Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping, into the future...

Eleven months.  Almost a whole damn year has passed since my Dad left this earth, can you believe it?  Eleven frickin' months.  

I can't.

"They" say that the first year is the hardest. When my Dad first died, I was so impatient. I wanted time to go by quickly so I could get this first year over with, and get all these "firsts" done.  I had just spent years going through all the "lasts" and I just wanted to be done, finished, completed.  Moving forward again.  

Recently -- well, up until Father's Day (see last post), I thought I was starting to do alright.  Meaning that I could think about him without tearing up.  (That's "tear" as in the tears you get when you cry, not "tear" as in what you would do to your clothing when you were upset in Biblical times.)  Not that tearing up is a sign of weakness, but to me personally it feels like other people see it as weakness so I want to be able to talk about my Dad and think about him even without getting tears in my eyes.  Because yes, I'm always and forever going to be sad about losing him, but I'm not sad about the fact that he's not suffering anymore, nor am I sad about the fact that for almost 50 years, I had the best Dad a girl could have ever hoped for.  I am the luckiest kid in the whole got dang world.  Maybe he didn't buy me a pony or teach me how to become a mechanic or let me drive the Corvette, but all that didn't matter in the end.  I was his favorite, and now I get the honor of owning his favorite car.  So there.  I'll be a brat about it if I want to.

But eleven months is hitting me like a tidal wave, and I am completely starting to dread the next month or so.  I don't want to do the first anniversary.  This is starting to feel like the wound was pretty well scabbed over but now it's getting pulled off again -- not just pulled off but dug into and pulled off so that the wound is as big as it was the first time, or even bigger and more raw and irritated than it was before.  Not nice and pink and healed underneath, but just as red and angry as ever, as if it's just been festering for a year instead.  

I have survived 100% of my bad days so far. I will survive this, too.

This is only the first year.  I have to do this for the rest of my life.  Hopefully "they" are right and this will be the hardest one.  Not that August 2nd for the rest of my life is going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure it can't be much worse than it was in 2024.  At least I can hang my hat on that.  If I wore a hat that I needed to hang.  Up.

Siiiiiiiiigh.

I'm so glad I have his car. It has really, really helped.  Really.  More than I ever could have imagined it would.

Sometimes I have these little intrusive thoughts (my new favorite term, now that I've found out that's what they are and I've been having them all my freaking life, lol) about having the Lincoln at a car show and then my sister and her current husband show up and are all like, opening the doors and sitting inside and everything, and I get to swoop in and be like, Excusez-moi? This does not belong to you in any way, shape, or form, so I will thank you kindly to get your sorry asses out of MY beautiful car!  Which I know is totally not the preferred Christian response, but I need somewhere to direct my feelings at right now, and I choose Anger, and I choose my sister because why not.  That's all the explanation I have time to give right now because I have to get back to work.

TTYL!

Drama at the bird feeder

 
Sometimes I wish there was a law that after a person loses a loved one, they could get, like, a stack of passes to use when they needed them for the next year or two for those days when they just don't want to do a certain thing.  You know, like family gatherings or social events or getting out of bed some random morning, things like that.  Things that become less socially acceptable to do the more time that passes.  

On the other hand, I know that it's not good to avoid things that are difficult.  That they usually only get worse the longer you put them off, yadda yadda yadda. 

But, honestly, what would be the harm if I just skipped Father's Day this year?  My son is old enough that he doesn't need me to do anything on his behalf for his father anymore, so honestly, there isn't anything I need to do, anyway.  

I was having a perfectly good and happy first few weeks of summer (or summer-like times since it's not officially summer yet) until I realized that Father's Day is coming up very quickly and that it will be my first Father's Day without a father.  Which is weird to say, because I do have a father, but he's not here anymore.  

I thought Father's Day was hard last year, because he was in that stupid nursing home and had no idea that it was a day different than any other day.  That just made me sad.  HA!  I didn't know what "sad" was at that point.  

Do not tell me that there are things I can do to honor my Dad on Father's Day. I am fully aware of that.  I don't need any ideas for things to do.  I don't want to sit around and be sad all day, but seeing the words "father" and "Dad" and all that crap everywhere I go now is like being reminded over and over and over again that this is another dreaded first, and the the worst and last dreaded first is right around the corner.  I really do want to just run away and hide and avoid the world when that day comes around.  

I think it's on a Saturday this year.  I might need to take that Friday off.  

And in case you're wondering about today's picture, that's what you get when you search Google images on the word "dread".  

And in case you're wondering about today's title, that's what's stuck in my head all morning after watching (in my peripheral vision since I'm also WFH today) the woodpeckers and the red-winged blackbirds battle royale over the empty birdfeeder outside my office window.  I will go refill it when it stops raining.  There are other birdfeeders out there not even 10 feet away that they can go to, anyway.  Not sure why they all gotta fight over the empty one today.  I can't do it right now because I'm a victim of feline paralysis -- there's a sleeping cat on my lap. 

First world car girl problems: I'm going up to church tonight to play on the computer in the AV booth for a little bit (long story, I'll get to that in a second) and I don't know if I should take the Equinox, the Lincoln, or the Maverick.  I want to take the Lincoln, but if it's going to rain I shouldn't because the windshield wipers are on the fritz.  So I could take the Maverick instead, I suppose.  Or the Nox.  

So, yeah.  I'm learning how to put together the "slide show" presentations that play during church services.  The awesome part is I can do this remotely from home.  The down side to that is, I want to see what it looks like on the big screen, which I can only do from church.  And I don't want to wait until Sunday morning during the service to see it and be like, Wow, that was a really unfortunate choice of font shape/size/color I went with there.  Maybe no one else would care but I WOULD!!  Or if anyone else did care, they'd probably blame the worship director and not me, which would be even worse!

Alright, I need to go eat something before lunch break is over.  TTYL!

What a difference two weeks makes, or something like that.

I can't believe I haven't written in here for two weeks.  Actually, I can, because I've been busy.  

We've put something like 300+ miles on the Lincoln so far.  Crazy, right?!  And we haven't even driven that far. Maybe the odometer's broken.  (Kidding!)  (Mostly!!)

Last weekend, we took it to it's very first car show every.  Actually, considering today is Monday, I guess it would've been the weekend before last.  The ad said the gates opened at 8am, and the first 100 entries got dash plaques, and we got there at like 8:15am and were #'s 142 and 143 or something like that.  So I was a little bummed because I was all about the dash plaques -- something to commemorate the Lincoln's first show!  I have a small collection of dash plaques for the Maverick (although not for that particular show...) but really wanted one for the Lincoln.

Mind you, I don't actually put them on the dash(es).  The Maverick's are in the glove box.  But they're fun to have, to prove that she's been in shows and stuff.  Oh well, lesson learned: next year we get there at 7am.

So we parked our cars and, in case you didn't see the pics on FB, here's a pic of me and my cars at their first show together:

We had fun! It was a big show (for a little small town festival), probably 200 cars.  We didn't win anything, but that's OK, it's all about hanging out and having fun. Which we did. We ran into more people we knew than we thought we would!  Our son even showed up for a while, which was awesome.  It's always fun to watch people looking at your cars.  The one thing I love is that so many people have Maverick stories.  So many people either had a Maverick, or someone in their family had a Maverick, or they know someone who had a Maverick.  She gets a lot of "Hey, I remember those!" comments.  Good times!

The next day, we drove the Lincoln back to St. Paul and took my Mom for a drive and out to eat.  Maybe she was just being stoic or whatever, but I thought she would've been a little more excited about riding in the car again.  Then again, I'm way more sentimental (and mental) about cars than she is, so maybe I was just projecting my own excitement and thinking everyone should be as happy as me about the Lincoln being on the road again.  It was fine...I guess.  The air conditioning doesn't work, which I think annoyed her, but whatever.  I did my due diligence.  

The next week at work was crazy. Just busy.  One of those weeks where I was in clinic all week so I was behind on everything else.  I know that eventually the tides turn and I catch up on everything else when I'm not in clinic, but I also want to be the person who is always caught up (which in 9 years and counting, has rarely happened) so it was bothering me.  Which is really nothing new for me, at work.  We were planning on going to another car show on Friday evening, but it was threatening to rain, and I was wanting to get them both waxed before then but it didn't look like that was going to happen, and by the time Friday afternoon came around I was like, eff it, I don't even want to go to the car show...but I didn't want to tell my hubby that.  Because I really did want to go, but I didn't feel ready.  And it was on  a Friday.  I don't like Fridays.  

But we went.  And it was still kinda crazy there.  Not as many cars as the first one, but it seemed like a LOT more people!  Which was alright. We had a great time! Hanging out, eating food truck food, walking around and looking at cars, catching up with people we haven't seen for a while, and again the boy came out to hang out with us for a while after work.  

I even got to cuddle a Boxer for a few seconds!  There was a guy walking by with one, and some kids that were playing nearby wanted to pet it, so I just kind of snuck in there and pushed the kids out of the way (just kidding, I didn't, but I wanted to) and pet her, too.  She was brindle. Her name was Leia. She gave me Boxer kisses and I could've left the show then and my evening would have been complete. Can't forget the hearts...💖💖💖

If you're friends with me on FB, you already know this.  Some time later, when awards were announced, they started at like 20th place and went backward.  I didn't expect to win anything (but still hoped), because at the previous show we were reminded that it's really just a popularity contest, and even though we lived in that town for like almost 20 years, we don't really know anyone there.  We weren't in the car show scene there, and even if we were, we didn't have any of the high-powered muscle cars or jacked-up trucks that took the trophies at the first show we went to.  But you never know, right?  So I was pleasantly surprised when we were called up to take about 5th-6th place with the Maverick!  Yee-haw, take THAT, boys!  (Yeah, I was the only woman up there with the other winners.  Technically both cars were listed with both the hubby and I as owners, but he made me go up to get the trophy.)  

I say it got 5th or 6th'ish because I really wasn't counting, and they weren't giving place standings at that point, just going down the list.  But I'll find out in a few days, probably, because they were taking pics of each of us so it'll probably be in the local paper.  I'll find out for sure.

So then, imagine my surprise when a few minutes later, my name was called (I mean butchered) again for the second place trophy with the Lincoln!  I actually did not believe it and just kind of stood there looking at the hubby and the boy like, What did they just say?!?  Both of my cars got trophies? And the Lincoln took second place?!?  Gosh, imagine if I had actually waxed it like I wanted to! ha ha ha.  

So not only was I the only woman up there, I was the only one with TWO trophies.  My first thought was, oh my gosh! We beat Camaros and Chevelles!  😂 And my next thought was, TO GOD BE THE GLORY!!

And driving home, I was thinking...we got that trophy at about 7:30pm, which is about the time my Dad breathed his last on a Friday much like that one, 44 weeks earlier.  I hadn't thought about it being Friday until then.  There I was, driving home in my little Maverick behind the big behemoth Lincoln that was my Dad's favorite car most of my life, the one that he has been wanting me to take for years and years and years, and now that I finally have it, it has a nice trophy from it's second show, and it's not even cleaned up and shined up and looking as nice as it possibly could.  I don't like to say things like "I know he was there" because I don't know that for sure, because I don't know what happens after we die; as much as I'd like to think he was watching from heaven, I don't know if that's what I believe actually happens in heaven.  But all that aside, I'm going to say that I feel like he would've been proud, too.  He would be happy to know that other people liked the Lincoln and that we're not just letting it sit around and grow more rust.  

Speaking of that, one of my friends asked me this weekend if keeping track of how many weeks it has been since my Dad died has helped.  It occurred to me later that I wasn't intentionally keeping track of how many weeks it had been; in fact, for a while I couldn't help it.  A lot of times I wish I didn't, because it makes me think about it more. But, my brain works the way it works, and I can't change that.

Anyway...I gotta get back to work now.  Long story short version: Car show season is off to a great start!! TTYL

Sometimes it just turns out that way...

So. Last Wednesday I'd decided, to heck with waiting. Last I'd heard the car was probably going to be done on Monday, and it was Wednesday and we hadn't heard any updates.  We were supposed to be leaving Thursday morning to go camping out of town for the weekend and were tentatively putting those plans on hold in case we had to bring the car home. 

In case I hadn't mentioned it yet, the shop is an hour away from home.  So getting it home would take a little planning.  Two drivers and three cars, KWIM?  I mean, we did have the option of taking the car back to my parents' garage until such time as it was convenient for the hubby and I to drive into the city together in one vehicle so I could drive the Lincoln back home.  But who wants to do that?!  I wanted to bring it HOME! Straight home! I didn't want to have to ride into work with him in the morning (because he starts work like three hours before I do) and then take the Lincoln to work and worry about it in the parking lot there all day.  I'm probably overthinking everything, but that's what I do.

Anywho, back to Wednesday.  On Wednesday I decided that I was going to drive by the shop on my way home from work and stop in and see how it was going.  Most normal people would probably just call, right? But I'm not most people and I'm surely not normal!  I wanted the chance to talk to my cousin and besides, I also needed a pic of my car in the shop for the archives.  (I'd say "for the scrapbook" but I don't do scrapbooks.)  So I psyched myself all up for this and was completely pumped, and drove myself over to the North End after work and was cruising in the alley looking for a place to park so I could go inside and see what was going on when...

...my hubby called me.  "Where are you?" he asked me.  Since he'd already known my plans, I told him: "Behind the shop, looking for a place to park. Why?"

"Your cousin just called. The car is done and ready to be picked up."

It took me a minute to process this.  The what is what, now?  The car that I'm stalking right now, is actually DONE?  Instead of going in to see how it's doing, I could go in and actually get it because it's actually done? Ready to drive home?  OMG! I was rendered speechless.  I didn't have the car money with me.  I didn't know what to do.  I didn't want to leave.  I suddenly not only forgot how to adult, I forgot how to human. 

"What...should I do?" I asked my hubby.  "Where should I park?" as if he was with me and could tell me.  The filter between my thoughts and my mouth was failing me. At least I remembered I was behind the wheel of a car.

"I'm about 20 minutes away. I'll come over and pay him and we can figure out how we're gonna do this. You go in and talk to him for a while."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll do that. That sounds like a plan. I'll go park and go in and talk to him for a while. See you in a bit!"

So I did just that. Found a place to park and walked into the shop. Much to the surprise of my cousin, who remarked on how quickly I made it there considering he had literally just got off the phone with my hubby less than five minutes prior.

Long story short, we made plans to pick up the car the next morning instead.  Talked for a while about everything he did to it and what an awesome car it is.  And I totally forgot about getting a picture of it in the shop for the archives.  D'OH!

And the next morning...I brought my baby home!!  Oh my gosh.  I love driving that car.  I wish I could get a job just driving the Lincoln around.  Like being a chauffeur, but not having to actually let anyone else in the car with me.  Maybe my hubby.  Maybe.  ;)  

We did hang around the shop for a bit, catching up with my cousin.  I could write two whole blog entries about that!  I'm resisting the urge to go off on how unfair it is that we weren't in touch when I was younger, but I won't.  Whatever happened, and I'm not really sure what happened and probably never will know, but it's in the past.  I am trying not to have resentment for not knowing family I could have known, but am definitely so very thankful now for the chance to meet long-lost family and to know them now.  God's plan, right? Not mine. I guess there was a reason this all happened the way it did, not just now but in the past as well.  Before me.  I can't sit around and dwell on how the past could have been different.  So I won't.

Anyway...we got the Lincoln home and I snapped a few quick pics for proof, and we got her in the garage and then we turned around and finished packing up the camper so we could head out!

That whole trip is another thing I could write three blog entries about.  We went up to the town where my parents were born and raised -- which is near where we usually go camping for Memorial Day weekend.  There's a little, primitive, off-the-beaten-track campground up there that we started going to about 5 years ago, that we used to go to as a family when I was little, on a lake that my Dad and his Dad used to fish when he was little, and it turns out a whole lot of my family on that side has fished a lot and camped a lot at this place, too.  Shortly after we got the camper we have now, we were looking for places to go camping and I suggested this place because I hadn't been there since I was little.  And that's how it's become our tradition to go there every year now.

Last year we didn't go because the week before, my Dad's health had taken a turn for the worse.  That was the first time, I believe, that I got one of those early morning phone calls from my Mom saying that his oxygen sats were low and he wasn't waking up and they recommended that we come in as soon as we could get there.  He rallied back in a day or two, but we still decided to stay home that weekend.  We went fishing instead, and on that Saturday, my horse Nicker died suddenly.  (Well, I mean, she was 31 years old but she hadn't been acting ill or anything until that day.)

This year, we ended up staying at a different place, though, too, because -- well mostly because I didn't feel emotionally up to going there yet.  That place holds so many memories for me, it makes me miss my Grandpa and nothing else has ever made me miss my Grandpa because I have so few memories of him.  Anyway, the other reason we found a different place was because it was supposed to be in the 30's at night so I found a campground with electric hookups so we could use the heater :D  Good thing, too, because it did get cold at night!! Even with, like, 5 blankets on, I was freezing.  Still had a good time, though. During the day.

During the day, we met up with another cousin whom I haven't seen in literally decades, but at least this one I've been in touch with over the last 15 years or so.  And one of our aunts, whom I haven't seen in 21 years.  She used to live with us when I was little, and she was at our wedding.  I can't tell you how awesome it was, to be reunited with so much family (and it really wasn't even that many people, but it felt like it!) in such a short amount of time.  My heart felt like it was overflowing.  

The feeling of meeting people that are family, whom you've either never met before or haven't seen in a very very long time...it's so hard to describe.  I hope it's one you've never had to experience, because it is heartbreaking to have to experience that in the first place, but on the other hand, it is also such a fulfilling feeling.  For me it has been, anyway. Of course it occurs to me that not all situations would be this way.  But the few that I have had, have been just amazing...like finding pieces of myself that I've been trying to find all my life.  I don't want to say "instant friends" but there is a connection. One that I always longed for growing up, because I knew I had a lot of relatives out there, but I didn't know any of them.  I always wondered what it was like to just see a bunch of people and know you were related to them.  To be familiar with them.  And be comfortable around them.  To be able to be yourself around them and not worry about what they thought of you.

No, I don't have issues, why do you ask?!

Alright. So, short story long...when we got back home Monday, we took the Lincoln to the car wash and gave her the first good bath she's had in about 10 years.  Now she needs a good waxing and detailing but she already looks a million times better!  The new license plates finally came in yesterday, so now it's really officially official: the car is mine.  Legally 100% signed, sealed, and delivered certifiably mine.  

So tomorrow morning we're taking both cars to a local car show. :D  I can't wait! They both need good wax jobs, actually, but that's OK. We're going with the "survivor" aesthetic, and I'll have to find time to wax them both soon!

But not right now because right now, I have to get back to work.  TTYL!

Divine Intervention

I wrote "Happy Friday!" on the book of faces this morning, and I realized that I actually mean it.  For the first time in I don't know how long (just kidding, 41 weeks), I mean it.  I am having a happy Friday, and I hope everyone else is, too.

That's not even the introduction to some wonderful life-changing news, like I won the lottery or got a raise or brought the Lincoln home or anything.  I KNOW, RIGHT?!  Trust me, I am the most surprised of all; nothing remarkable or dramatic has happened, nothing has changed on the outside, yet here I am, having a good day for no apparent reason. 

It's the kind of "happy" I would describe more as "peaceful".  Today, I'm happy to be alive and to be able to enjoy all of the gifts with which I have been blessed.  I asked God for everything so I could enjoy life; He gave me life so I could enjoy everything. I am truly blessed.

I just realized I never shared the link to my previous entry on FB, and apparently if I don't do that, no one ever reads my blog.  I am not good at marketing myself.  That's why I miss Xanga; I could just sit down, write, post, and BOOM! People would find and read my blog their own selves.  I didn't have to be like, Hey! You! Read this!  😲

Anyway, there were a bunch of storms here yesterday.  By "here" I mean in the vicinity of our homeplace, during the time when we were not here.  Storms make me nervous, but not being here when there are storms here makes me even more nervous.  Not to mention that I missed out on some good photo ops.  Well, I don't know if I missed out on any, because I wasn't here, and our ring cameras aren't pointed at the sky, and our house is in a valley so I probably didn't miss any good photo ops, after all.  Long story short, everything was OK in our little corner of the world.  There were tornado touchdowns not too far from here, and one of our friends from church had some damage to outbuildings and lost some chickens, but as far as I know there was no loss of human life in our area.  

I feel like I'm reporting the news now.

Regarding my last blog entry that I didn't pimp on the social medias, and the title of today's blog entry, the parts I was all stressed out about ordering for the Lincoln made it to the shop safely yesterday morning. And...drumroll, please...they were the right parts!

Now, I feel like it's sacrilegious (which looks like it's spelled all kinds of wrong, but I triple-checked) to say this, but sometimes I wonder if our loved ones in Heaven don't have a hand in what happens down here, too.  Ya know?  We don't know what Heaven is truly like, who's to say that someone like, oh, say, my Dad wouldn't, like, tap God on the shoulder sometime and be like -- Hey, I know you've got a lot on your plate right now; how about if I take over this one for a little bit?  And then when I'm sitting here trying to find parts online that I know nothing about, he just, like, waves his hand and BAM! makes the parts I need show up when I need them to, and tells me those are the parts I need, and makes all that fall into place while God is off doing way more important things for someone else while I just need a couple of helpful favors.

I don't like the thought of being sacrilegious. But I do find so much comfort in thinking that my Dad still has a hand in all of this.  From finding the right mechanic, to helping me find the right parts...it's just a peaceful kind of comfort.  I obviously don't want to mess anything up on the Lincoln.  It was his baby, and now it's mine.

Which is another unexpected surge of emotion I had this week.  We got the new title.  The one with my and my hubby's names on it.  I thought I'd be overjoyed to get this damn piece of paper.  It just made me sad.  It felt almost like a betrayal.  It almost felt wrong.  Like, that's my Dad's car, but that's my name on the title.  Like all those times he said, "Someday this is going to be yours..." and I always rolled my eyes because "Someday" meant -- well, it meant when he was no longer of this Earth.  So there was more proof that he's gone, not like I need more proof, but there it was.  In my hand.  In my house.  In something that I've been happy about and looking forward to.  "This car's going to be yours someday..."  Yep, well, "someday" is here, the car is mine, and my Dad is gone.  

Inheriting cool stuff sucks. You're happy to have it, but the reason you have it pierces your heart. 

I'm afraid I'm going to feel like that driving it and showing it.  I hope I don't.  So far I haven't, but so far I've only driven it the 5 miles or whatever from my parents' house to my cousin's shop.  And I've felt anything but heart-pierced then.  The first time, I was nervous, yes, because it's such a big car and I didn't want it to break down.  But it felt natural driving it.  It feels like I am meant to drive that car.  The second time driving it, I felt so comfortable... not just because it has big, plus seats, lol.  Like comfortable in my soul.  Comfortable like how you feel when you're in the right place at the right time doing the right thing with the right people and the right intentions.  

Comfortable as if my Dad was right there with me, and nothing could ever go wrong in the world again.

Until we pulled up to the stop light and the engine started spitting.  It had half a tank so I knew it wasn't running low, but I also knew it had 10+ year old gas in it, that even my mechanic cousin said he was amazed that the car runs and drives with that stuff in it's veins.  Was this it?  Was it's time drawing near?  Come on, baby, I said, rubbing the dash.  We're going to the shop to get all fixed up.  You can do this.  Just a few more miles on this old crappy gas and I promise, you'll feel better than new again.

And at the next stop light...she sounded even worse. I started formulating my back-up plan: instead of sitting at the red light (because she only did it when she was idling), I'd have to deviate from the planned route, turn right, and avoid red lights as much as possible.  

It was a tense few minutes, but we made it.  I knew we would :)

Gotta get back to work.  It's still a happy Friday, even though I'm crying.  My hubby was in the neighborhood so he stopped and checked in on her, and my cousin hopes to have her done on Monday.  Here's hoping!

Maybe my Dad was right...

I know I've written in here before about how, when I was little, I wanted to be a mechanic when I grew up, because that's what my Dad was.  And how he made it very clear that he did not want me to be a mechanic when I grew up.  He even made up a song about it; well, he didn't make up the song, he just changed the lyrics to an already-written song.  You may or may not have heard it, it's called Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.

Only my Dad's version was, of course, "Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be mechanics..."

And I've probably written this before, too, but he was onto something there.  I have, like, no innate mechanical drive.  Nothing has ever made me want to take something apart just to put it back together again.  I'm not a frilly girly-girl, but I also don't like my hands being dirty (although if I have a good pair of gloves I'll touch just about anything...) and I get frustrated easily when things I'm working on don't go the way I want them to.  Which happens a lot when dealing with cars.  Whether it's a stripped screw or not being able to find the right O-ring you need to put your fuel tank back together, it can make a person go to "I love my car" to "Don't talk to me" in 0.002 seconds flat.

I know, because I've been there. This ain't my first rodeo, but it's my most recent, so it's the one keeping me awake at night.

I'm happy to say that I am playing a part in the Lincoln Saga -- I'm the Elusive Parts Finder.  I've been training for this all my life.  Sort of.  I used to help out at my Dad's shop all the time, usually by cleaning (sweeping all the floors and cleaning the countertops and the "reception" area, and answering the phones, and accompanying him on parts runs, and watching him fix cars when I wasn't doing that kind of stuff.  Parts runs looked easy back then. He'd call one of his guys (depending on the part -- he had guys for new parts, guys for used parts, guys for domestic parts, guys for imported parts, and guys specifically for VW parts).  It's how I learned what "networking" is, honestly.  Sometimes we'd just have to wait for the nice guy in the Napa truck (remember when Napa trucks had the hats on them? I do!) to bring the part over, sometimes we'd have to go to the parts store to pick it up, and sometimes -- my favorite times -- we'd have to go to the junkyard to get the part ourselves.  Usually the part would already be pulled in that case, but sometimes we got to walk around the junkyard and look for a car that might have the part we needed.  Then one of the guys working there would come cut it out with a sawzall if my Dad didn't wrench it out himself.  ;) 

That's why my first reaction upon hearing the Lincoln needed a new gas tank, was to hit the junkyard.  Then I remembered that it's 2025 and they probably don't let you wander junkyards anymore, and if they do, the chances of finding an old Lincoln with a gas tank worth pulling (or having pulled) at a junkyard are probably next to none.  And that, even if I knew who my Dad's guys had been, they're probably not in the parts game anymore, either.

But...I have something they didn't have.  I don't have to sit on the phone all afternoon like my Dad did, calling different shops in town, trying to find parts that seemingly no one has in stock, getting more and more frustrated and dejected because I can't find what I need and/or get it here as fast as I need it.  Because I have *ahem* The Internet.  

Therefore, I can sit online all afternoon, searching different shops around the country, trying to find parts that seemingly no one has in stock, getting more and more frustrated and dejected because I can't find what I need or I'm not exactly sure it's what I need and/or get it here as fast as I need it.  

Not being mechanically inclined and ordering parts online is a challenge, though, I tell you what.  It was bad enough when ordering the gas tank online.  There is a lot of faith involved there.  If you've never ordered car parts online, most sites have you put in the year, make, and model of your car and then they sort out the parts available for you based on that.  But they're not always right, go figure.  I know that some parts can fit many different years and models, but not all can.  But it's hard to order something not knowing what exactly it is replacing.  Anyway, long story short here is that I did actually order the correct gas tank sight unseen, but it was stressful. There's a lot on the line there; if it was the wrong one I'd have to send it back which is a pain in the ass, and would also delay this project even further, and make me look like a dumbass.  On top of that, there were other things that needed to go with it that I wouldn't have known to order if my hubby hadn't been right there beside me (like the sending unit, although had he not been in the room with my I probably would have ordered it anyway because it sounded like something that needed to go with it) (and i'm not just saying that to sound cool, lol).  I was so relieved and happy when we determined that it was, indeed, most likely the right gas tank.  And after we dropped the Lincoln back off at the shop on Monday, and I didn't hear any word about it being the wrong gas tank, I was more and more confident and even a little proud of myself.  Of course I had Someone up there helping me, I can't take all the credit. Heh.

Then my hubby called and said everything was a mess with my car.  (It's MY car when things aren't going right.  Otherwise it's OUR car.)   I was like...WHAT?! Don't do this to me.  

Apparently there were other parts we were supposed to order. I don't know if they were supposed to come with the gas tank and didn't, or what.  But I furiously took notes and said I'd get right on the internet and get them ordered tout de suite.  (Luckily, or not as it would turn out, he called with this right at the end of my workday.)  

One thing I needed to find was a bung plug for the gas tank. Yes, I wrote that down correctly and even had him spell it. I've never heard of an effing bung plug, so I figured it'd be easy to find.  HA!  I found bung plugs for oxygen sensors, bung plugs for Camaros and Mustangs, and soon found myself with fifteen tabs open trying to figure out what exactly a bung plug was and what purpose it served and what other names it could possibly go by.  

The other part was easy enough. Not an O-ring, but the rubber boot that goes from the filler neck to the gas tank.  By some miracle, I found both of these parts (or what I was most certain was the plug I needed but by another name) at the same online store.  In Florida.  The parts totalled less than $75 (nice) but the cost for overnight shipping was $380 (WHAAAAAAAAT) so I opted for not overnight shipping because that seemed insane. Right? In the meantime, hubby and I were texting back and forth and he was like, When you find the parts, you should have them overnight to the shop.

But...I shared the above information with him.  And then he shared how much per day it costs just to have the Lincoln in the shop.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think we're being overcharged at all for shop fees. I get it.  Suffice to say that we all want the car out of the shop ASAP.  So it *gulp* made sense to have it overnighted. 

Hold on, the story does get better, and that's not sarcasm.

You might be wondering why I didn't call my mechanic/cousin at this point just to make sure I had the right parts, right? I did think of that.  But it was well after 5pm by this point and no one was answering the shop phone. And I don't have his personal cell phone number yet.  So, relying on faith, I put in the order. And thought about it allllllll night, hoping it would get there, hoping they were the right parts.  

Fast forward to this morning. I tried calling the parts place right away because in my rush to order last night, I put the order in twice and couldn't cancel the extra one.  Also, I wanted to get tracking info for the order so I could let my cousin know.  There was no answer and no voicemail.  So I sent a couple of possibly passive-aggressive emails...lol.

A few minutes later, the guy from the parts place in Florida called me.  Turns out the overnight shipping fee was going to be WAY less -- try $60 instead of $380!  Unfortunately, since my order got to them after 5pm, it wouldn't get there today but will tomorrow. And then he even called my cousin directly to update him, and after they discussed it, it does sound like they are the right parts, after all.

So! While waiting for those parts to be delivered, there are other things on the Lincoln that my cousin can work on.  And I'm still praying that I found the right parts, and that they get there tomorrow morning, and that some day real soon I'll have that damn car in my own possession.  Which feels like it will be a minor miracle at this point.

Gotta get back to work! TTFN!

 

Nurses Week 2025. We put the "fun" in "dysfunctional"!

I always say that I never wanted to be a nurse when I was little, but somewhere in the oldest of my memory banks, I do have a memory of playing with a little dress-up nurse "costume" when I was little. If I remember correctly, it had the little white nurse's cap and a blue cape.  Maybe a little case to go with it.  I had the feeling that it had been, like, my Mom's, or something?  Maybe not, but I don't think it was new to me. It might have been something that had been new to my sister. Most of the toys that had anything to do with dolls or dressing up or anything, for lack of a better term, "girly" would've been hand-me-downs from my sister.  

And I also remember that one year for Christmas, I received the little "doctor" kit. I think it's by Fisher Price? The one with the little toy stethoscope and BP cuff and syringe and I don't remember what else.  One of the doctors at work has one in his office now.  The stethoscope really worked. 

When I was a senior in high school, I decided I was going to go to school to be a medical assistant after I graduated.  I knew I wanted to do something in healthcare but didn't know what, and that was a quick program.  I could get my foot in the door and figure it out from there, I supposed. 

But, that never happened.  A month before we graduated, I was in a car accident (you know what, that was actually exactly 32 years ago yesterday) and I spiraled downward quickly thereafter.  Physically, I mean I didn't end up in the hospital nor did I break any bones. I was T-boned on the driver's side (someone ran a stop sign and hit my car) and I hit my head on the driver's side window, and I was all kinds of sore for a long time afterward.  I used to have all the medical records but they washed away in The Flood of 2020.  I had an abnormal EEG afterward and had to go to physical therapy and saw a neurologist and had MRIs and CT scans and TENS therapy treatments and sued the guy and a few years later got some money.  My first car and love of my life at the time, my 1977 Maverick, was totalled.  I got addicted to pain killers and muscle relaxers and fell into a deep depression, and ended up not going to college for anything at all.  But THAT, my friends, is another story.

A few years later, actually it wasn't even that many years later, it just feels like it for all the unwise decisions I made in the interim... anyway, a while later I found myself ready to pull myself out of the muck in which I had fallen and ready to retry the whole Responsible Adult thing again.  I found a program at a local nursing home where they'd put you through Nursing Assistant Certification class if you worked for them for a certain amount of time.  Why not, I thought.  Healthcare was still calling me.  

So I did it. I became an NA/R, which was early 90's Minnesotan for Nursing Assistant, Registered.  I worked in a locked dementia unit at a nursing home for my first job.  I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it, either.  I wasn't sure it was my calling, but it was better than working retail.  

I'm not going to go through every month of my employment history for you. This isn't my frickin' resume.  (You can find that on LinkedIn. ha! ha!)  I'll just skip along and say that as a CNA -- sorry, as an NA/R in Minnesota, I worked in a couple of nursing homes, and I also worked as a Home Health Aide.  I really enjoyed working in home health, except that I was putting a LOT of miles on my vehicle at the time (which was a 1984 VW Vanagon pop-top weekender...) which was not cool.  We didn't have a good vehicle to drive the crap out of at that time.  I mean, the Vanagon was a good vehicle, and funner than heck to drive, but I didn't want to pile 100+ miles on it every day.  

Wait, am I talking about nursing, or cars? I forgot for a second. ;)

I said I wasn't going to write out the loooooooong version of my resume here, which is what I ended up doing. Two days later and, delete, delete, delete.  The short story version is, I worked as a CNA in the mid-90's, then switched careers for a minute, then married my hubby and had the boy and became a stay-at-home Mom for a while, and then a couple minutes later, decided to go "back" to nursing school.  

Nursing school was Hell.  I used to think it was the worst time of my life, but now I can most confidently say it is NOT the worst thing I have been through.  This is worth saying, so I'm going to leave this part in.  You see, as far as school goes, I was used to not having a problem with it.  I breezed through elementary school like nothing; the work was never hard, the tests were always easy, I loved learning and always got the best grades and toward the end of those years, my teachers were saying I could go to Harvard if I wanted.  Then middle school hit, and school got challenging.  And I had never been challenged in school before, so I retreated into things other than school.  When the going got tough, I got outta there. Mentally, anyway.  By the time I recovered and realized I just had to "apply myself", I was midway through my junior year of high school and, while it was too late to recover all of the academic damage I had done (no more Harvard in my sights...) I did manage to get good grades again and redeem myself, at least in my mind, as Someone Who Could Accomplish Something If I Put My Mind To It.  That was big at that point in my life, but that's another story.  

I tell you this because by the time I hit nursing school, I was in my 30s and had been out of school for a while, but my experience with it was that it could be hard but if I just stuck to it and focused and worked hard, I could do it.  

Insert laughter here.

Generals were pretty much like that. And then I hit the core nursing classes, the ones that meant the most, the ones I knew would be the foundation on which the rest of my life (well, my nurse life anyway) would be grown, and testing went just like this:

And if you got the wrong answer, you were DONE.  

I never had test anxiety until nursing school.  That is why I cried almost every other day.  That is why I wanted to drop out almost every other week.  It was the longest two years of my life.  I can't tell you what all happened those two years because I don't remember it.  It was a blur.  A blur of books and papers and tears and some alcohol may have been involved, too.  And I made a few friends whom I will always cherish because without them, I would NOT have stuck with it and graduated on time.  Somehow with honors.  But I tell you what, during those two years of nursing school, my Dad had open-heart surgery and my beloved dog Portia died, and my husband's grandparents died, and one of my ponies died, and I don't know what else happened in our family but it was rough. And the only thing that had to matter was nursing school.  It was crazy.  I don't know if I'd do it again.  

Anyway.  The whole working in nursing experience has been interesting for me.  As a CNA, I've worked in nursing homes, both in the "general" population (for lack of a better term" and on the locked dementia units that they now like to call "memory care".  I've worked in home health and in hospice.  I've worked primarily with adults although I did have a couple of peds patients back in the home health days.  And then I worked in the hospital, on med-surg and very occasionally helping out in the ER as a CNA.  As a nurse, I worked first in med-surg and then I cross-trained to OB and post-partum, and to the ER, and charge nurse, and sometimes I got to work in the PACU which was an interesting change.  In nursing school, I always thought I wanted to work in the OR, but that chance has never really come up -- or when it has, I've not felt like it was my true calling, after all.  I've worked all three shifts: days, PMs, and nights.  The hospital where I worked was just getting into 12-hour shifts when I left, but I kinda liked the 12-hour shifts.  It was nice to work your ass off and then be done for a while.  

And now, as you probably now, I've been at a specialty care outpatient clinic for the last 9+ years. In neurology.  Epilepsy, to be more precise.  Sometimes I get asked if I chose epilepsy for any specific reason -- and my answer is, nope!  It just worked out this way.  I was half-heartedly looking for another job and even though I didn't have neuro experience, I applied for this one, and I was offered the job the same day I interviewed.  And here we are!

So, that's a little summation of my nursing experience.  What I do on a daily basis now is so different from what I used to do working in the hospital, but it's just as hard.  Don't ever let anyone tell you that clinic nurses have it easy, because we most certainly do NOT. Being a nurse is hard, no matter where we work.  

I know, all jobs can be hard.  I'm not trying to belittle other jobs.  Everyone has their calling, and I do believe mine is in nursing.  I know it's not in construction, or teaching, or sales, or a number of other things it could that just don't make me feel warm and fuzzy and fulfilled while also allowing me to support my family the way nursing does.  I feel fortunate to have a career where I can be myself and try to help straighten out chaos and help others understand complicated things.  

So, if any of my fellow nurses (including, of course, nursing students, nursing assistants, nurse practitioners, retired nurses, etc.) are reading this -- I hope you celebrated yourself somehow this week!  Nurses are awesome people and most of the non-nurse people we know wouldn't last ten minutes at our jobs. I'd say more, but my break is over and I have to get back to work now 😇😜

Petition to add "Annoyance" as one of the stages of grief.

For serious.  Although I'm sure if I gave it a little effort, I could make "annoyance" fit into one of the already-established stages of grief, if it's not there as a subset already.  But, damn! That was me this weekend.

Friday was May 2nd.  It was a Friday, which I generally dislike because it was the day of the week on which my Dad died; and it was the 2nd day of the month, which I generally dislike because it was the day of the month on which my Dad died.  Having not yet experienced both of those "milestones" (for lack of a better term) landing on the same day since The Day, I found myself cautiously dreading Friday, May 2nd.  Which I do realize wasn't helping myself at all, psychologically or spiritually.  I tried to treat it like any other day, but it was just there at the forefront of my mind all day, and the tears were just welled up under the surface and ready to let go for any reason. 

So of course I was scheduled to work in the office that day!  I had a good cry on the drive to work.  I was scheduled to be training/overseeing a new employee, who has actually been there a week or so now and didn't need direct-direct supervision so I worked from my own office which was both a blessing and a curse.  One of my officemates was there in the morning, which was good because then I could keep myself focused on work and not crying, but then they left to go work from home in the afternoon, which was good because I wanted to be alone but I also didn't want to be alone.  

I won't recount the whole entire day.  It was relatively uneventful, just heavy with feelings for me; feelings of not knowing exactly what to do about how I felt.  Feelings of Damn, I thought I was doing okay but this has me totally uprooted again. 

So I did what any normal (hahaha) person would do: I Googled the address of the person who bought my Dad's Tahoe and drove by their house on the way to my Mom's after work (to take her to run some errands) so I could at least see my Dad's old truck again.  That's normal, right?  Don't answer that. I know it's not.  But I needed to do SOMETHING.  It was either that or drive past the nursing home, and I wanted to see something that had good memories attached to it.  (And before you think I'm a super serial stalker, my Mom sold the Tahoe to their neighborfriend's brother, who lives about a mile from their house; they have a super memorable last name, so it was easy to remember and Google. And for all I knew it was parked in a garage and I wouldn't be able to see it, anyway.)

I saw it once parked on the street near my parent's house.  The Tahoe.  Wasn't expecting that.  I loved it!  Loved seeing it parked there, loved seeing it out and about.  

I also loved seeing it when I drove by it's new owner's house.  Still looking beautiful and clean and new even though it's like 20 years old.  It wasn't quite the same since it has different license plates (my Dad had Purple Heart plates on it, so we got to keep them. Otherwise in Minnesota, the plates do go with the vehicle) and the guy added a different decal on the back window, but it still has the Dale Earnhardt dealership badge on the back that I really wanted to take off and keep before it sold (but they couldn't get it off so I had to settle for not getting to keep it) and it still has the "God needed a driver" #3 decal on the driver's side back window.  So it was familiar enough that I'm glad I saw it but still didn't make me so upset that I had a breakdown right then and there. Which is just what I needed.  

Oh, and the guy owns a security company, so I really wasn't worried about what he'd think about me driving by and looking at his truck, and then turning around and looking at it again. I'm sure I was on video somewhere.  I didn't get out of my car, just drove by and slowed down.  If someone is going to get mad because someone wanted to look at their late father's former vehicle on the 9-month anniversary of his passing, well, they can go ahead and get mad.  

But I was just edgy all weekend.  On the verge of crying over everything.  Nothing I did was right.  It seemed like everytime someone asked me to do something, they were mad at me or criticizing me and I just wasn't in the mood for it.  

On top of that, we went to my husband's uncle's memorial service on Saturday.  I was so very tempted to call out on the grounds that I was too emotional due to it being so close to a milestone of my own Dad's death, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to do that.  Besides, I went to his other uncle's funeral just a few days after my Dad died, so, that didn't seem like a valid reason.  I'M KIDDING.  I mean I'm not kidding because his uncle (his mom's sister's husband) really did pass away the day before my Dad and I did go to his funeral which was just a few days after my Dad died.  And I know that if I really was upset, I could've stayed home from his mother's brother's memorial service on Saturday. But it was more important to be there for my hubby and his family.  I'm glad I went. I knew it would be.  It was better to be around people than holed up at home where I probably just would've stewed and cried. And maybe blogged about it.

Crabby. I just realized, that's the word I've been wanting to use instead of annoyed.  Oh, well.  It is what it is.

But it's weird when you hear other people talk about things related to your loved one's death and things about it, though, isn't it? It's one of those things that makes it "more real".  

My "for instance" is that in a group conversation recently, someone said something my inheriting the  Lincoln from my Dad.  

My first gut instinct was to argue that point.  I didn't "inherit" the Lincoln; he gave it to me.  It's basically been my car forever, or the last 15-20 years anyway.  It's just been at my parents' house and in my Dad's garage and still in his name because we didn't have a good place to keep it.  And I haven't driven it because it's been needing some work. That we haven't done because we didn't have a place to keep it so we just left it where it was.

I didn't inherit the Lincoln.  It's been meant to be mine forever.

I didn't inherit the Lincoln.  People only inherit things when other people die and no one else wants them.  My mom doesn't want to keep the Lincoln because she doesn't drive and because forever Dad had been saying that he's going to give me the Lincoln; we just had never made it official.

Until he died.  Oh, shit.  I did "inherit" the Lincoln. 

All the feels. Well maybe not all of them, but a lot of them.

That's how my week has been.  So many of the feels!  Some of them all in one day.  Why do they gang up on a person like that?  

God has blessed me beyond measure.  Beyond my wildest dreams.  I am richer than I ever thought possible...I am practically* the owner of not just one but TWO classic cars. 

* Pending the receipt, processing, and approval of the various applications submitted to the State to that end; however, I do currently possess insurance, and temporary licensing and registration in my name of said second motor vehicle!

What's the opposite of IYKYK...IYDKYDK?  

Is this what it feels like when you have your second child?  The funny part is that you think I'm joking.  (Alright, you caught me; as usual, I'm mostly joking.)  There are actually a lot of parallels, and not just because I'm overly sentimental when it comes to motor vehicles.  Do we have room for another car?  How will we make sure the first car still gets the attention it needs?  Am I paying too much attention to the "new" car?  Am I comparing? Showing favoritism?  OK, so all but the first question is totally playing into my over sentimentality when it comes to motor vehicles.  (And to answer the first question, Yes. We do.)  I will feel bad if we fix up one car and not the other.  I can't wait to take BOTH of them to shows together, although that's not always going to be possible.  

Alright. So. If you're friends with me on the book o' faces, you've been privy to a little bit of what's going on with the Lincoln Saga.  Last week, I went to the DMV to get the title transferred over, only to find out I needed one form that I didn't have.  The ironic part is that I actually had printed out and completed that form but then, at the last minute, decided that I probably didn't need it.  Hey, transferring titles from one state to another is confusing enough without throwing in the fact that one of the owners listed on the title is deceased.  The form I needed was for Minnesota which was ultimately why I decided we didn't need it, but alas, I was wrong.  So I had to get this form signed and notarized and then went back this week to try again.  

That's when I learned that they couldn't actually do the title transfer there at the physical DMV office -- but then could check my paperwork to make sure it was all correct, do the math and tell me how much I would owe, and print out temporary registration and license so I could legally operate the vehicle.  And before you get all weird about "Why couldn't they do it there, that's insane, blah blah blah," chill out!  No big deal.  That's because it's Special.  Two words: collector plates.  And since I already have collector plates on my other baby classic car, I'm what they call a serial car collector now.  The plates on the Lincoln have to be custom made because they will be the same as the plates on the Maverick but subset with an "A".  Is that freaking cool, or what?!  Hashtag IYKYK.  

So that was early in the week.  About midweek, my hubby called the shop and the super nice guy* working there said he could probably get it in later in the week.  Good thing I had that temporary license, registration, and insurance card :).  Because the next day my hubby texted me and said that the super nice guy* called and said he could get the car in the next morning at 8am and, I quote, "How are we going to handle that?"  Hmmmm.  Drop it off the night before, I suggested.  Not unless you want to leave it on the street all night, hubby countered.

St. Paul people, let me explain this in as few words as possible, because few words will be needed.  Rice and Maryland (more or less).  I could not type "That's a big hell no!" fast enough.  So, we quickly figured out Plan B: hubby would go in to work late and I would turn my WFH day into a WFW day, and we'd meet at my Mom's house in the morning and drive the Lincoln to the shop (on a wing and a prayer -- remember this thing has 10yo gasoline in it!).  So that's what we did.  That was yesterday.  I was so nervous!  Not just because I haven't driven a Lincoln in a very long time -- I traded my '79 Mark V in on something else, I don't remember what right now, but that was about 30 years ago; and I did drive the Town Coupe once after we moved out to Baldwin but that was a while ago, too -- but because this thing is a beast, I was nervous about navigating the Land Yacht on the suddenly very small streets of the city, and I was nervous about it breaking down on the way, and I was just all around nervous.  Call it PTSD from the car accident in 1993 when my first Maverick was totalled, but the thought of driving a classic car and something like that happening to it again makes me physically ill.  But once I got in there, it was mostly fine.  It's such a comfortable ride, you can't help but relax in it.  We made it there sans incident. The super nice guy* wasn't there when we dropped it off, so we left it in the presumed capable hands of his presumed cohorts and left.

* Alright, I'll explain.  The "super nice guy" is my cousin on my Dad's side.  I supposedly last saw him when I was about 6 years old, at my uncle/his father's funeral, but neither one of us recalls this.  That would've been 44 years ago, so can you blame either of us?! I was 6 and he was about 19 but probably a little preoccupied at the time.  

I got a text message from the hubby later that morning.  You see, even though the super nice guy was, in fact, family, we were kind of keeping that fact on the down-low.  We knew who he was, but he didn't know who we were.  Not for any malicious reasoning, just your typical dysfunctional family stuff that I don't feel like getting into at the moment (see above paragraph for all the info you need right now).  The message said that the super nice guy mechanic had called my hubby because he found a label under the hood with my parents' name and address, and how cool it was to be working on my Dad's car. 

Y'all...I cannot tell you how much joy and relief filled my little black heart at that moment.  Because one of my two biggest fears about this whole thing was that once the super nice guy/mechanic found out who I was, he would want nothing at all to do with me, my husband, or the car.  So getting that particular text message from my hubby let me breathe a little bit easier.  

It also made me wonder -- who the heck puts an address label under the hood of their car?!  Did it say, "If found, please return to:"?  "Property of:"?  "This car belongs to:"??  And speaking of feeling the feels, I felt proud and amused all at the same time. Because my parents, well my Mom actually, has given me crap all my freaking life for being the person who labels everything that is mine.  Hey, if you grew up with my sister, you would've done the same thing.  Anyway, at that moment, I was vindicated.  I come by it naturally.  The man labelled his car; your argument is no longer valid.  I am my father's daughter.

And so the day went by and I eagerly waited to hear how the check-up went.  Everything was coming up roses so surely nothing could ruin the day, right?

Except the second thing I feared about the whole saga was that the Lincoln would be Beyond Repair.  

There are few things worse than being told a beloved vehicle is Beyond Repair (or Not Worth Fixing).  I've been there a few times.  The '77 Maverick after the accident.  The '07 Monte Carlo after the accident.  I'm sure there were others, but those are the two that come to mind.  I never really thought that was an option with the Lincoln.  It was golden.  Perfectly preserved.  My Dad took the best care of that car.  Need proof? It runs on 10-year-old gas.  Sure, he had stabilizer in the gas so it wouldn't go bad, and sure, that gas is definitely still bad and smells like something I've never smelled before after you drive the car for a few minutes, but it runs and it runs smoothly and I dare you to find another vehicle that is as well-kept as that Lincoln. Go ahead.  I'll wait.  

Except then my hubby texted me: Call me when you get a chance.

Not a good text to receive. Ever.

I had a chance right then and there, miraculously.  And what I was told next almost broke my little black heart.  All I remember was: gas tank rusted out; fuel pump bad; exhaust system rusted out; entire underneath rusted out from being stored on concrete all it's life.  In fact, that's what I wrote on the nearest piece of paper I could find.

And for the next few hours, I was scared. Scared that it was going to be...gulp...Beyond Repair.  Because even though it was beautiful as far as I could tell, and even though we got it running, and drove it to the shop, I knew enough to know that the entire bottom being rusted out could be the kiss of death.  I was mad at myself for not taking the car years and years ago, when my Dad first told me I should take it.  I was mad at my Dad for parking it on concrete and not paying closer attention to these things.  I was mad at the world because it wasn't fair, this was NOT supposed to end this way!  I was just mad.  I have no idea what it would take to replace the frame of a 1978 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe, but I'm pretty sure it's not easy or inexpensive, or quick.  Because I don't know much about cars, but I know that the frame is a kind of vital piece of hardware.  Alas, my hubby was going to go to the shop where my cousin still had the car up on the lift, and they were going to discuss a few things and he was going to get back to me.

UGH.

Well...that was yesterday afternoon.  Right now, the Lincoln is back in my Dad's garage at my parents' house.  It still needs a new gas tank and straps, a new muffler and pipes, a new fuel pump, new shocks, and has a couple of random leaks. BUT...the rust underneath is not nearly as bad as I was fearing.

It is NOT Beyond Repair. It is Most Definitely Worth Fixing.  And, none of our appendages will have to be sacrificed in order to do so.  

That was about the 17th time that day I wanted to cry.  The big obstacle right now is that it needs a new gas tank, and you can't just call the local parts store anymore and order one up.  Go figure!  My cousin has a couple of feelers out but said we'd probably have more time and better luck finding one than he will, and since he needs the shop space we brought the car back home (well, like I said, to my parents' house) until we find the parts and can proceed.  So I'm a little bummed because I thought I'd be bringing home a ready-to-drive car, but it all makes sense.  Besides, my mantra through this whole saga seems to be, I've waited this long, what's a little bit longer?! 

And seriously, too, my cousin is the nicest guy.  His shop is super busy -- he was telling us yesterday that he turns away more work than he actually does these days.  So the fact that he even agreed to look at the Lincoln before he knew it was a family thing...that was totally a God thing.  I was wondering if I was making the right decision by doing this, and today I can say that I know I am.  I asked God to give me just a little sign, if it was His will to do so, to let me know if I was on the right track, and He did.  It's all good.  I know my Dad would approve, and I know the Lincoln is going to get the best care it could get.  

It is well with my soul.

I hope it is well with yours, too. 

That's all there is, and there ain't no more...

If you know me in real life, or even just through the book of faces, you probably already know that I like cars.  I always have.  

And if you knew my Dad in real life, you know that he also liked cars.  He taught me everything I know about cars, pretty much.  When I was little, I wanted to be a mechanic when I grew up. I think I've mentioned that in here before. But my Dad didn't want me to be a mechanic.  That used to crush my heart.  Why didn't he want me to grow up and be like him?  We could work together!  I could be the bad-ass girl who knows how to work on cars! I wouldn't have to rely on him, or any other man, to fix my car for me!

Oh, well.  Being a nurse is kinda like being a mechanic.  I get to try to fix broken people, in a way.  Keep them running like they should be.  Try to figure out what's wrong with them when they're not.  I mean, I'm not the one doing the diagnosing (that's a word, right?) but I'm part of the team that tries to make sure the treatment plan is being followed and all that.

Short story long...in the fall of 1980, my Dad (well, both of my parents, actually) bought this certain car.  It's a maroon 1978 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe.  I was 6 years old when they brought this car home.  At first, I was bummed because he traded in the ol' 1971* (don't hold me to that, it might have been a '72) Thunderbird with suicide doors that was dark brown and I renamed it the Batmobile, because that's what it reminded me of.  I was totally into Batman when I was little; I don't believe I've ever mentioned that. It was one of the few shows I'd actually watch on TV.  Reruns, of course, but the ones with Adam West as Batman.  But I didn't care who played Batman; for me, it was all about the car.  

So yes, I was bummed that my first favorite car, the Batmobile, was gone, and this big, shiny red fancy thing had taken it's place.  It had pillow-like cloth seats and it smelled like a new car, and riding in the back seat just about always made me carsick.  Luckily, the back seat is the size of a regular love seat, so I spent a lot of time stretched out on it, trying to sleep off the nausea.  Not to mention, it also had teeny-tiny windows in the back that didn't roll down.  Nope, my first memories of this car were not pleasant ones. But my Dad loved this car and took the absolute best care of it.  

I learned last weekend that it actually was his daily driver at first. He bought it with 26k miles on it and right now it has 55k miles, so it's not as if he never drove it.  Just not very often. Mostly he pulled it out of the garage to wash, wax, and detail it, and took it to the shop to change the fluids and the belts and do whatever else kinda maintenance it required.  Then drove it on weekends or on vacations once he sold the motorhome.  When that wasn't happening, it had a very snug home in his garage.  In his, like, 1.5 car garage.  And he was a mechanic, so that garage was also full of tool boxes and lots of other stuff.  But somehow he was able to fit the Lincoln and whatever his daily driver was at the time in the garage together.  Granted, there was only a few inches to spare on every side except the driver's side, but it fit!

That reminds me, there was even a time when the garage had 3 cars in it: the Lincoln, the daily driver of the month, and the VW Baja Bug.  But that's a story for another time.

The "joke" in our family has always been that the Lincoln would be mine someday. I never appreciated that until, oh, probably adulthood.  When I was 19, I drove a 1979 Lincoln Mark V for a few years.  I loved that car! It was light blue with light blue cloth interior, and a sunroof, and man could that tank move!  I called it the Land Shark.  I even have a picture of my Dad's and my Lincoln parked next to each other somewhere.  

Anyway, my Dad last drove the Lincoln about 10 years ago.  It's been hiding in it's corner of the garage since then.  My Dad was always bugging me to take it, but I never had a place to keep it, really, until we moved out here.  (An inside place to keep it, that is.)  

Last spring, I think it was, or maybe the fall before that, whenever it was that we first went over there to start cleaning out the garage, we (meaning my hubby and I) decided to see if it still ran.  Don't know why it wouldn't, just because it'd been sitting for a while.  But you never know.  We charged up the battery and as soon as I turned the key, something went POOF! and smoke started rising up from somewhere near the battery. (I couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, because I was, you know, behind the wheel.)  So we aborted that plan and decided that we'd have to have the professionals take a look at it someday.  

So, between then and now, hubby and I have been discussing options for having someone go over it and make sure it's road-worthy.  All this time, it's still in my parents' names.  And, of course, as you already know, my Dad passed away last fall.  I really wasn't ready to take the car right away after that.  It's just this huge maroon reminder of my Dad, ya know?  Well, the hubby and I finally decided that we'd take it to a shop with family ties, so to speak: my cousin's shop in St. Paul.  

Another long story short here, but if you know me in real life, you probably maybe know my maiden name, which is also the name of the shop to where we are taking it.  And let me add that I actually do not know my cousin who owns this shop.  My uncle (Dad's brother) used to own it.  My Dad even worked there once upon a time, but I think that was before I was even born.  I prayed and prayed and prayed on this decision.  I feel like it's one that my Dad would've agreed with.  I don't want anyone except family touching this car, even if he's basically a stranger to me.  My Dad always had nice, kind things to say about his late brother.  And in an "it's a small world, after all" moment, one of our friends from church actually takes his car to this shop, too, and has nothing but great things to say about the service he gets there.  This was before he knew I was related.  I think that's a huge vote of confidence, because our friend from church lives out here in the boonies like we do, and he'd rather take his car into the cities -- an  hour away -- to have his car worked on because he likes and trusts the mechanic that much.  

HOWEVER, for some reason I was having a very hard time calling and making that appointment.  I think a huge part of that is grief.  My taking the Lincoln is a symbolic thing, a way of announcing that my Dad is gone.  His beloved Lincoln is my responsibility now.  I wish I knew enough about cars to do the work myself; but since I don't, I just want to trust that having a professional who is also a family member is the right thing to do.  Hopefully both my Dad and my uncle are sitting there up in heaven, watching this, and nodding in approval.  

I just wish I would've done this before he died, for so many reasons.  One, so he could see the Lincoln out of the garage and in it's glory again, with me behind the wheel. 

And two -- because transferring ownership of a vehicle when one of the persons listed on the title is now deceased is a royal pain in the butt and is the whole reason that right now, at this very moment, the car is not in my name yet!!

But, I digress.  My awesomest hubby in the world surprised me last week by calling the shop himself to find out if my cousin would even be interested in going through and tuning up the Lincoln for us, and making all of those arrangements.  God, I love this man.  My cousin said, yes, he can do it.  At that time, we thought it would need to be towed because of the whole POOF! situation.  

So, that was last week.  The hubby and son and I went over to my mom's house on Saturday to clean up all the stuff around and on the Lincoln (thanks, Dad, for using it as a shelf, even though you put a blanket on it, wtf).  We stopped and picked up a new battery on the way, because it would be so much easier to drive it to the shop than to have to have it towed there.  The day before that, I finally worked up the courage to ask my mom if I could finally take the car.  I don't know why I was so nervous about asking.  She doesn't drive so it's not like her keeping it was an option.  I guess I was just worried about how she'd do emotionally with the car being gone.  

Anywho, we got there and hubby hooked up the new battery, and I grabbed the keys and sat down in the driver's seat, turned the key, and -- NO POOF!  Just the sound of the starter trying like hell to do it's thing.  It wasn't even trying to turn over at first, but that was more than I'd heard out of it for a very long time, so we kept at it. Tried all the tricks once tries when one wants to convince a car of that era to start when it's been dormant for a while -- IYKYK.  

And then, finally -- she roared to life.  No, she didn't roar, she slowly purred to life.  Oh, my gosh, it was one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard.  Right up there with hearing my baby boy cry for the first time.  She came back to life and it was like she never missed a beat.  So smooth!  No skipped beats, no threatening to stall out, just back to life like, BAM! Here I am, let's go!

I have that part on video, thanks to my boy.  I tried to get video from inside as well, but I was too focused on actually getting it started to catch that precious moment.  I even "drove" it -- well, pulled it most of the way out of the garage and then backed it in again. Didn't have to squeeze it back into it's spot this time; it's currently taking up both stalls because we don't need to park any other vehicles in there, anyway.  (Except that when I stay at my mom's house I usually park in the garage, but oh well; I guess I'm parking on the street this week!)

She purred like a lioness, and the brakes and tranny performed like they never missed a beat, either. And the tires on that damn thing still look brand new! I don't know when the tires were replaced last, but it couldn't have been that long ago.  They did need filling when got there, but they weren't completely flat (as opposed to two of the tires on my Maverick, which decided to go flat over the winter! GRRRRR).  

OK, I gotta wrap this up soon.  Last year when mom dug the title out of the safe, I noticed that it still had the Ford Motor Company listed as a secured interest.  Uh, what? No, it's been paid off for decades.  Back then, the bank kept the title until it was paid off, and then sent it to the owner with a lien release afterward.  But my mom didn't have any lien release.  So I actually contacted the Ford Motor Company and they provided me with a letter confirming that they no longer have an interest in the car.  And then this week, when I was looking at the title again, I noticed that there is a signature on the spot of the title where someone is supposed to sign indicating that the secured party's interests have been met. So I might not need that letter, after all.  Oh, well.

The plan was going to be that I was going to go to the DMV on Monday and get it transferred into my name, and get insurance on it, so then we could take it to the shop.

Well...I did make it to the DMV with everything I thought I needed; the title with my Mom's signature, my Dad's death certificate, the transfer of title and registration certificate, proof of insurance, an application for collector plates, and my driver's license.  It's a small DMV office that we have here, and actually waiting for half an hour for my turn wasn't bad.  Then, when I got up to the window, the very nice lady working there (that's not sarcasm -- she was very nice) told me I was missing a form.  My mom needs to sign a form stating that she is my Dad's surviving spouse and that the car isn't subject to probate.  And it has to be notarized, so I can't sign for her.  

So! We wait a little longer.  I've waited this long, what's a few more days?!  As it turns out, my cousin was too busy at the shop to get the car in this week, anyway. So it works out.  I found a place where I can take my mom (when I stay there this week) to get the form notarized, and then we should be good to go.

I can't wait to drive that beast, for real.  It's not going to be my daily driver, of course, but there are usually car shows around here every weekend and you bet your sweet bottom we will be at as many of them as we can this summer!

Anyway, that's all I have time for right now.  TTYL!

 

33 weeks. 231 days. 5,536 hours.

 

...since the last time I saw my Dad. 

Since the last time anyone saw him alive, really.  I was going to say, "Since the last time anyone saw him," but that's not true.  The nice people (I'm presuming they're nice) at the crematory saw him a few days or so after that.  I have his exact cremation date somewhere. Let me think: he died on a Friday and we went to the funeral home to sign papers the next Tuesday, if I remember correctly, and that day or the day after was when he was actually cremated.  So that would be the last day anyone saw him.  

Unless you want to get really technical and say that anytime anyone looks at the cremains, they are seeing him...I mean, technically it's true.  That's what remains of his earthly shell.  

Alright, I'll quit.  

This week, I started to feel like I might be in Acceptance for once.  I think that's a misnomer.  "Acceptance".  To say I have reached Acceptance now implies that I wasn't accepting this harsh truth before, and that's inaccurate.  Of course I've accepted the fact that my Dad's gone and not coming back.  I know what death means.  Not only did I know in advance that it was going to happen, I was there when it happened and was there long enough afterward to leave no doubt in my puny human brain that it did actually happen.  

I guess I just mean that, I'm starting to feel like every single thing I do or say or think isn't clouded by the fact that one of my all-time favorite people in the world isn't here anymore.  The fog is starting to lift a little.  I can't be sad all the time, not when one of my all-time favorite people is in Heaven and I live daily with the promise that I get to see him there one day!  Seriously.  Heaven has got to be such an unimaginably beautiful place, I can't wait to see it (I mean, I can wait to see it -- I don't want to get there any sooner than God intends for me to get there) and I'm just so happy that my Dad is there.  Happy, pain-free, strong, with a clear mind, loving everyone, and waiting patiently for me and the rest of his loved ones who are still here on earth to join him one day.

And meanwhile, I still have days where it takes all I have just to get out of bed in the morning.  But I also have days again where I feel unstoppable.  Like the "old me" is coming back around.  Or probably a new and improved me instead of the "old" me.  IDK.  I just know I've felt a change lately, a good change.  The kind of change where I realize that I don't recognize the person in the mirror anymore and I have to do something to fix that, and I have to do something to get myself back to the person who doesn't let dirty dishes sit in the sink that long and I have to get back to being the person who doesn't like it when the hamper overflows or something doesn't get put away in a reasonable amount of time.  

And I know that the stages of grief aren't linear, and are subject to change. I might be in Acceptance today but be bawling my eyes out and unable to move myself off the damn couch tomorrow.  I hope not, but I know it could happen.  I know you just gotta take emotions one at a time sometimes, and celebrate the good ones when they do happen.  Cry when you feel like crying, rejoice when you feel like rejoicing, right?

That being said, not much new is going on lately.  It's officially spring, yay! So of course we're supposed to get snow this weekend.  We still have a couple of piles of snow around our yard, even though we've had a couple of 70ºF days since our last snowfall.  98% of the yard is mud and dormant grass.  It's still much too early to go out and do any yard work, and I'm just trying to catch up on housework lately.  I've been contemplating hiring a housecleaner to come in like once a week or somesuch.  Who knows.  We'll see.  

Last week, my sister showed up as a suggestion for a new friend on Snapchat.  So I added her as a new friend (or however that works on SC).  And not even a minute later, go figure, she disappeared from my friends list.  I think that was a new record.  I tried looking her up again and there were no signs of her at all.  So you know what that means? I've been BLOCKED...again. Woe is me.  My whole day was ruined.  NO IT WASN'T.  I just shook my head and heard my Mom's voice in my head, "I don't know what is wrong with her."  IDK either, but it's probably the narcissism.  Again, pure speculation on my part because it's hard to diagnose someone who hasn't talked to you directly in over a decade, but I think I may have enough data from prior to that to make a good educated presumption lol.  

And on that note, it's time for me to go back to work. TTFN!