Two Drink Minimum

I was all set to write a fun Halloween wrap-up…

Then the curse of Halloween hit. Our T.V. died.

How is that the curse of Halloween?

Nine years ago, our ginormous big-screen tube T.V. died on Halloween night like a babysitter in a horror movie. Saturday night, as we were getting ready for the annual Halloween Hangover Bash that we always attend, our T.V. died like a red shirt on Star Trek.

My nerds will get that joke.

Ok, maybe two dead T.V.’s around Halloween is technically not a curse, but seriously, what are the chances? That’s why I’m calling it a curse.

So we rolled our butts out of bed early Sunday morning so we could beat the churchgoers to Walfart and pick up another T.V. I was still trying to rub glitter flakes that didn’t wash out from my makeup the night before out of my eyelashes, when Lola decided to be a cranky bitch and throw me a warning light.

Lola is my car. A 2007 Chevy Equinox, to be exact. She has always been very mellow until the last couple of years.  She’s getting crusty in her old age.

Aren’t we all?

She didn’t exactly throw a warning light. It was more of a verbal warning.

Lola: Engine hot. A/C off.

Me: What the hell does that mean????

Lola: Engine hot. A/C off.

Me: How can your engine be hot??? You’ve literally been sitting out in the driveway in cold weather ALL NIGHT LONG.

Lola: Engine hot. A/C off.

Me: You’re like fucking Rain Man. Can’t you say anything else?

Lola: Engine hot. A/C off.

Me: Why are you telling me to turn the A/C off? IT’S NOT ON!

We continued this way for a bit, until I realized she was just going to repeat herself over and over and I shut her off.

The Husband Dude checked her oil and decided she might be thirsty, so he decided to buy some oil for her while we were T.V. shopping.

I’m sure people wondered about the sleepy couple walking around Walfart with a giant T.V. box perched precariously on top of a cart filled with five quarts of V50 Max Life, the woman trying desperately to get the glitter flakes out of her eyes.

Lola was thirsty, but she would not be satiated and she continued to give me the Hot Engine message, despite the fact that she hadn’t moved at all since the previous night.

Of course a worrier like me starts to imagine all the worst scenarios. If you recall, my speedometer has been acting wonky for almost two years. It displays “0” when I’m driving and “120” when I’m parked. I began to think this new warning was a symptom of an electrical problem.

If you know anything about cars, there’s an instrument “cluster” behind the dash that works all of your lights and gauges.

I’m convinced it’s called a “cluster” because it’s a clusterfuck to fix when it breaks. They have to tear apart your dashboard to get to it. My regular small mechanic guy doesn’t do electrical work. He told me if that was the issue, I’d have to go to the dealership.

I’m not sure I’m allowed back at the dealership, because last time I was there, I may have told the guy that I have a two drink minimum before I get screwed.

I’m pretty sure they have a BOLO picture (Be On The Lookout) on the wall like Whataburger has one for The Husband Dude. That’s a long story, but let’s just say it involved THD throwing a tantrum so loud the manager was literally shaking when he refunded me my money and it may have involved a Whatasized cup of Dr. Pepper getting thrown across the parking lot.

We don’t go to either establishment anymore, which makes me sad because Whataburger is my absolute favorite.

I got up bright and early Monday morning and drove straight to the shop. When I was exactly ninety seconds away, Lola finally quit talking about a “hot engine”.

Of course.

They crawled all over her and under her and found nothing. No oil leaks (apparently all Chevys burn oil). Nothing was low. The guy thought it could be the thermostat or thermostat sensor. He thought it may have stuck and made Lola think she was having a hot flash when she really wasn’t.

That’s right. Lola is old, and apparently she has early onset dementia.

Not unlike her driver.

Thank God it wasn’t the Clusterfuck. I don’t want to have to mace the dealership guy when he tries to screw me again.

It was an expensive weekend, but at least we looked cute in our costumes.

Stay weird, my friends. Normal is boring.