Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Vacation Day 4: Air Intake, Spirit Animals and Ominous Doorbells ...

On the fourth day of vacation, I replaced a busted left front blinker on my 2012 Nissan Rogue with just a flathead screwdriver and YouTube because I'm Jo Freaking Polniaczek. My neighbor had recently had his replaced by a professional blinker repairer and spent $45 on it.

"I'm going to figure out how to fix mine, then I'll do your other one for $40," I told him, barely kidding.

First I watched a very informative vid.
Then I bought a two-pack of bulbs for $5 from a kid at Napa.
Then I popped the lid and went inside the house to scare up some tools.
I showed Chuck a portion of the vid and he handed me a screwdriver.
I tried to remove the air intake, then watched the vid again, then removed the air intake.
I unscrewed the old bulb, unpacked the new bulb and swapped 'em out.
I tested my work by starting the car and triggering the blinker.
I am told I whooped.
It worked.
I replaced the air intake and slammed the hood.

By then Chuck and Chach came out to see My Greatest Victory.
"I did it!" I yelled, a little too loudly or maybe not loudly enough.
I showed them how, when I pushed the blinker down it made the left front blinker blink.
(It wasn't a valve.)
"I'M GOING TO BUILD A CAR!!" I freaked.

Also on Vacation Day 4: I watched "Real Housewives of Beverly Hills" on a treadmill at the YMCA. It feels a pretty tacky to gawk at Taylor Armstrong's domestic crisis knowing that her husband is T-minus how many episodes from hanging himself in the garage. But, honestly, Lisa Vanderpump is my spirit animal. She's part Charlie's Angel-Part Queen of England wrapped in a florescent pink bra. Also, any wheels that were on in Season 1 are suddenly off and who are these people.

We had a picnic on a rock.

We finally turned Chach's bed from a crib into a toddler bed, a much-delayed project that didn't seem to matter because she didn't seem to care that she was still sleeping in a crib. Bedtime kind of went like this:

She went into the bathroom, went, grunted her pajamas back into place and walked into the hallway.
"I went potty," she said.
"You didn't wash your hands," I said.
"Aw!" she yelped.

Five minutes later, she came out again.
"What are you doing now?" I asked.
"I'm going potty," she said.
"You don't go potty every 10 minutes," I said.
"Oh," she said, and went back to bed.

Anyway, this went on and on and on.
She didn't fall out of bed, but I did come in to find her on her stomach, legs on the floor and body in bed.

Later I would have an epic nightmare involving a very tall and silent man wearing a brown robe, gunfire in the distance, hungry journalists, ominous door bells and trying to keep a child safe. It. Was. Terrible.

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