There's Spice Under the Hood

"Hey, wanna come help me fix my car?" I hesitated. This isn't happening to me. No one's ever asked me to fix their car with them. That's what close friends from college do together later down the racetrack of life in front of admiring and wondering progeny. Service was starting. Good, I have 3 hours to think about it while I nap or fight boredom by autoafixiation.

Why did I just think that?

Changing the oil was a badge of honor at 13; changing the radiator, 18 (Nevermind that my prior negligence caused a total engine meltdown right on the MD-32 ramp off I-95. But how do you earn Purple Hearts without some idiot starting a war, huh?). Once upon a college-app time I yearned to elope with Lincoln Tech and be a car mechanic. Then again, once upon a grass-fragrant spring I dreamt of hitting lead-off for the Blue Jays. There is no free will; every choice is a bastard child of conscience and guilt. Forget about your predeterministic Almighty, an All-Azn Mum is way more persuasive. And she cooks better, too; just ask Moses and the manna-fed Israelites.

I played whiffle ball once this entire summer.

I don't know, I'm really busy. I have to fix some things around the house, get ready to go back to Cali, finish reading a book, sleep, sit around, wait for people to IM me..."Ok, no problem, what do you need to fix?" Replace the driveaxle and CV joint...by yourself? "Ok, no problem." Damn, another bastard child.

I love my '04 Matrix, but I've never even changed the oil on him. Problem sets. Convenience. Time is Money. But love leaves no room for excuses, and admission is the first step to recovery. The driveaxle and my attitude both need a replacement, and tomorrow will be the day.

Two mocha fraps and as many tool runs later, the '93 Camry was babied onto two jack stands. One wheel of the hydraulic jack cowered under the immense burden and burrowed into the asphalt. "Well, the jack might be rated for two tons, but the asphalt sure isn't." Well said, Lewis. We went to work. Off came the right front wheel. No sweat. Off came the axle hub nut. Some sweat, but not mine. Off came the support arm nuts...I said, off came the support arm nuts! Big sweat, from both of us. But they were rusted through and just wouldn't budge. One more gnarled effort only left us with a mangled 1/2" to 3/8" ratchet adapter and the hope that Walmart has a lenient return policy.

The Road of Recovery is not lined with tulips and carpeted with rose petals.

To be continued...