Death to Squirrels

The other day The Funasaurus called me in a panic, warning me to maybe park on the street when I got home, because our garbage can was alive. Or rather, there was something alive (and, apparently, pissed off) in our garbage can.

I snorted, he never went to girl scout camp during mating season and had to contend with horny raccoons who had a taste for toothpaste in little girls’ sleepover bags. I felt confident I could handle whatever vermin were in our garage.

I got home, pulled into the garage, kicked the garbage can a couple times, and saw nothing. The Funasaurus was still suspicious, and was therefore on RED ALERT when he every time he stepped into the garage the next couple of days, whether to throw away something at the speed of light, or to make a mad dash for his car. (Baby don’t play when there’s potentially rabies involved. See also: fun-hater/salmonella-wary.) (BTW, I did not get sick from the gallon of raw cake batter I consumed, although I did get a fat, new zit on my chin.)

Sure enough, a day or so later, he swore he saw a squirrel dart out of (/into? It is unclear, it was very upsetting) our garage. I shrugged, saw him off to work, and got my own lazy ass up the stairs to the computer and spent a gleeful day working from home, because icy roads are much more terrifying to me.

Yesterday I did have to go to work, though, so I consumed a couple of mini cupcakes (really, at that size, I almost feel like they’re anti-calories. Like celery.) for breakfast, and headed off in our brand, new Civic hybrid that I love so very, very much.

A mysterious light came on, on the dashboard. And the “D” light (either for “drive” or “damn, ain’t this awesome,” I can’t be sure) started blinking. I pulled over, and fished out my owner’s manual, which was still easy to locate in the glove compartment because I have not yet had a chance to fill it up with extra tissues, flashlights, and Happy Meal Toys, that’s how new the car is. Said “mystery light” was actually the “check engine light.”

Erm.

So I got myself to a dealership, and they assured me that it was probably just a fuse, or something, new cars these days, ha ha, such sensitive computers, no worries, even if something is wrong, this car is still covered by the warranty, anyway, we’ll have you back on the road in a jiffy…. He showed me to the waiting area, where they had snacks and hot chocolate. I drank their last three packets, immediately.

45 minutes later the guy came up to get me, and kept his head down and shoulders hunched, as though I were going to hit him.

“You’re not going to like what I have to tell you.”

“You’re out of hot chocolate packets?” I asked, hopefully.

“No. Er. It appears some rodent has gotten under your car and chewed the main engine wire thing-ies.” (Not a direct quote, but fairly close.) “That’s, ah, not covered by the warranty. I hope you have insurance?”

“Yes. Ish.”

“Does it cover a rental vehicle?”

“No.”

“Um. Because an adjuster needs to come out and inspect this, if you want to claim it. And I really don’t think it’s safe to drive until it’s repaired.”

Fuck.

I called the insurance. They asked me a million questions, including the license plate number, and I had to say, “I have no idea. We still have temporary ones. It is that fucking brand new.”

I called The Funasaurus. Who had to drop some Very Important Things at work to drive all the way across the greater Denver area to come pick up my blubbering butt from the dealership in BFE. Because our insurance doesn’t cover a RENTAL VEHICLE.

The good news is that our insurance does cover the repairs, mostly, and the deductible isn’t so bad that we have to scrap our honeymoon plans, completely (knock on wood) but really. We can’t get a break with these cars. The whole point of the Very Shiny and NEW car is that you don’t have to pay for costly repairs all the time, right? Right? echo... echo... echo....

Argh.

While I’m busy being Miss Fuck-It-All, I will also say that The Hunchback of Notre Dame? Serious let-down.

::Spoiler alert!::

I’ll summarize the whole damn book for you:

It’s boring boring boring.
Then it gets good, and you get attached to some of the characters.
Then he gets wordy again.
Then everyone is sad, and devastated, and killed while in the midst of realizing how unfulfilled and miserable they are. All of them. Except for, like, the one dude you couldn’t care less about.
The only redeeming quality: the goat lives.
THE END.