600 Ways to Cure a Black Eye

I've been driving Clifford lately with one eye socket secured by duct tape. Yeah, Buddy. I'm high tech. Yesterday, as I pulled into Starbucks for some Dave fuel, I was informed I was driving a pediddle.

If you're not familiar with pediddles, they are a morphing entity. When you're young, they are much like punch buggies. When you see one you have license to nail a nearby sibling with a solid hit to the arm. As you grow, so does the importance of pediddles. They become a tally marker for kisses owed you by a significant other. That's pretty cool too. And you don't get grounded by your folks for bruising your kin.

Oh yeah. A pediddle is a burnt out headlamp. And a big fat invitation for a moving violation (he rhymed).

So, on the way into work today, I dropped the big red fella off at a Ford dealer. I won't say which one, but its name has the same consonants as "skin," as in "flay the skin from his body as you charge him for this service." There's only one vowel in the name, and it's repeated. Of course, if you Google Ford dealerships on Security Boulevard in Baltimore, Maryland my secret will be irrevocably revealed.

Anyway, the headlamp assembly was $185. Then there was the marker light beneath it, the high-beam bulb on the driver's side, and the burnt out pickup bed light. And an oil change. Fifteen quarts of lube that I felt might have been better applied when I heard the cost. All told, I left just shy of $700 on the table before I could climb in and drive away.

Over the weekend, I put $97 into the tank for a fill-up. You can tell me all the things I am telling myself.

1. You didn't have to buy a behemoth.
2. You can sell it.
3. If you cared about the earth, you'd be driving a hybrid.

I'd just tell you what I am telling myself.

1. The black eye I was repairing on the old fella would have been a busted jaw on any other vehicle.
2. Yeah, but there are family pets and even guitars I'd sooner part with.
3. My arm span is inadequate for hugging trees.

So there you have it. I'll just have to sit on a pillow for the next couple of days. Meanwhile, I'm cursing the oil executives who, for some unknown reason, are again pricing diesel at or above mid-grade gasoline rates. For a hope-filled instant, it was less expensive than 87 octane. Justice will be meeting one of those fellows in an intersection one day. In Clifford.

So, that is at least part of how I spent my government holiday. Tune in soon for more pissing and moaning about my life. But at least I banked the holiday and will enjoy a longer Thanksgiving or Christmas. ;-)