the bike and we zoomed home. The zoom was real life -- poetic perfection in intention, a little bumpiness in the execution, mostly to do with cramming a LOT into one day and then misjudging how early restaurants in rochester close. But it was incredibly sweet to walk across an international frontier and be greeted by my lover.

We had a sweet productive weekend, more riding, some good food, lots of work, if not quite enough. And this morning, he drove me back to the bridge. Walked me to the turnstile, kissed me sweetly and full. I floated across the bridge a little dreamily, trying to ignore everything I need to do this week before we leave for Scotland on Saturday.

But I *did* pause to take a picture -- the falls were gorgeous, the sky was blue, the sun was out, blah blah. I was so delighted to be strolling and not part of the tailback of cars.

I found my car in the parking garage, put my bags in, and then thought I'd go to starbucks for one more coffee and a pee. Accomplished those, negotiated sweetly wit the parking attendant, who was incredulous that I admitted to parking for more than 3 days even though I didn't have my ticket. He undercharged me, I drove away.

And then, well onto the QEW, the phone rang. Mysterious 601 area code. I almost ignored it, but picked it up. Could barely hear. "Catherine, it's Mr. sfdkasflj your passport."

!

Apparently, I'd dropped it somewhere on the sidewalk (outside starbucks? outside immigration?) He found it near the duty free, I guess. I'd been sensible enough to put my sister's phone # in the "in case of emergency" space; the fates shone that she was actually home from Italy and actually HOME.

Mr. 601 area code called me back to tell me he'd left the passport at the Hard Rock Café. Ironically, the site of F's and my first "date" -- the first time we met in person, "halfway." Nearly a year ago, now.

Panicked and over-caffeinated, I circled back, parked again, fetched the precious document from Jeremy or Carlos or whatever his name was, who insisted I show him i.d. "That IS my i.d," I pointed out. I had to produce a visa. Got the passport. Navigated the parking guy who just waved me out, eyes narrowing at seeing the smartcar for the second time in half an hour.

Drove home, busy busy busy... and realized that I hadn't managed to actually take a successful picture of the Falls either Thursday or today. More flakiness.

Oh well, everyone knows what the Falls look like. Add in some dreamy romance and a little preoccupation, and that was me. And now, a HELL of a lot of relief at not having to find out what the hell the "emergency passport" routine is in the boondoggle that is the Canadian Passport Office right now.

I am not sure how I can go from being a person who drive this car:



to a person who drives this car:



in the space of two years. I guess the same way I can go from a person who dates small female artists to a person whose partner is a big ol' alpha male scientist guy. Or maybe I'm just lazy and it was easier to trade in my horrifyingly badly depreciated wee car at the place that sold it to me than to try to offload it on the saturated open market.

Those germans are wily. If I hadn't bought the smart car from them, it never in a million years would have occurred to me to contemplate mercedes for a car. But now I'm their customer, and they somehow converted granola girl to a Serious Brand.

My sales guy was very Solemn. He was rabbiting on about safety features, and when we got to the absurd claim that the hood was designed in such a way that if I -- god forbid -- hit a pedestrian, the hood would absorb 90% of the impact so that there would be less likelihood of head injuries.

Look, Bobby, I said. You have been talking a lot about safety. That's all good -- but is it because I'm female? If I were a guy, would you be talking about performance?

No, he said, straightfaced. I talk about safety because I used to work for volvo.

The only decision left to make is whether I want to spend $500 on roof and bicycle racks and get a free devinci bicycle.

This car comes with everything. I think it even comes with a kid.

Ceci n'est pas un pipe

No, it is a plumbing pipe. And I am death on plumbing, apparently. Like those people who claim they have the kind of electromagnetic fields that cause their watches to skip about like sandpipers and never keep time.

The day after my sister gave birth for the first time (at home), I flew up there to coo over the baby and help out. Using the sprayer hose on the kitchen sink while doing dishes, I broke the whole sink. (Apparently it had one of those invisible-only-the-people-who-live-here-can-see-this DO NOT USE signs on it). My brother in law had to go to home depot and replace the whole faucet etc. On no sleep. Instead of bonding with his new baby.

Last week, my ex came over to replace the guts of my toilet. So friendly. She left, it started leaking, $125 in cash to a plumber plus a tip to my super and the toilet worked.

At F's, the disposer issue that ate my Tuesday, when an attempt to clean out the fridge resulted in two sinks full of vile rotting-meat water. An unassuming internet plumber,a snake, an astonishing amount of money.

Today, no water flowing into my (only) toilet. The super, more fiddling. Problem with the new guts.

Flushing VERY gingerly.

And consoling myself with the thought of buying a new car.